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“Arter yer, is ’e?” she asked with a note of something which could even have been sympathy. He was not sure whether it was for him or for Runcorn.
“After me?” he repeated. “Why?” It sounded foolish, but she knew something about it or she would not have leaped to such a conclusion. He had to know. He was too close now not to grasp it, whatever it was.
“Well, yer dropped ’im right in it, din’t yer?” she said incredulously. “Yer knew all them folk was there, an’ yer never toi’ ’im. Let ’im charge in an’ make a right fool of ’isself. Don’t suppose nuffink was said, but they don’ never fergive that kind o’ thing. Lorst ’is promotion then, an’ lorst ’is girl too, ’cos ’er father were one of ’em, weren’t ’e?” She shrugged. “I’d watch me back, if I was you, even arter all this time. ’E don’ fergive, yer know? Carries a grudge ’ard, does Runcorn.”
Monk was barely listening. He could not remember doing it, even after her retelling of it. But he could remember the feeling of victory, the deep, hot satisfaction of knowing he had beaten Runcorn. Now it was only shame. It had been a shabby trick and too deep a revenge for anything Runcorn could have done to him. Not that he knew of anything.
He thanked her quietly and walked out, leaving her puzzled, muttering to herself about how times had changed.
Why? He walked with his head down into the rain, hands deep in his pockets, ignoring the gutters and his wet feet. It was fully light now. Why had he done such a thing? Had it been as deliberate and as calculatedly cruel as everyone else thought? If it had, then no wonder Runcorn still hated him. To lose the promotion was fair enough. That was the f
ortune of war. But to lose the woman he loved must have been a bitter blow, and one Monk would not now have dealt to any man.
The trial of Rhys Duff had already begun. The information he had was highly pertinent, even if it offered little real help. He should go and tell Rathbone. Hester would be hurt. How Sylvestra Duff would take the news that her husband was also a rapist, he could not even imagine.
He crossed Regent Street, barely noticing he was out of St. Giles, and stopped to buy a hot cup of tea. Perhaps he should not tell Rathbone? It did not clear Rhys of the murder of his father, only of one rape, with which he was not charged anyway.
But it was part of the truth, and the truth mattered. They had too little of it to make sense as it was. Rathbone had paid him to learn all he could. He had promised Hester. He needed to cling to his sense of honor, the integrity, and the trust of the friends he had now. What he had been was acutely painful to contemplate. He had no memory of it, no understanding.
Did Rhys Duff understand himself?
That was irrelevant. Monk was a grown man, and whether he remembered it or not, he was responsible. He was certainly in possession of all his faculties and answerable at present. His only reason for not facing himself was fear of what he would find, and the gall to his pride of facing Runcorn and admitting his remorse.
Had he what it took—courage?
He had been cruel, arbitrary, too hasty to judge, but he had never been a liar, and he had never ever been a coward.
He finished the last of his tea, took a bun and paid for it, then, eating as he went, he started towards the police station.
He was obliged to wait until quarter past nine before Runcorn arrived. He looked warm and dry in his smart overcoat, his face pink and freshly barbered, his shoes shining.
He regarded Monk soberly, his gaze going from Monk’s dripping hair and his exhausted face, hollow eyes, down his wet coat to his sodden and filthy boots. Runcorn’s expression was smug, glowing with rich satisfaction.
“You look on hard times, Monk,” he said cheerfully. “You want to come in and warm your feet? Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?”
“I’ve had one, thank you,” Monk said. Only a sharp reminder inside himself of his contempt for cowardice kept him there, and the thought of what Hester would think of him if he were to fail the final confrontation now. “But I’ll come in. I want to talk to you.”
“I’m busy,” Runcorn replied. “But I suppose I can spare you fifteen minutes. You look terrible!” He opened his office door and Monk followed him in. Someone had already lit the fire and the room was extremely pleasant. There was a faint smell of beeswax and lavender polish.
“Sit down,” Runcorn offered. “But take your coat off first, or you’ll mark my chair.”
“I’ve spent the night in St. Giles,” Monk said, still standing.
“You look like it,” Runcorn retorted. He wrinkled his nose. “And, frankly, you smell like it too.”
“I spoke to Bessie Mallard.”
“Who is she? And why are you telling me?” Runcorn sat down and made himself comfortable.
“She used to be a whore. Now she has a small boardinghouse. She told me about the night they raided the brothel in Cutters’ Row and caught the magistrate, Gutteridge, and he fell downstairs—” He stopped. There was a tide of dull purple spreading up Runcorn’s face. His hands on the smooth desktop were curling into fists.
Monk took a deep breath. There was no evading it.
“Why did I hate you enough to let you do that? I don’t remember.”
Runcorn stared at him, his eyes widening as he realized what Monk was saying.
“Why do you care?” His voice was high, sounded a little hurt. “You ruined me with Ellen. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
