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“I don’t know. I’ve told you … I can’t remember. But it was a vicious thing to do, and I want to know why I did it.”
Runcorn blinked. He was thrown off balance. This was not the Monk he thought he knew.
Monk leaned forward over the desk, staring down at Runcorn. Behind the freshly shaved face, the mask of self-satisfaction, there was a man with a wound to his esteem which had never healed. Monk had done that … or at least part of it. He needed to know why.
“I’m sorry,” he said aloud. “I wish I had not done it. But I need to know why I did. Once we worked together, trusted each other. We went to St. Giles side by side, never doubting the other. What changed? Was it you … or me?”
Runcorn sat silent for so long Monk thought he was not going to answer. Monk could hear the clatter of heavy feet outside, and rain dripping from the eaves onto the windowsill. Outside was the distant rumble of traffic in the street and a horse whinnying.
“It was both of us,” Runcorn said at last. “It began over the coat, you could say.”
“Coat! What coat?” Monk had no idea what he was talking about.
“I got a new coat with a velvet collar. You went and got one with fur, just that bit better than mine. We were going out to the same place to dine.”
“How stupid,” Monk said immediately.
“So I got back at you,” Runcorn replied. “Something to do with a girl. I don’t even know what now. It just went from one thing to another, until it got too big to go back on.”
“That was all? Just childish jealousies?” Monk was horrified. “You lost the woman you loved—over a coat collar?”
The blood was dark in Runcorn’s face. “It was more than that,” he said defensively. “It was …” He looked up at Monk again, his eyes hot and angry, more honest than Monk had ever seen them before. For the first time he knew, there was no veil between them. “It was a hundred things—you undermining my authority with the men, laughing at me behind my back, taking credit for my ideas, my arrests …”
Monk felt the void of ignorance swallowing him. He did not know whether that was the truth, or simply the way Runcorn excused himself. He hated it with the blind, choking panic of helplessness. He did not know! He was fighting without weapons. He might have been a man like that. He did not feel it was himself, but then how much had his accident changed him? Or was it simply that he had been forced to look at himself from the outside, as a stranger might have, and seeing himself, had changed?
“Did I?” he said slowly. “Why you? Why did I do that only to you? Why no one else? What did you do to me?”
Runcorn looked miserable, puzzled, struggling with his thoughts.
Monk waited. He must not prompt. A wrong word, even one, and the truth would slip away from him.
Runcorn lifted his eyes to meet Monk’s, but he did not speak immediately.
“I suppose … I resented you,” he said at last. “You always seemed to have the right word, to guess the right answers. You always had luck on your side, and you never gave anyone else any room. You didn’t forgive mistakes.”
That was the damning indictment. He did not forgive.
“I should have,” he said gravely. “I was wrong in that. I am sorry about Ellen. I can’t take it back now, but I am sorry.”
Runcorn stared at him. “You are, aren’t you,” he said in amazement. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “You did well with the Duff case. Thank you.” It was as close as he could come to an acceptance.
It was good enough. Monk nodded. He could not allow the lie to remain. It would break the fragile bridge he had just built at such a cost.
“I haven’t finished with it yet. I’m not sure about the motive. The father was responsible for at least one of the rapes in St. Giles himself, and he was in Seven Dials regularly.”
“What?” Runcorn could scarcely believe what he seemed to have heard. “That’s impossible! It doesn’t make any sense, Monk.”
“I know. But it is true. I have a dozen witnesses. One who saw him smeared with blood the night before Christmas Eve, when there was a rape in St. Giles. And Mrs. Kynaston and Lady Sandon will swear Rhys Duff was with them at the time, miles away.”
“We’re no
t charging Rhys Duff with rape.” Runcorn frowned, now thoroughly disturbed. He was a good enough policeman to see the implications.
Monk did not argue further. It was unnecessary.
“I’m obliged,” Runcorn said, shaking his head.
Monk nodded, hesitated a moment, then excused himself and went out to go home and bathe and sleep. Then he must go and tell Rathbone.
