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“No witnesses to anything, except finding the bodies,” Evan replied stiffly. There were moments when he wished he had Monk’s speed of mind to retaliate, but he did not want the ordinary man on the beat to fear him, only respect him. “No one admits to having seen either man, separately or together, in St. Giles.”
“Cabbies,” Runcorn said, his eyebrows raised. “They didn’t walk there.”
“We’re trying. Nothing so far.”
“You haven’t got very much.” Runcorn’s face was plainly marked with contempt. “You’d better have another look at the family. Look at the widow. Don’t let elegance blind you. Maybe the son knows his mother’s nature, and that’s why he’s so horrified that he cannot speak.”
Evan thought of Rhys’s expression as he had looked at Sylvestra, of his flinching from her when she moved to touch him. It was a repellent thought.
“I’m going to do that,” he said reluctantly. “I’m going to look into his friends and associates more closely. He may have been seeing a woman in that area, perhaps a married woman, and her male relatives may have taken offense at his treatment of her.”
Runcorn let out a sigh. “Possible,” he concluded. “What about the father? Why attack him?”
“Because he was a witness to the scene, of course,” Evan replied with a lift of satisfaction.
Runcorn looked at him sharply.
“And another thing, sir,” Evan went on. “Monk has been hired to look into a series of very violent rapes across in Seven Dials.”
Runcorn’s blue eyes narrowed. “Then he’s more of a fool than I took him for. If ever there were a profitless exercise, that is it.”
“Have we any reports that might help?”
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sp; “Help Monk?” Runcorn said with disbelief.
“Help solve the crime, sir,” Evan answered with only a hint of sarcasm.
“I can solve it for you now!” Runcorn stood up. He was at least three inches taller than Evan, and considerably more solid. “How many were there? Half a dozen?” He ticked off on his fingers. “One was a drunken husband. One was a pimp taking his revenge for a little liberty turned license. At least two were dissatisfied clients, probably too drunk. One was an amateur who changed her mind and wanted more money when it was too late. And probably one was drunk herself and fell over and can’t remember what happened.”
“I disagree, sir,” Evan said coldly. “I think Monk can tell the difference between a woman who was raped and beaten and one who fell over because she was drunk.”
Runcorn glared at Evan. He was standing beside the bookshelf of morocco-bound volumes in a variety of profound subjects, including philosophy.
Evan had used Monk’s name and the memory of his skill, quicker, sharper than Runcorn’s, on purpose. He was angry and it was the easiest weapon. But even as he did it, he wondered what had started the enmity between the two. Had it really been no more than a difference of character or beliefs?
“If Monk thinks he can prove rape of half a dozen part-time prostitutes in Seven Dials, he’s lost the wits he used to have,” Runcorn said with a flush of satisfaction under his anger. “I knew he’d come to nothing after he left here. Private agent of enquiry, indeed! He’s no good for anything but a policeman, and now he’s no good even for that.” His eyes were bright with satisfaction and there was a half smile on his lips. “He’s come right down in the world, hasn’t he, our Monk, if he’s reduced to running after prostitutes in Seven Dials. Who’s going to pay him?”
Evan felt a tight, hard knot of rage inside him.
“Presumably someone who cares just as much about poor women as rich ones,” he said with his teeth clenched. “And who doesn’t believe it will do them any good appealing to the police.”
“Someone who’s got more money than brains, Sergeant Evan,” Runcorn retorted, a flush of anger blotching his cheeks. “And if Monk were an honest man, and not a desperate one trying to scrape any living he can, no matter at whose expense, then he’d have told them there’s nothing he can do.” He jerked one hand dismissively. “He’ll never find who did it, if anything was done. And if he did find them, who’s to prove it was rape and not a willing one that got a bit rough? And even supposing all of that, what’s a court going to do? When was a man ever hanged or jailed for taking a woman who sells her body anyway? And at the end of it all, what difference would it make to Seven Dials?”
“What difference is one death more or less to London?” Evan demanded, leaning towards him, his voice thick. “Not much—unless it’s yours—then it makes all the difference in the world.”
“Stay with what you can do something about, Sergeant,” Runcorn said wearily. “Let Monk worry about rape and Seven Dials if he wants to. Perhaps he has nothing else, poor devil. You have. You’re a policeman, with a duty. Go and find out who murdered Leighton Duff, and why. Then bring me proof of it. There’d be some point in that.”
“Yes sir.” Evan replied so sharply it was almost one word, then swiveled on his heel and went out of the room, the anger burning inside him.
The following morning when he set out for Ebury Street he was still turning over in his mind his conversation with Runcorn. Of course Runcorn was right to consider the possibility that Sylvestra was at the heart of it. She was a woman of more than beauty; there was a gravity, a mystery about her, an air of something different and undiscovered which was far more intriguing than mere perfection of form or coloring. It was something which might fascinate for a lifetime and last even when the years had laid their mark on physical loveliness.
Evan should have thought of it himself, and it had never crossed his mind.
He walked part of the way. It was not an unpleasant morning, and his mind worked more clearly if he exerted some effort of body. He strode along the pavement in the crisp air, frost sharpened. There were rims of white along the roofs where the snow had remained, and curls of smoke rose from chimneys almost straight up. At the edge of Hyde Park the bare trees were black against a white sky, the flat winter light seeming almost shadowless.
He must learn a great deal more about Leighton Duff: What manner of man had he been? Could this, after all, be a crime of passion or jealousy, and not a random robbery at all? Had Rhys’s presence there simply been the most appalling mischance?
