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When Rathbone had left, Hester and Monk sat opposite each other across the table in the familiar, comfortable kitchen.
“What are you going to do to help him? What is there you can find?” Hester said it as an affirmation rather than a question.
“I don’t know,” Monk said. “I’ve already exhausted just about every inquiry I can. There’s no other crime like it, no enmities that were more than a mere squabble in the grocery shop, or a difference of opinion on the weather. The poor woman didn’t seem to have any relationships except with Lambourn. I can’t even find what she did with her time, except the odd kindnesses for other people, small sewing jobs and the like. She read books, newspapers …”
“Could she have known something about someone, by accident?” Hester suggested. “Overheard something?”
“She could.” He wanted to be able to agree, to offer some hope that was honest. “But there’s nothing whatever to suggest it. She was almost an invisible woman. And even if she did know something, it could hardly account for the mutilation.”
“No family?” she persisted, desperation creeping into her voice. There was a stray wisp of hair falling across her forehead, but she did not seem to be aware of it.
“No one knows of any,” he replied. “We have looked.”
“But you will keep on trying?” she urged.
“For Dinah Lambourn, or for Rathbone?” he asked with a slight smile.
She shrugged almost imperceptibly, her eyes suddenly soft. “Partly just for the truth, but mostly for Oliver,” she admitted.
“Hester …” He reached over and smoothed the wisp of hair back. “I can’t do very much. Lambourn’s suicide really isn’t part of my responsibility. I can ask a few questions, but I can’t justify spending much time on it. They’ll tell me Lambourn’s report was destroyed, and I can’t prove it wasn’t. They might even say Lambourn destroyed it himself, because he knew it was flawed. They don’t have to prove it’s true.”
“It’s a long time since you had a holiday.” She looked very directly at him. “You could take one now. I’ll help. I’ve already asked Dr. Winfarthing to see what sort of information he can find, just to compare it with what Joel Lambourn said.”
A chill of fear ran through him like a cold hand on his skin. “Hester, if anyone really did kill Lambourn for that report, then you could have put Winfarthing at risk, too!”
“I warned him,” she said quickly, a very slight flush in her cheeks. “So you think there really is a danger, then?”
She had maneuvered him into admitting it not only to her, but possibly more important, to himself. Perhaps that was what she had intended.
“There might be,” he conceded. “If what Dinah says about the report is correct, then there are very large amounts of money involved, and perhaps reputations as well. But that doesn’t mean Lambourn was murdered, or that Dinah is innocent.”
“I’ll help you,” she said again.
Monk was happy to yield to her, at least for now. There was something in Dinah’s courage that moved him, in spite of the fact that logic told him she was guilty. Certainly he was unsatisfied with the idea that Lambourn’s suicide was caused by his sense of despair over the rejection of his report. His career until then, and the way his colleagues had spoken of him, said that he was made of stronger material than that.
And he felt sufficiently conscious of his own happiness to want very much indeed to do anything he could to distract Rathbone from the bitterness of his current disillusions.
He checked in at the police station at Wapping first, and then went to the records department of the Metropolitan Police to learn who had been in charge of the investigation into the death of Joel Lambourn. He already knew that because of Lambourn’s importance, the case had not been restricted to the local police in Greenwich.
He was startled to find that it had been Superintendent Runcorn, who at the beginning of his career had been Monk’s friend and partner, later his rival, and later still his superior. It was a matter of opinion as to whether Runcorn had dismissed Monk from the force first, or Monk had given his resignation. Either way, it had been a heated and unpleasant exchange. They had parted anything but friends. Monk had spent the next few years as an agent of inquiry available for private hire. It had given him a great deal of freedom as to which cases to take and which to refuse, at least in theory. In practice it had been very hard work, and financially precarious.
During that time he and Runcorn had crossed paths on a few occasions. Surprisingly, they had each gained a better respect for the other. Later Monk had realized that his own manner had been unnecessarily aggressive, often intolerant. Being in command of men in the River Police had taught him how damaging to a force even one obstructive subordinate can be. It had profoundly changed his view of Runcorn.
When Monk had no longer been his junior in rank, but still constantly a step in front of him in reasoning, Runcorn had developed an appreciation of his skill, and a surprising respect for his courage and the handicap that his amnesia had once been.
Monk had never regained his memory of the majority of his life before the accident. There were occasional flashes, but no complete pictures. The separate pieces did not join up into a whole. Now it no longer haunted him. He did not fear strangers as he once had, always aware that they could know him, and he had no idea whether they were friends or enemies.
Facing Runcorn again was in some ways more awkward than dealing with someone who did not know him, but at least no explanations would be necessary. For all the enmity they had had over the years, they were past the times of misjudgment.
Monk went to the Blackheath Police Station, where Runcorn was superintendent, and gave his name and rank to the sergeant at the desk.
“The matter is very grave,” he told the man. “It concerns a death in the recent past about which I have further information. Superintendent Runcorn should know immediately.”
Monk was taken up to Runcorn’s office within ten minutes. He went in and was not surprised to see how tidy it was. Runcorn had always been neat to the point of obsession, quite unlike Monk. Now there were even more books than before, but there were also very pleasant pictures on the walls, pastoral landscapes that gave an instant feeling of ease. That was new; quite out of character for the man he had known. There was a vase on a space on one of the shelves, a blue and white painted thing of great delicacy. It might not have been worth much in a monetary sense, but it was lovely, its shape the simplest of curves.
Runcorn himself stood up and came forward, offering his hand. He was a big man, tall and thickening in the middle as he grew older. He seemed grayer than Monk remembered him, but there was none of the inner anger that used to mar his expression. He was smiling. He took Monk’s hand briefly.
“Sit down,” he invited, indicating the chair opposite the desk. “Culpepper said something about information on a recent death?”
