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Now she smiled at him with slight amusement and perhaps the faintest flush of color in her cheeks. “Good afternoon, Mr. Monk. How nice to see you again. Please do come in. Perhaps you would like a cup of tea while you discuss the case?”
He found his tongue and thanked her, accepting the offer of tea. A few moments later he was sitting with Runcorn in a small but charming parlor with all the signs of well-accustomed domestic peace. There were pictures on the walls; a vase of flowers on the sideboard, arranged with some artistry; and a sewing box stacked neatly in one corner. The books on the shelf were different sizes, chosen for content, not effect.
Monk found himself smiling. He could not remark on the difference he saw in Runcorn, the inner peace that had eluded the man all his life until now, and was suddenly so overwhelmingly present. Monk could not remember their early friendship, or how it had changed to become so bitter. That was part of his lost past. But he had found enough evidence of his own abrasiveness, the quickness of his tongue, the searing wit, the physical grace, the ease of manner Runcorn could never emulate. Runcorn was awkward, had always been in Monk’s shadow and increasingly lacking in self-confidence with each social failure.
Yet now none of it mattered. Runcorn had taken the past off like an ill-fitting coat and let it drop. Monk was far happier for him than he would have imagined possible. He would probably never know how Runcorn had wooed and won Melisande, who was beautiful, more gracious and infinitely more polished than he. It did not matter.
Runcorn shifted a little self-consciously, as if guessing his thoughts. “These are my notes from the case.” He offered Monk a sheaf of neatly written papers.
“Thank you.” Monk took them and read. Melisande brought the tea, with hot buttered toast and small cakes. She left again with only a word of consideration, no attempt to intrude. They both started to eat.
Runcorn waited patiently in silence until Monk had finished reading and looked up.
“You saw Lambourn where they found him?” he said to Runcorn.
“Yes,” Runcorn agreed. “At least, that’s what the police said.”
Monk caught the hesitation. “You doubt it? Why?”
Runcorn spoke slowly, as if re-creating the scene in his mind. “He sat a little to one side, as if he had lost his balance. His back was against the trunk of the tree, his hands beside him, and his head lolling to one side.”
“Isn’t that what you’d expect?” Monk said with a whisper of doubt. “Why do you think they might have moved him?”
“I thought at first it was just that he didn’t look comfortable.” Runcorn was picking words with uncharacteristic care. “I haven’t seen many suicides, but those who have done it relatively painlessly looked … comfortable. Why would you sit so awkwardly for such a thing?”
“Perhaps he fell awkwardly as he was dying?” Monk suggested. “As you said, as his strength ebbed away, he lost his balance.”
“His wrists and forearms were covered with blood,” Runcorn went on, his face puckered a little at the memory. “And there was some on the front of the thighs of his trousers, but more on the ground.” He looked up at Monk, his eyes steady. “The ground was soaked with blood. But there was no knife. They said he must have thrown it somewhere, or even staggered and dropped it. But there was no trail of blood leading to where he lay. And why on earth would you throw a knife away after you’ve cut your wrists? Would you even have the strength to hold it, let alone hurl it far enough so no one would find it?”
Monk tried to imagine it, and could not.
“What time was it?” Monk asked.
“Early morning, about nine when I got there.”
“Then whoever found him must have found him very early,” Monk observed. “About seven or so. What were they doing in the park on One Tree Hill at seven on an October morning?”
“Out walking,” Runcorn answered. “Exercise. Hadn’t slept well and went out to clear his head before the day, so he told us.”
“Could he have taken the knife?”
“Not unless he’s a lunatic,” Runcorn said drily. “Come on, Monk! What sane man steals the knife a suicide has just slashed his wrists with? He was a respectable middle-aged man. Worked for the government at something, I don’t remember what, but he told us.”
“For the government?” Monk said quickly.
Runcorn caught his meaning. “I looked for blood leading to the place. There wasn’t any. And the knife wasn’t ever found. I looked for it everywhere within a hundred yards of where he was. It’s open ground. If it had been there we’d have seen it.”
“An animal carried it away?” Monk suggested without conviction.
Runcorn curved his lips down. “Taking the knife but not disturbing the blood on the corpse? You’re slipping, Monk!”
“So who took the knife, and why? What were they doing there? Was it at the time of this death, or afterward?” Monk gave words to what he knew they were both thinking. “That’s where we begin. There’s a lot to follow.”
“I’ll go back over the witnesses,” Runcorn offered, his face bleak. “We’ll have to be discreet, as if we’re trying to close any door in the face of this new trial. The government men were …” He shrugged. “I assumed they were strong-arming me out of compassion for the Lambourns, but now it’s beginning to look as if that was their guise for keeping me out.”
Monk nodded. “I’m taking some time off. It’s overdue. Give me the names and addresses of witnesses, and I’ll say exactly that: I’m trying to make certain that Dinah Lambourn’s defense doesn’t open anything up.” He was not certain if the excuse would be believed, or if he would be fobbed off with the same stories, but he could think of no better way to start their investigation.
He bade Runcorn farewell, and thanked Melisande. Then he went out into the darkness of the quiet street, prepared to walk until he could find a hansom to take him home, although in truth it was not so very far.
