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They sat without speaking for several moments. The fire burned gently in the hearth, creating a warm light and a soft, whispering sound.
“What are you going to do?” Melisande said at last, looking at Runcorn. There was fear both in her voice and in her face.
Runcorn looked back at her. Monk had never before seen emotion so naked or so intensely readable in his face. It was as if he and Melisande were alone in the room. He cared intensely what she thought of him, yet he knew he must make the decision alone.
Monk barely drew breath, willing Runcorn to give the right answer.
Ash collapsed in the fireplace and the coals settled.
“If we do nothing, we become part of this … conspiracy, if there is one,” Runcorn said at last. “I’m sorry, but we must learn the truth. If Lambourn was murdered then we must find out and prove who did it, and who concealed it, and why.” He put out his hand gently and touched hers. “It may be very dangerous.”
She smiled at him, her eyes bright with fear and pride. “I know.”
Monk had no need to answer her question for himself. He had come to Runcorn in the first place because this was precisely what he feared. He admitted to himself now that if he had truly believed Dinah Lambourn was guilty, he would not have taken the case to Rathbone, let alone pursue the evidence himself.
Runcorn stood up and stoked the fire.
They talked a little more, making further plans to report to Rathbone. Then Monk said good night and went outside into the dark street. The rain had stopped, but it was colder. At this late hour, it might be difficult to get a cab. He would have a better chance if he went toward the lamplit streets in the center of the town, where there were clubs and theaters with other people looking for transport, perhaps even a place where cabbies ate, or waited for fares.
He was walking briskly along the footpath, seeing clearly enough in the light from a few lamps at front doors, when he was aware of someone behind him. His first thought was that it might be another person hoping to find a hansom. Their steps were quiet and they seemed to be moving very rapidly. He stepped aside to let them pass. It was at that instant that he felt the blow on his shoulder, so hard it numbed his whole left arm. Had it landed on his head it would have knocked him senseless
.
His assailant regained his balance and swung again, but this time Monk lashed out with his foot hard and high. He caught the man in the groin and the attacker pitched forward. Monk raised his knee under the man’s jaw as he collapsed, snapping his head back so hard Monk was afraid he might have broken his neck. The cudgel clattered away across the pavement and into the gutter.
Monk’s own left arm was still paralyzed.
The man rolled over, gasping, struggling to get up onto his hands and knees.
Relieved that he was alive, Monk kicked him again, hard, in the lower chest where it would knock the wind out of him.
The man coughed and retched.
Monk straightened up. There was another figure on the far side of the street, not running toward him, as someone might do if he meant to help, but moving easily, carrying something in his right hand.
Monk swung round. There was a dense shadow ahead of him also, maybe the bulk of someone half concealed in a doorway. He turned on his heel, his left arm still leaden and throbbing with pain. He ran as fast as he could back the way he had come.
He was less than a mile from Runcorn’s house. He did not know how many more attackers there might be. He was in an area he did not know, and it was close to midnight. His left arm was useless.
He did not go directly back to Runcorn’s house. Whoever was after him would expect that. He kept to the broader streets, going as fast as he could, around the back, through other people’s gardens, and eventually arrived at Runcorn’s kitchen door, searching desperately for a sign someone was still up.
He saw nothing. He crouched in the back garden, trying to be invisible among rows of vegetables and a potting shed. He could not imagine Runcorn doing anything as domestic as gardening. He smiled to himself, in spite of the fact he was beginning to shiver. He could not stay out here. For one thing it was extremely cold and beginning to rain again, and he was hurt. More urgently, sooner or later they would think to look here for him. Very likely, it would be sooner!
He picked up a handful of small stones out of the earth and tossed them at one of the upstairs windows.
Silence.
He tried again, harder.
This time the window opened and Runcorn put his head out, just visible as a greater darkness against the night sky.
Monk stood up slowly. “They’re after us,” he said in the dark. “I was attacked.”
The window closed and a moment later the back door opened and Runcorn came out, a jacket over his nightshirt. He said nothing but helped Monk in, locked the back door again, and shot the bolt home, then looked Monk up and down.
“Well, at least we know we’re right,” he said drily. “We’ve got a spare room. Are you bleeding?”
“No, just can’t move my arm.”
