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“Why are you asking?” Reilly asked. “He giving you any trouble?”
Monk had already made up his mind to be honest. It was past the time when he could afford to be making elaborate evasions. “Not with him. Don’t know who it is. Got to learn a bit more about all of them.”
Reilly drew in his breath and then let it out again. He waited a few moments before he spoke. “If it’s a question of dishonesty, it’s not Marbury. He’s straight. If it’s drink, it’s not him either. If it’s goods or money missing, it’s definitely not him. I trust him with everything I have—not that that’s so much.”
“But…?” Monk prompted him after he had been silent too long.
Reilly sighed. “It’s his temper I’m not so sure about. If someone hurt a woman or an animal, Marbury could have forgot himself and beaten the hell out of them.”
Monk couldn’t keep the smile of relief off his face. It wasn’t only that he instinctively liked Marbury, but he was relieved to have his own judgment vindicated. It hadn’t happened often enough lately, and self-doubt was crippling him. He could feel it like an increasing ache inside him.
“I’ve seen flashes of it,” he said to Reilly. “It’s not that, it’s…a betrayal.”
“Then it’s not Marbury. I’ll swear to that,” Reilly answered him.
Monk smiled again. He believed Reilly—as much as he had believed his own instincts, until that night on Jacob’s Island. He would have sworn he knew his own men, all of them, in one way or another, but Hooper in particular.
Then it had to be Walcott! There was no one else left.
It was easier to ask questions about Walcott. Of all the men involved in the Jacob’s Island rescue, Walcott was the one he liked least. But when he set out the next day, it was with a sense of guilt, nonetheless. There was nothing to point to Walcott, only that there was no one else left.
Once Monk knew it was Walcott, even before he knew why, it would at least remove the suspicion from everyone else. But would anything blot out the fact that they had suspected each other?
He spent all day at it, speaking to men who had worked with Walcott, to a few Walcott had arrested. He spoke to the landlord at his regular pub and found that Walcott was notorious for his ability at street fighting. He was a small, neat man, swift-moving with a hard left punch
, which some said was vicious. But he never showed anger or seemed to lose his temper. It all came out of nowhere, often without warning. So far as anyone knew, he had never killed anybody, although in really nasty brawls he had once or twice come close, usually when someone had attacked with a knife. He did not like knife fighters. Monk shared that feeling with him. There was something primitively vicious about a knife.
Walcott’s love of music hall songs, especially sentimental or funny ones, was already known to Monk. An ordinary ballad did not interest him. However, all of this was incidental. It proved nothing, except that there was more depth to him than Monk had known. Had the other men been aware of, perhaps even shared some of his taste in songs?
What did matter was that on every occasion when he was unaccounted for by Monk’s own men, he was entertaining people at a beer hall, and every second of his time was vouched for.
It was not Walcott.
Tired and with very mixed feelings, Monk went to the Greenwich Police Station looking for Runcorn.
Monk had been there only fifteen minutes when Runcorn came in, looking tired but smiling widely.
“Glad you’re here,” he said, looking at Monk. “I think we’ve almost got it. A few details to fill in, but got the core of it all right.” He sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk, sighing as he did so. “Horrible, but inevitable. I will never understand some men.”
“Doyle.” Monk said. “I didn’t know for sure but he seemed central to the whole Kate Exeter business. And whatever he did, I can’t forgive him for having Kate Exeter killed. What in hell’s name did he have to do that for? I suppose she saw him and worked it out, and so he had Lister kill her. Have you told Exeter himself yet? Can I do that…I’d like to.”
Runcorn looked unhappy, even a little confused. “Sorry…”
“What? You’ve told him already? You don’t need to look so guilty. You’re the one who solved it. You’ve a right to tell him.” Monk tried to sound generous about it, as if he didn’t mind. He had wanted to keep his word, or at least be the one to tell Exeter that this part of it was over. But that was small-minded. Runcorn deserved this. Anyway, it was not over. He still had to face Hooper. That was going to be the very worst.
Runcorn was staring at him now. “You can see Exeter if you want,” he began.
“What do you mean, see him?” Monk asked. “Is he ill?” Another thought struck him. “Did he beat the truth out of Doyle? I can hardly blame him.”
“No. Monk, it was Exeter who did it…all!”
Monk was stunned. “What are you talking about? That makes no sense! Besides, he couldn’t have. He was with us when Kate was killed!”
“Was he? Right with you, where you could see him?”
“Couldn’t see anybody in that gloom,” Monk responded tartly. “But he was there. I know he didn’t pass me.”
“Couldn’t he have gone round you, down another side passage?”
