The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  “Well, I suppose the silver and the jade are worth something?”

  “Not much, after the fence has taken his cut.” Monk looked at the heap of wreckage on the floor and imagined the frenzy and the noise of such a search. “Hardly worth the risk,” he said thoughtfully. “Much easier to have burgled a place in which the police have no interest. No, they wanted something else; the silver and the jade were a bonus. Anyway, what professional thief leaves a chaos like this behind him?”

  “You mean it was Shelburne?” Evan’s voice was half an octave higher with sheer disbelief.

  Monk did not know what he meant.

  “I can’t think what Shelburne could want,” he said, staring around the room again, his mind’s eye seeing it as it had been before. “Even if he left something here that belonged to him, there are a dozen reasons he could invent if we’d asked him, with Joscelin dead and not able to argue. He could have left it here, whatever it was, any time, or lent it to Joscelin; or Joscelin could simply have taken it.” He stared around the ceiling at the elaborate plaster work of acanthus leaves. “And I can’t imagine him employing a couple of men to forge police papers and come here to ransack the place. No, it can’t have been Shelburne.”

  “Then who?”

  Monk was frightened because suddenly there was no rationality in it at all. Everything that had seemed to fit ten minutes ago was now senseless, like puzzle parts of two quite different pictures. At the same time he was almost elated—if it were not Shelburne, if it were someone who knew forgers and thieves, then perhaps there was no society scandal or blackmail at all.

  “I don’t know,” he answered Evan with sudden new firmness. “But there’s no need to tiptoe in this one to find out. Nobody will lose us our jobs if we ask embarrassing questions of a few screevers, or bribe a nose, or even press a fence a little hard.”

  Evan’s face relaxed into a slow smile and his eyes lit up. Monk guessed that perhaps he had had little taste so far of the color of the underworld, and as yet it still held the glamour of mystery. He would find its tones dark; gray of misery, black of long-used pain and habitual fear; its humor quick and bitter, gallows laughter.

  He looked at Evan’s keen face, its soft, sensitive lines. He could not explain to him; words are only names for what you already know—and what could Evan know that would prepare him for the hive of human waste that teemed in the shadows of Whitechapel, St. Giles, Bluegate Fields, Seven Dials, or the Devil’s Acre? Monk had known hardship himself in childhood; he could remember hunger now—it was coming back to him—and cold, shoes that leaked, clothes that let through the bitter northeast wind, plenty of meals of bread and gravy. He remembered faintly the pain of chilblains, angry itching fire when at last you warmed a little; Beth with chapped lips and white, numb fingers.

  But they were not unhappy memories; behind all the small pains there had always been a sense of well-being, a knowledge of eventual safety. They were always clean: clean clothes, however few and however old, clean table, smell of flour and fish, salt wind in the spring and summer when the windows were open.

  It was sharper in his mind now; he could recall whole scenes, taste and touch, and always the whine of the wind and the cry of gulls. They had all gone to church on Sundays; he could not bring back everything that had been said, but he could think of snatches of music, solemn and full of the satisfaction of people who believe what they sing, and know they sing it well.

  His mother had taught him all his values: honesty, labor and learning. He knew even without her words that she believed it. It was a good memory, and he was more grateful for its return than for any other. It brought with it identity. He could not clearly picture his mother’s face; each time he tried it blurred and melted into Beth’s, as he had seen her only a few weeks ago, smiling, confident of herself. Perhaps they were not unalike.

  Evan was waiting for him, eyes still bright with anticipation of seeing at last the real skill of detection, delving into the heartland of crime.

  “Yes.” Monk recalled himself. “We shall be free there to pursue as we wish.” And no satisfaction for Runcorn, he thought, but he did not add it aloud.

  He went back to the door and Evan followed him. There was no point in tidying anything; better to leave it as it was—even that mess might yield a clue, some time.

  He was in the hallway, next to the small table, when he noticed the sticks in the stand. He had seen them before, but he had been too preoccupied with the acts of violence in the room beyond to look closely. Anyway, they already had the stick that had been the weapon. Now he saw that there were still four there. Perhaps since Grey had used a stick to walk with, he had become something of a collector. It would not be unnatural; he had been a man to whom appearance mattered: everything about him said as much. Probably he had a stick for morning, another for evening, a casual one, and a rougher one for the country.

  Monk’s eye was caught by a dark, straight stick, the color of mahogany and with a fine brass band on it embossed like the links of a chain. It was an extraordinary sensation, hot, almost like a dizziness; it prickled in his skin—he knew with total clarity that he had seen that stick before, and seen it several times.

  Evan was beside him, waiting, wondering why he had stopped. Monk tried to clear his head, to broaden the image till it included where and when, till he saw the man who held it. But nothing came, only the vivid tingle of familiarity—and fear.

  “Sir?” Evan’s voice was doubtful. He could see no reason for the sudden paralysis. They were both standing in the hallway, frozen, and the only reason was in Monk’s mind. And try as he might, bending all the force of his will on it, still he could see nothing but the stick, no man, not even a hand holding it.

  “Have you thought of something, sir?” Evan’s voice intruded into the intensity of his thought.

  “No.” Monk moved at last. “No.” He must think of something sensible to say, to explain himself, a reason for his behavior. He found the words with difficulty. “I was just wondering where to start. You say Grimwade didn’t get any names from those papers?”

  “No; but then they wouldn’t use their own names anyway, would they?”

  “No, of course not, but it would have helped to know what name the screever used for them.” It was a foolish question to have asked, but he must make sense of it. Evan was listening to his every word, as to a teacher. “There are a vast number of screevers in London.” He made his voice go on with authority, as if he knew what he was saying, and it mattered. “And I daresay more than one who has forged police papers in the last few weeks.”

  “Oh—yes, of course,” Evan was instantly satisfied. “No, I did ask, before I knew they were burglars, but he didn’t notice. He was more interested in the authorization part.”

  “Oh well.” Monk had control of himself again. He opened the door and went out. “I daresay the name of the station will be enough anyway.” Evan came out also and he turned and closed the door behind him, locking it.

  But when they reached the street Monk changed his mind. He wanted to see Runcorn’s face when he heard of the robbery and realized Monk would not be forced to ferret for scandals as the only way to Grey’s murderer. There was suddenly and beautifully a new way open to him, where the worst possibility was simple failure; and there was even a chance now of real success, unqualified.

  He sent Evan off on a trivial errand, with instructions to meet him again in an hour, and caught a hansom through sunny, noisy streets back to the station. Runcorn was in, and there was a glow of satisfaction on his face when Monk came into his office.

  “Morning, Monk,” he said cheerfully. “No further, I see?”

  Monk let the pleasure sink a little deeper into him, as one hesitates exquisitely in a hot bath, inching into it to savor each additional moment.

  “It is a most surprising case,” he answered meaning-lessly, his eyes meeting Runcorn’s, affecting concern.

  Runcorn’s face clouded, but Monk could feel the pleasure in him
as if it were an odor in the room.

  “Unfortunately the public does not give us credit for amazement,” Runcorn replied, stretching out the anticipation. “Just because they are puzzled that does not, in their view, allow us the same privilege. You’re not pressing hard enough, Monk.” He frowned very slightly and leaned farther back in his chair, the sunlight in a bar through the window falling in on the side of his head. His voice changed to one of unctuous sympathy. “Are you sure you are fully recovered? You don’t seem like your old self. You used not to be so—” He smiled as the word pleased him. “So hesitant. Justice was your first aim, indeed your only aim; I’ve never known you to balk before, even at the most unpleasant inquiries.” There was doubt at the very back of his eyes, and dislike. He was balancing between courage and experience, like a man beginning to ride a bicycle. “You believe that very quality was what raised you so far, and so fast.” He stopped, waiting; and Monk had a brief vision of spiders resting in the hearts of their webs, knowing flies would come, sooner or later: the time was a matter of delicacy, but they would come.

  He decided to play it out a little longer; he wanted to watch Runcorn himself, let him bring his own feelings into the open, and betray his vulnerability.

  “This case is different,” he answered hesitantly, still putting the anxiety into his manner. He sat down on the chair opposite the desk. “I can’t remember any other like it. One cannot make comparison.”

  “Murder is murder.” Runcorn shook his head a trifle pompously. “Justice does not differentiate; and let me be frank, neither does the public—in fact if anything, they care more about this. It has all the elements the public likes, all the journalists need to whip up passions and make people frightened—and indignant.”

  Monk decided to split hairs.

  “Not really,” he demurred. “There is no love story, and the public likes romance above all things. There is no woman.”

  “No love story?” Runcorn’s eyebrows went up. “I never suspected you of cowardice, Monk; and never, ever of stupidity!” His face twitched with an impossible blend of satisfaction and affected concern. “Are you sure you are quite well?” He leaned forward over the desk again to reinforce the effect. “You don’t get headaches, by any chance, do you? It was a very severe blow you received, you know. In fact, I daresay you don’t recall it now, but when I first saw you in the hospital you didn’t even recognize me.”

  Monk refused to acknowledge the appalling thought that had come to the edge of his mind.

  “Romance?” he asked blankly, as if he had heard nothing after that.

  “Joscelin Grey and his sister-in-law!” Runcorn was watching him closely, pretending to be hazy, his eyes a little veiled, but Monk saw the sharp pinpoints under his heavy lids.

  “Does the public know of that?” Monk equally easily pretended innocence. “I have not had time to look at newspapers.” He pushed out his lip in doubt. “Do you think it was wise to tell them? Lord Shelburne will hardly be pleased!”

  The skin across Runcorn’s face tightened.

  “No of course I didn’t tell them yet!” He barely controlled his voice. “But it can only be a matter of time. You cannot put it off forever.” There was a hard gleam in his face, almost an appetite. “You have most assuredly changed, Monk. You used to be such a fighter. It is almost as if you were a different person, a stranger to yourself. Have you forgotten how you used to be?”

  For a moment Monk was unable to answer, unable to do anything but absorb the shock. He should have guessed it. He had been overconfident, stupidly blind to the obvious. Of course Runcorn knew he had lost his memory. If he had not known from the beginning, then he had surely guessed it in Monk’s careful maneuvering, his unawareness of their relationship. Runcorn was a professional; he spent his life telling truth from lies, divining motives, uncovering the hidden. What an arrogant fool Monk must have been to imagine he had deceived him. His own stupidity made him flush hot at the embarrassment of it.

  Runcorn was watching him, seeing the tide of color in his face. He must control it, find a shield; or better, a weapon. He straightened his body a little more and met Runcorn’s eyes.

  “A stranger to you perhaps, sir, but not to myself. But then we are few of us as plain as we seem to others. I think I am only less rash than you supposed. And it is as well.” He savored the moment, although it had not the sweetness he had expected.

  He looked at Runcorn’s face squarely. “I came to tell you that Joscelin Grey’s flat has been robbed, at least it has been thoroughly searched, even ransacked, by two men posing as police. They seemed to have had quite competently forged papers which they showed to the porter.”

  Runcorn’s face was stiff and there was a mottle of red on his skin. Monk could not resist adding to it.

  “Puts a different light on it, doesn’t it?” he went on cheerfully, pretending they were both pleased. “I don’t see Lord Shelburne hiring an accomplice and posing as a Peeler to search his brother’s flat.”

  A few seconds had given Runcorn time to think.

  “Then he must have hired a couple of men. Simple enough!”

  But Monk was ready. “If it was something worth such a terrible risk,” he countered, “why didn’t they get it before? It must have been there two months by now.”

  “What terrible risk?” Runcorn’s voice dropped a little in mockery of the idea. “They passed it off beautifully. And it would have been easy enough to do: just watch the building a little while to make sure the real police were not there, then go in with their false papers, get what they went for, and leave. I daresay they had a crow out in the street.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the risk of their being caught in the act,” Monk said scornfully. “I was thinking of the much greater risk, from his point of view, of placing himself in the hands of possible blackmailers.”

  He felt a surge of pleasure as Runcorn’s face betrayed that he hadn’t thought of that.

  “Do it anonymously.” Runcorn dismissed the idea.

  Monk smiled at him. “If it was worth paying thieves, and a first-class screever, in order to get it back, it wouldn’t take a very bright thief to work out it would be worth raising the price a little before handing it over. Everyone in London knows there was murder done in that room. If whatever he wanted was worth paying thieves and forgers to get back, it must be damning.”

  Runcorn glared at the table top, and Monk waited.

  “So what are you suggesting then?” Runcorn said at last. “Somebody wanted it. Or do you say it was just a casual thief, trying his luck?” His contempt for the idea was heavy in his voice and it curled his lip.

  Monk avoided the question.

  “I intend to find out what it is,” he replied, pushing back his chair and rising. “It may be something we haven’t even thought of.”

  “You’ll have to be a damn good detective to do that!” The triumph came back into Runcorn’s eyes.

  Monk straightened and looked levelly back at him.

  “I am,” he said without a flicker. “Did you think that had changed?”

  When he left Runcorn’s office Monk had had no idea even how to begin. He had forgotten all his contacts; now a fence or an informer could pass him in the street and he would not recognize him. He could not ask any of his colleagues. If Runcorn hated him, it was more than likely many of them did too and he had no idea which; and to show such vulnerability would invite a coup de grace. Runcorn knew he had lost his memory, of that he was perfectly sure now, although nothing had been said completely beyond ambiguity. There was a chance, a good chance he could fend off one man until he had regained at least enough mixture of memory and skill to do his job well enough to defy them all. If he solved the Grey case he would be unassailable; then let Runcorn say what he pleased.

  But it was an unpleasant knowledge that he was so deeply and consistently hated, and with what he increasingly realized was good reason.

  And was he fighting for survival? Or was there also
an instinct in him to attack Runcorn; not only to find the truth, to be right, but also to be there before Runcorn was and make sure he knew it? Perhaps if he had been an onlooker at this, watching two other men, at least some of his sympathy would have been with Runcorn. There was a cruelty in himself he was seeing for the first time, a pleasure in winning that he did not admire.

  Had he always been like this—or was it born of his fear?

  How to start finding the thieves? Much as he liked Evan—and he did like him increasingly every day; the man had enthusiasm and gentleness, humor, and a purity of intention Monk envied—even so, he dare not place himself in Evan’s hands by telling him the truth. And if he were honest (there was a little vanity in it also), Evan was the only person, apart from Beth, who seemed unaffectedly to think well of him, even to like him. He could not bear to forfeit that.

  So he could not ask Evan to tell him the names of informers and fences. He would just have to find them for himself. But if he had been as good a detective as everything indicated, he must know many. They would recognize him.

  He was late and Evan had been waiting for him. He apologized, somewhat to Evan’s surprise, and only afterward realized that as a superior it was not expected of him. He must be more careful, especially if he were to conceal his purpose, and his inability, from Evan. He wanted to go to an underworld eating house for luncheon, and hoped that if he left word with the potman someone would approach him. He would have to do it in several places, but within three or four days at most he should find a beginning.

  He could not bring back to memory any names or faces, but the smell of the back taverns was sharply familiar. Without thinking, he knew how to behave; to alter color like a chameleon, to drop his shoulders, loosen his gait, keep his eyes down and wary. It is not clothes that make the man; a cardsharp, a dragsman, a superior pickpocket or a thief from the Swell Mob could dress as well as most—indeed the nurse at the hospital had taken him for one of the Swell Mob himself.