by Anne Perry
“That he didn’t put them there.” Monk kept his own voice low. “Only a fool would have left things like that where they might be found.”
“But you didn’t find them, did you?” Runcorn said furiously, on his feet now. “Not until the cook told you her knife was missing. This damn footman can’t have known she’d notice it after this time. He didn’t know you’d search the place.”
“We already searched it once for the missing jewelry,” Monk pointed out.
“Well you didn’t search it very well, did you?” Runcorn accused with satisfaction lacing through his words even now. “You didn’t expect to find it, so you didn’t make a proper job of it. Slipshod—think you’re cleverer than anybody else and leap to conclusions.” He leaned forward over the desk, his hands resting on the surface, splay fingered. “Well you were wrong this time, weren’t you—in fact I’d say downright incompetent. If you’d done your job and searched properly in the beginning, you’d have found the knife and the clothes and spared the family a great deal of distress, and the police a lot of time and effort.”
He waved the letter. “If I thought I could, I’d take all the rest of the police wages out of yours, to cover the hours wasted by your incompetence! You’re losing your touch, Monk, losing your touch. Now try to make up for it in some degree by going back to Queen Anne Street, apologizing to Sir Basil, and arresting the damned footman.”
“It wasn’t there when we looked the first time,” Monk repeated. He was not going to allow Evan to be blamed, and he believed that what he said was almost certainly true.
Runcorn blinked. “Well all that means is that he had it somewhere else then—and put it in the drawer afterwards.” Runcorn’s voice was getting louder in spite of himself. “Get back to Queen Anne Street and arrest that footman—do I make myself clear? I don’t know what simpler words to put it in. Get out, Monk—arrest Percival for murder.”
“No sir. I don’t think he did it.”
“Nobody gives a fig what you think, damn it! Just do as you are told.” Runcorn’s face was deepening in color and his hands were clenching on the desk top.
Monk forced himself to keep his temper sufficiently to argue the case. He would like simply to have told Runcorn he was a fool and left.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he began with an effort. “If he had the chance to get rid of the jewelry, why didn’t he get rid of the knife and the peignoir at the same time?”
“He probably didn’t get rid of the jewelry,” Runcorn said with a sudden flash of satisfaction. “I expect it’s still there, and if you searched properly you’d find it—stuffed inside an old boot, or sewn in a pocket or something. After all, you were looking for a knife this time; you wouldn’t look anywhere too small to conceal one.”
“We were looking for jewelry the first time,” Monk pointed out with a touch of sarcasm he could not conceal. “We could hardly have missed a carving knife and a silk dressing robe.”
“No you couldn’t, if you’d been doing your job,” Runcorn agreed. “Which means you weren’t—doesn’t it, Monk?”
“Either that or it wasn’t there then,” Monk agreed, staring back at him without a flicker. “Which is what I said before. Only a fool would keep things like that, when he could clean the knife and put it back in the kitchen without any difficulty at all. Nobody would be surprised to see a footman in the kitchen; they’re in and out all the time on errands. And they are frequently the last to go to bed at night because they lock up.”
Runcorn opened his mouth to argue, but Monk overrode him.
“Nobody would be surprised to see Percival about at midnight or later. He could explain his presence anywhere in the house, except someone else’s bedroom, simply by saying he had heard a window rattle, or feared a door was unlocked. They would simply commend him for his diligence.”
“A position you might well envy,” Runcorn said. “Even your most fervent admirer could hardly recommend you for yours.”
“And he could as easily have put the peignoir on the back of the kitchen range and closed the lid, and it would be burned without a trace,” Monk went on, disregarding the interruption. “Now if it were the jewelry we found, that would make more sense. I could understand someone keeping that, in the hope that some time they would be able to sell it, or even give it away or trade it for something. But why keep a knife?”
“I don’t know, Monk,” Runcorn said between his teeth. “I don’t have the mind of a homicidal footman. But he did keep it, didn’t he, damn it. You found it.”
“We found it, yes,” Monk agreed with elaborate patience which brought the blood dark and heavy to Runcorn’s cheeks. “But that is the point I am trying to make, sir. There is no proof that it was Percival who kept it—or that it was he who put it there. Anyone could have. His room is not locked.”
Runcorn’s eyebrows shot up.
“Oh indeed? You have just been at great pains to point out to me that no one would keep such a thing as a bloodstained knife! Now you say someone else did—but not Percival. You contradict yourself, Monk.” He leaned even farther across the desk, staring at Monk’s face. “You are talking like a fool. The knife was there, so someone did keep it—for all your convoluted arguments—and it was found in Percival’s room. Get out and arrest him.”
“Someone kept it deliberately to put it in Percival’s room and make him seem guilty.” Monk forgot his temper and began to raise his voice in exasperation, refusing to back away either physically or intellectually. “It only makes sense if it was kept to be used.”
Runcorn blinked. “By whom, for God’s sake? This laundrymaid of yours? You’ve no proof against her.” He waved his hand, dismissing her. “None at all. What’s the matter with you, Monk? Why are you so dead against arresting Percival? What’s he done for you? Surely you can’t be so damned perverse that you make trouble simply out of habit?” His eyes narrowed and his face was only a few feet from Monk’s.
Monk still refused to step backward.
“Why are you so determined to try to blame one of the family?” Runcom said between his teeth. “Good God, wasn’t the Grey case enough for you, dragging the family into that? Have you got it into your mind that it was this Myles Kellard, simply because he took advantage of a parlormaid? Do you want to punish him for that—is that what this is about?”
“Raped,” Monk corrected very distinctly. His diction became more perfect as Runcom lost his control and slurred his words in rage.
“All right, raped, if you prefer—don’t be pedantic,” Runcom shouted. “Forcing yourself on a parlormaid is not the next step before murdering your sister-in-law.”
“Raping. Raping a seventeen-year-old maid who is a servant in your house, a dependent, who dare not say much to you, or defend herself, is not such a long way from going to your sister-in-law’s room in the night with the intention of forcing yourself on her and, if need be, raping her.” Monk used the word loudly and very clearly, giving each letter its value. “If she says no to you, and you think she really means yes, what is the difference between one woman and another on that point?”
“If you don’t know the difference between a lady and a parlormaid, Monk, that says more about your ignorance than you would like.” Runcorn’s face was twisted with all the pent-up hatred and fear of their long relationship. “It shows that for all your arrogance and ambition, you’re just the uncouth provincial clod you always were. Your fine clothes and your assumed accent don’t make a gentleman of you—the boor is still underneath and it will always come out.” His eyes shone with a kind of wild, bitter triumph. He had said at last what had been seething inside him for years, and there was an uncontrollable joy in its release.
“You’ve been trying to find the courage to say that ever since you first felt me treading on your heels, haven’t you?” Monk sneered. “What a pity you haven’t enough courage to face the newspapers and the gentlemen of the Home Office that scare the wits out of you. If you were man enough you’d tell them you
won’t arrest anyone, even a footman, until you have reasonable evidence that he’s guilty. But you aren’t, are you? You’re a weakling. You’ll turn the other way and pretend not to see what their lordships don’t like. You’ll arrest Percival because he’s convenient. Nobody cares about him! Sir Basil will be satisfied and you can wrap it up without offending anyone who frightens you. You can present it to your superiors as a case closed—true or not, just or not—hang the poor bastard and close the file on it.”
He stared at Runcorn with ineffable contempt. “The public will applaud you, and the gentlemen will say what a good and obedient servant you are. Good God, Percival may be a selfish and arrogant little swine, but he’s not a craven lickspittle like you—and I will not arrest him until I think he’s guilty.”
Runcorn’s face was blotched with purple and his fists were clenched on the desk. His whole body shook, his muscles so tight his shoulders strained against the fabric of his coat.
“I am not asking, Monk, I am ordering you. Go and arrest Percival—now!”
“No.”
“No?” A strange light flickered in Runcorn’s eyes: fear, disbelief and exultancy. “Are you refusing, Monk?”
Monk swallowed, knowing what he was doing.
“Yes. You are wrong, and I am refusing.”
“You are dismissed!” He flung his arm out at the door. “You are no longer employed by the Metropolitan Police Force.” He thrust out one heavy hand. “Give me your official identification. As of this moment you have no office, no position, do you understand me? You are dismissed! Now get out!”
Monk fished in his pocket and found his papers. His hands were stiff and he was furious that he fumbled. He threw them on the desk and turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the door open.
Out in the passage he almost pushed past two constables and a sergeant with a pile of papers, all standing together frozen in disbelief and a kind of awed excitement. They were witnessing history, the fall of a giant, and there was regret and triumph in their faces, and a kind of guilt because such vulnerability was unexpected. They felt both superior and afraid.
Monk passed them too quickly for them to pretend they had not been listening, but he was too wrapped in his own emotions to heed their embarrassment.
By the time he was downstairs the duty constable had composed himself and retired to his desk. He opened his mouth to say something, but Monk did not listen, and he was relieved of the necessity.
It was not until Monk was out in the street in the rain that he felt the first chill of realization that he had thrown away not only his career but his livelihood. Fifteen minutes ago he had been an admired and sometimes feared senior policeman, good at his job, secure in his reputation and his skill. Now he was a man without work, without position, and in a short while he would be without money. And over Percival.
No—over the hatred between Runcom and himself over the years, the rivalry, the fear, the misunderstandings.
Or perhaps over innocence and guilt?
9
MONK SLEPT POORLY and woke late and heavy-headed. He rose and was half dressed before he remembered that he had nowhere to go. Not only was he off the Queen Anne Street case, he was no longer a policeman. In fact he was nothing. His profession was what had given him purpose, position in the community, occupation for his time, and now suddenly desperately important, his income. He would be all right for a few weeks, at least for his lodgings and his food. There would be no other expenditures, no clothes, no meals out, no new books or rare, wonderful visits to theater or gallery in his steps towards being a gentleman.
But those things were trivial. The center of his life had fallen out. The ambition he had nourished and sacrificed for, disciplined himself towards for all the lifetime he could remember or piece together from records and other people’s words, that was gone. He had no other relationships, nothing else he knew to do with his time, no one else who valued him, even if it was with admiration and fear, not love. He remembered sharply the faces of the men outside Runcorn’s door. There was confusion in them, embarrassment, anxiety—but not sympathy. He had earned their respect, but not their affection.
He felt more bitterly alone, confused, and wretched than at any time since the climax of the Grey case. He had no appetite for the breakfast Mrs. Worley brought him and ate only a rasher of bacon and two slices of toast. He was still looking at the crumb-scattered plate when there was a sharp rap on the door and Evan came in without waiting to be invited. He stared at Monk and sat down astride the other hard-backed chair and said nothing, his face full of anxiety and something so painfully gentle it could only be called compassion.
“Don’t look like that!” Monk said sharply. “I shall survive. There is life outside the police force, even for me.”
Evan said nothing.
“Have you arrested Percival?” Monk asked him.
“No. He sent Tarrant.”
Monk smiled sourly. “Perhaps he was afraid you wouldn’t do it. Fool!”
Evan winced.
“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized quickly. “But your resigning as well would hardly help—either Percival or me.”
“I suppose not,” Evan conceded ruefully, a shadow of guilt still lingering in his eyes. Monk seldom remembered how young he was, but now he looked every inch the country parson’s son with his correct casual clothes and his slightly different manner concealing an inner certainty Monk himself would never have. Evan might be more sensitive, less arrogant or forceful in his judgment, but he would always have a kind of ease because he was bom a minor gentleman, and he knew it, if not on the surface of his mind, then in the deeper layer from which instinct springs. “What are you going to do now, have you thought? The newspapers are full of it this morning.”
“They would be,” Monk acknowledged. “Rejoicing everywhere, I expect? The Home Office will be praising the police, the aristocracy will be congratulating itself it is not at fault—it may have hired a bad footman, but that kind of mis-judgment is bound to happen from time to time.” He heard the bitterness in his voice and despised it, but he could not remove it, it was too high in him. “Any honest gentleman can think too well of someone. Moidore’s family is exonerated. And the public at large can sleep safe in its beds again.”
“About right,” Evan conceded, pulling a face. “There’s a long editorial in the Times on the efficiency of the new police force, even in the most trying and sensitive of cases, to wit-in the very home of one of London’s most eminent gentlemen. Runcom is mentioned several times as being in charge of the investigation. You aren’t mentioned at all.” He shrugged. “Neither am I.”
Monk smiled for the first time, at Evan’s innocence.
“There’s also a piece by someone regretting the rising arrogance of the working classes,” Evan went on. “And predicting the downfall of the social order as we know it and the general decline of Christian morals.”
“Naturally,” Monk said tersely. “There always is. I think someone writes a pile of them and sends one in every time he thinks the occasion excuses it. What else? Does anyone speculate as to whether Percival is actually guilty or not?”
Evan looked very young. Monk could see the shadow of the boy in him so clearly behind the man, the vulnerability in the mouth, the innocence in the eyes.
“None that I saw. Everyone wants him hanged,” Evan said miserably. “There seems to be general relief all ’round, and everyone is very happy to call the case closed and put an end to it. The running patterers have already started composing songs about it, and I passed one selling it by the yard on the Tottenham Court Road.” His words were sophisticated, but his expression belied them. “Very lurid, and not much resemblance to the truth as we saw it—or thought we did. All twopenny dreadful stuff, innocent widow and lust in the pantry, going to bed with a carving knife to defend her virtue, and the evil footman afire with unholy passions creeping up the stairs to have his way with her.” He looked up at Monk. “They want to bring back drawing a
nd quartering. Bloodthirsty swine!”
“They’ve been frightened,” Monk said without pity. “An ugly thing, fear.”
Evan frowned. “Do you think that’s what it was—in Queen Anne Street? Everyone afraid, and just wanted to put it onto someone, anyone, to get us out of the house, and to stop thinking about each other and learning more than they wanted to know?”
Monk leaned forward, pushing the plates away, and rested his elbows on the table wearily.
“Perhaps.” He sighed. “God—I’ve made a mess of it! The worst thing is that Percival will hang. He’s an arrogant and selfish sod, but he doesn’t deserve to die for that. But nearly as bad is that whoever did kill him is still in that house, and is going to get away with it. And try as they might to ignore things, forget things, at least one of them has a fair idea who it is.” He looked up. “Can you imagine it, Evan? Living the rest of your life with someone you know committed murder and let another man swing for it? Passing them on the stairs, sitting opposite them at the dinner table, watching them smile and tell jokes as if it had never happened?”
“What are you going to do?” Evan was watching him with intelligent, troubled eyes.
“What in hell’s name can I do?” Monk exploded. “Runcorn’s arrested Percival and will send him to trial. I haven’t any evidence I’ve not already given him, and I’m not only off the case, I’m off the force. I don’t even know how I’m going to keep a roof over my head, damn it. I’m the last person to help Percival—I can’t even help myself.”
“You’re the only one who can help him,” Evan said quietly. There was friendship in his face and understanding, but no moderation of the truth. “Except perhaps Miss Latterly,” he added. “Anyway, apart from us, there’s no one else who’s going to try.” He stood up from the chair, uncoiling his legs. “I’ll go and tell her what happened. She’ll know about Percival, of course, and the fact that it was Tarrant and not you will have told her something was wrong, but she won’t know whether it’s illness, another case, or what.” He smiled with a wry twist of his lips. “Unless of course she knows you well enough to have guessed you lost your temper with Runcorn?”