It can be harder to forgive a brother for cuckolding you than it would be a stranger-it's not just an offense, it's a betrayal-and he's constantly there to remind you of it.'
'You think so, sir?' There was a lift of surprise in Evan's voice.
Oh God. Surely Evan could not know, could not suspect anything so soon? Sweat broke out on Monk's body, and chilled instantly, leaving him shivering.
'Isn't that what Mr. Runcorn thinks?' he asked, his voice husky with the effort of seeming casual. What isolation this was. He felt cut off from every human contact by his fearful knowledge.
'Yes sir.' He knew Evan was staring at him, puzzled, even anxious. 'It is, but he could be wrong. He wants to see you arrest Lord Shelburne-' That was an understanding he had not committed to words before. It was the first time he had acknowledged that he understood Runcorn's envy, or his intention. Monk was startled into looking up, and instantly regretted it. Evan's eyes were anxious and appallingly direct.
'Well he won't-unless I have evidence,' Monk said slowly. 'So go out to Shelburne Hall and see what you can find. But tread softly, listen rather than speak. Above all, don't make any implications.'
Evan hesitated.
Monk said nothing. He did not want conversation.
After a moment Evan left and Monk sat down on his own chair, closing his eyes to shut out the room. It was going to be even harder than it had seemed last night. Evan had believed in him, liked him. Disillusionment so often turned to pity, and then to hate.
And what about Beth? Perhaps far up in Northumberland she need never know. Maybe he could find someone to write to her and say simply that he had died. They would not do it for him; but if he explained, told them of her children, then for her?
'Asleep, Monk? Or dare I hope you are merely thinking?' It was Runcorn's voice, dark with sarcasm.
Monk opened his eyes. He had no career left, no future. But one of the few reliefs it brought was that he need no longer be afraid of Runcorn. Nothing Runcorn could do would matter in the least, compared with what he had already done to himself.
'Thinking,' Monk replied coldly. 'I find it better to think before I face a witness than after I have got there. Either one stands foolishly silent, or rushes, even more foolishly, into saying something inept, merely to fill the chasm.'
'Social arts again?' Runcom raised his eyebrows. 'I would not have thought you would have had time for them now.'' He was standing in front of Monk, rocking a little on his feet, hands behind his back. Now he brought them forward with a sheaf of daily newspapers displayed belligerently. 'Have you read the newspapers this morning? There has been a murder in Stepney, a man knifed in the street, and they are saying it is time we did our job, or were replaced by someone who can.'
'Why do they presume there is only one person in London capable of knifing a man?' Monk asked bitterly.
'Because they are angry and frightened,' Runcorn snapped back. 'And they have been let down by the men they trusted to safeguard them. That is why.' He slammed the newspapers down on the desk top. 'They do not care whether you speak like a gentleman or know which knife and fork to eat with, Mr. Monk; but they care very much whether you are capable of doing your job and catching murderers and taking them off the streets.'
'Do you think Lord Shelburne knifed this man in Stepney?' Monk looked straight into Runcorn's eyes. He was pleased to be able to hate someone freely and without feeling any guilt about lying to him.
'Of course I don't.' Runcorn's voice was thick with anger. 'But I think it past time you stopped giving yourself airs and graces and found enough courage to forget climbing the ladder of your own career for a moment and arrested Shelburne.'
'Indeed? Well I don't, because I'm not at all sure that he's guilty,' Monk answered him with a straight, hard stare. 'If you are sure, then you arrest him!'
'I'll have you for insolence!' Runcorn shouted, leaning forward towards him, fists clenched white. 'And I'll make damned sure you never reach senior rank as long as I'm in this station. Do you hear me?'
'Of course I hear you.' Monk deliberately kept calm. 'Although it was unnecessary for you to say so, your actions have long made it obvious; unless of course you wish to inform the rest of the building? Your voice was certainly loud enough. As for me, I knew your intentions long ago. And now…'He stood up and walked past him to the door. 'If you have nothing else to say, sir; I have several witnesses to question.'
'I'll give you till the end of the week,' Runcorn bellowed behind him, his face purple, but Monk was outside and going down the stairs for his hat and coat. The only advantage of disaster was that all lesser ills are swallowed up in it.
By the time he had reached the Latterlys' house and been shown in by the parlor maid, he had made up his mind to do the only thing that might lead him to the truth. Runcorn had given him a week. And Evan would be back long before that. Time was desperately short.
He asked to see Imogen, alone. The maid hesitated, but it was morning and Charles was quite naturally out; and anyway, as a servant she had not the authority to refuse.
He paced backwards and forwards nervously, counting seconds until he heard light, decisive footsteps outside and the door opened. He swung around. It was not Imogen but Hester Latterly who came in.
He felt an immediate rush of disappointment, then something almost resembling relief. The moment was put off; Hester had not been here at the time. Unless Imogen had confided in her she could not help. He would have to return. He needed the truth, and yet it terrified him.
'Good morning, Mr. Monk,' she said curiously. 'What may we do for you this time?'
'I am afraid you cannot help me,' he replied. He did not like her, but it would be pointless and stupid to be rude. 'It is Mrs. Latterly I would like to see, since she was here at the time of Major Grey's death. I believe you were still abroad?'
'Yes I was. But I am sorry, Imogen is out all day and I do not expect her return until late this evening.' She frowned very slightly and he was uncomfortably aware of her acute perception, the sensitivity with which she was regarding him. Imogen was kinder, immeasurably less abrasive, but there was an intelligence in Hester which might meet his present need more readily.
'I can see that something very serious troubles you,' she said gravely. 'Please sit down. If it is to do with Imogen, I would greatly appreciate it if you would confide in me, and I may help the matter to be dealt with with as little pain as possible. She has already suffered a great deal, as has my brother. What have you discovered, Mr. Monk?'
He looked at her levelly, searching the wide, very clear eyes. She was a remarkable woman and her courage must be immense to have defied her family and traveled virtually alone to one of the most dreadful battlefields in the world, and to have risked her own life and health to care for the wounded. She must have very few illusions, and that thought was comforting now. There was an infinity of experience between himself and Imogen: horror, violence, hatred and pain outside her grasp to think of, and which from now on would be his shadow, even his skin. Hester must have seen men in the very extremity of life and death, the nakedness of soul that comes when fear strips everything away and the honesty that loosens the tongue when pretense is futile.
Perhaps after all it was right he should speak to her.
'I have a most profound problem, Miss Latterly,' he began. It was easier to talk to her than he had expected. 'I have not told you, or anyone else, the entire truth about my investigation of Major Grey's death.'
She waited without interruption; surprisingly, she did know when to keep silent.
'I have not lied,' he went on. 'But I have omitted one of the most important facts.'
She was very pale. 'About Imogen?'
'No! No. I do not know anything about her, beyond what she told me herself-that she knew and liked Joscelin Grey, and that he called here, as a friend of your brother George. What I did not tell you is about myself.'
He saw the flash of concern in her face, but he did not know the reason for it. Was it her nurse's professional training, or some fear for Imogen, something she knew and he did not? But again she did not interrupt.
'The accident I suffered before beginning the Joscelin Grey case is a severe complication which I did not mention.' Then for a hideous moment he thought she might imagine he was seeking some kind of sympathy, and he felt the blood burn up his skin. 'I lost my memory.' He rushed to dispel the idea. 'Completely. When I came to my
