flavor of them as surely as if it were a heat in the room, indefinable, but immediate.
'Yes, I have something,' he replied. He pulled the letters out and held them where Runcorn could see them.
Runcorn waited, refusing to ask what they were. He stared at Monk, but the certainty was ebbing away. Old recollections were overpowering.
'Letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister,' Monk explained. 'I think when you have read them you will have sufficient evidence to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope.' He said it because he knew it would rattle Runcorn, who was terrified of offending socially or politically important people, and even more of making a mistake from which he could not retreat, or blame anyone else. Already a flush of anger was creeping up his cheeks and a tightness around his mouth.
'Letters from Nurse Barrymore to her sister?' Runcorn repeated, struggling to gain time to order his thoughts. 'Hardly proof of much, Monk. Word of a dead woman- unsubstantiated. Don't think we would be arresting anyone on that. Never get a conviction.' He smiled, but it was a sickly gesture, and his eyes reflected nothing of it.
Memory came flashing back of that earlier time when they were so much younger, of Runcorn being equally timid then, afraid of offending a powerful man, even when it seemed obvious he was hiding information. Monk could feel the power of his contempt then as acutely as if they were both still young, raw to their profession and their own abilities. He knew his face registered it just as clearly now as it had then. And he saw Runcom's recognition of it, and the hatred fire in his eyes.
'I'll take the letters and make my own decision as to what they're worth.' Runcorn's voice was harsh and his lips curled, but his breathing was harder and his hand, thrust out to grasp the papers, was rigid. 'You've done the right thing bringing them to the police.' He added the last word with satisfaction and now his eyes met Monk's.
But time had telescoped, at least for Monk, and he thought in some sense for Runcom too; the past was always there between them, with all its wounds and angers, resentments, failures, and petty revenges.
'I hope I have.' Monk raised his eyebrows. 'I'm beginning to think perhaps I should have taken them to someone with the courage to use them openly and let the court decide what they prove.'
Runcorn blinked, his eyes hot, full of confusion. That defensive look was just the same as it had been when he and Monk had quarreled over the case years ago. Only Runcorn had been younger, his face unlined. Now the innocence had gone, he knew Monk and had tasted defeat, and final victory had not wiped it out.
What had that case been about? Had they solved it in the end?
'Not your place,' Runcorn was saying. 'You'd be withholding evidence, and that's a crime. Don't think I wouldn't prosecute you, because I would.' Then a deep pleasure came into his eyes. 'But I know you, Monk. You'll give them to me because you wouldn't miss the chance of showing up someone important. You can't abide success, people who have made it to the top, because you haven't yourself. Envious, that's what you are. Oh, you'll give me those letters. You know it, and I know it.'
'Of course you know it,' Monk said. 'That's what terrifies you. You'll have to use them. You'll have to be the one to go and question Sir Herbert, and when he can't answer, you are going to have to press him, drive him into a corner, and in the end arrest him. And the thought of it scares you bloodless. It'll ruin your social aspirations. You'll always be remembered as the man who ruined the best surgeon in London!'
Runcorn was white to the lips, sweat beads on his skin. But he did not back down.
'I'll-' He swallowed. 'I'll be remembered as the man who solved the Prudence Barrymore murder,' he said huskily. 'And that's more than you will, Monk! You'll be forgotten!'
That stung, because it was probably true.
'You won't forget me, Runcorn,' Monk said viciously. 'Because you'll always know I brought you the letters. You didn't find them yourself. And you'll remember that every time someone tells you how clever you are, what a brilliant detective-you'll know it is really me they are talking about. Only you haven't the courage or the honor to say so. You'll just sit there and smile, and thank them. But you'll know.'
'Maybe!' Runcorn rose in his seat, his face red. 'But you damn well won't, because it will be in the clubs, and halls and dining rooms where you'll not be invited.'
'Neither will you-you fool,' Monk said with stinging scorn. 'You are not a gentleman, and you never will be. You don't stand like one, you don't dress like one, you don't speak like one-and above all you haven't the nerve, because you know you aren't one. You are a policeman with ambitions above yourself. Especially for the policeman who is going to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope-and that's how you'll be remembered!'
Runconrs shoulders hunched as if he intended hitting Monk. For seconds they stared at each other, both poised to lash out.
Then gradually Runcorn relaxed. He sat back in his chair again and looked up at Monk, a very slight sneer curling his lips.
'You'll be remembered too, Monk, not among the great and famous, not among gentlemen-but here in the police station. You'll be remembered with fear-by the ordinary P.C.s you bullied and made miserable, by the men whose reputations you destroyed because they weren't as ruthless as you or as quick as you thought they should be. You ever read your Bible, Monk? 'How are the mighty fallen?' Remember that?' His smile widened. 'Oh, they'll talk about you in the public houses and on the street corners, they'll say how good it is now you're gone. They'll tell the new recruits who complain that they don't know they're born. They should see what a real hard man is-a real bully.' The smile was all the way to his eyes. 'Give me the letters, Monk, and go and get on with your prying and following and whatever it is you do now.'
'What I do now is what I have always done,' Monk said between his teeth, his voice choking. 'Tidy up the cases you can't manage and clean up behind you!' He thrust the letters out and slammed them on the desk. 'I'm not the only one who knows about them, so don't think you can hide them and blame some other poor sod who is as innocent as that poor bloody footman you hanged.' And with that he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Runcorn white-faced, his hands shaking.
Chapter 8
Sir Herbert Stanhope was arrested and charged, and Oliver Rathbone was retained to conduct his defense. He was one of the most brilliant lawyers in London and, since Monk's first case after his accident, well acquainted with both Monk and Hester Latterly. To say it was a friendship would be both to understate it and to overstate it. With Monk it was a difficult relationship. Their mutual respect was high; indeed, it amounted to admiration. They also felt a complete trust not only in the competence but each in the professional integrity of the other.
However, on a personal level matters were different. Monk found Rathbone more than a little arrogant and complacent, and he had mannerisms which irritated Monk at times almost beyond bearing. Rathbone, on the other hand, found Monk also arrogant, abrasive, willful, and inappropriately ruthless.
With Hester it was quite different. Rathbone had a regard for her which had grown deeper and more intimate with time. He did not consider her totally suitable as a lifetime companion. She was too opinionated, had very little idea of what it was suitable for a lady to interest herself in-to wit, criminal cases. And yet, curiously, he enjoyed her company more than that of any other woman, and he found himself caring surprisingly deeply what she thought and felt for him. His mind turned to her more often than he could satisfactorily explain to himself. It was disconcerting, but not entirely unpleasant.
And what she thought and felt for him were emotions she had no intention of allowing him to know. At times he disturbed her profoundly-for example, when he had kissed her so suddenly and gently over a year ago. And there had been a sweetness in their time spent at Primrose Hill with his father, Henry Rathbone, whom Hester liked enormously. She would always remember the closeness she had felt walking in the garden in the evening, and the scents of summer in the wind, cut grass and honeysuckle, the leaves of the apple orchard beyond the hedge, dark against the stars.
And yet at the back of her mind mere was always Monk. Monk's face intruded into her thoughts; his voice, and its words, spoke in the silence.
Rathbone was not in the least surprised to receive the call from Sir Herbert Stanhope's solicitors. Such a man would naturally seek the best defense available, and there were many who would aver without question that that
