sergeant at the desk. He waited there until Constable Watkins came in. The sergeant attempted to block Monk, but there was an old woman in a drab cotton dress and torn shawl who was distracting his attention, complaining about a stray dog.
“Constable Watkins?” Monk said loudly and clearly.
The young man turned around to face him. “Yes, sir. Morning, sir. Do I know you?” There was absolutely no guile in his wide blue eyes.
“No, Constable, you don’t,” Monk replied with a smile. “I’m Commander Monk of the Thames River Police at Wapping. I need to ask you very briefly about an incident that was reported to you, just to verify certain facts. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea to start the day? And a sandwich?”
“Not necessary, sir, but … yes, thank you, sir,” Watkins accepted, trying to hide his relish at the thought of a fresh sandwich, and not making much of a success of it.
The sergeant shifted his weight from one foot to the other, drawing in his breath sharply. Monk knew in that moment that he had had orders not to let this happen.
“Constable!” he said sharply. “Mr. Monk-Constable Watkins has duties, sir. He can’t just …” He looked at Monk’s face and his voice wavered.
“Have you received orders from your senior officers that you are not to permit Constable Watkins to cooperate with the River Police in
The sergeant stammered a denial, but it was obvious to Monk, at least, that that was exactly what he had been told to do.
Monk went with Watkins to the peddler at the next street corner from the station and bought hot tea and sandwiches from him. It was a cold morning, the light only just broadening. A stiff wind blew up from the river, cutting through the wool of coats and scarves.
Watkins was uncomfortable after the exchange between Monk and the sergeant, but he recognized that he had no choice but to cooperate. Monk knew he would have to do what he could to protect the man from the ire of his senior officers.
“Constable, you were first on the scene of Dr. Joel Lambourn’s death, up on One Tree Hill, about two and a half months ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I spoke to Mr. Petherton, the man who had found Dr. Lambourn. He was most helpful. But you understand I also need a more trained eye to tell me if his observations were correct.”
“Yes, sir.” Constable Watkins sipped his tea but his eyes never left Monk’s.
Monk repeated precisely what Petherton had told him, including the shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the blood on Lambourn’s wrists, and the ground, both in shape and degree.
“Was there anything else?” he asked. “Please think carefully, Constable. It would not do to have to add anything later. It would look gravely incompetent, at the very best. At the worst it would seem like deliberate dishonesty. We can’t have that. A man’s death is very serious, any man’s. Dr. Lambourn’s importance to the government makes his even more so. Have I just described it as you witnessed it? Bring it to your mind, your recollection as a police officer, and then answer me.”
Watkins closed his eyes, was silent for several moments, then opened them and looked at Monk. “Yes, sir, that’s perfectly correct.”
“So Mr. Petherton is both accurate and honest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He didn’t leave anything out? Nothing else to see at all? Footprints? Marks of a scuffle? Anything?”
“No, sir, nothing at all.”
“Thank you, Constable. That’s all. I must not hold you from your duties any longer. You may tell your sergeant I am obliged to him, and that all you did was confirm your own recollection, as you gave it before. You never added anything or changed anything. You can swear to that in court, if need be.”
Watkins gave a sigh of relief and the color flooded up his face. “Thank you, sir.”
Monk saw Dr. Wembley again, but the doctor could not recall or add anything significant; he simply repeated the evidence he had given before.
Later that evening, in fine, cold rain, Monk went to Runcorn’s house and told him the results of his day.
They were in the small, comfortable parlor with the fire burning well and fresh tea and slices of cold chicken pie on the table between them. This time Melisande was also there. She had initially come in simply to bring the food, but Runcorn had signaled her to stay. Considering the firmness with which he did so, Monk did not raise any objection. He did not want to distress her. He had little knowledge of her personality, except for the courage with which she had insisted on giving evidence during the case they were investigating when they had first met her. He glanced at her face once or twice, and saw only pity and intense concentration.
“That’s the same as they told me,” Runcorn said when Monk had finished his account. “I went back over the instructions I was given.” He looked faintly embarrassed. “I thought at the time they were to protect Lambourn’s reputation, and his widow’s feelings. Now they look a good deal more as if they were to conceal the truth. And if someone went to that much trouble to conceal the truth, we have to wonder why.”
“He walked up there in his shirtsleeves,” Monk reasoned aloud. “Or else he had a jacket and someone removed it. But Petherton said that the evening before was mild. He was out in his own garden. The night turned cold and by morning it was definitely chill. It looks as if Lambourn might not have intended to go so far, and definitely not to stay there.”
Runcorn nodded but did not interrupt.
“Petherton was certain there was no knife, and nothing with which to carry liquid-unless it was very small indeed, and in his trouser pocket. Watkins agreed, except he was also certain there was nothing in Lambourn’s pocket. I don’t think they are both lying. And you can’t swallow those things dry.”
“Someone else was there, then, and at best took away the knife and whatever Lambourn drank the opium with after Lambourn had committed suicide,” Runcorn concluded. “Or at worst, Mrs. Lambourn was right, and he was murdered.” He looked at Monk, his brow furrowed.
“And they expected to be able to conceal it,” Monk thought aloud. “But they were careless. No knife. Nothing to take the opium with. No jacket to walk that distance on an October evening. Was that because they were caught by surprise and had to act quickly, without preparation? Or was it just arrogance?”
Melisande spoke for the first time. “It seems very stupid,” she said slowly. “The knife should have been there beside him. He should’ve been wearing a jacket. Why didn’t they leave those items there, even if it was murder?” She looked from one to the other of them. “Was there something in the knife or the vial that would have made it obvious who the killer was?”
No one needed to answer her. Runcorn looked at Monk intently. “Is it really possible someone killed him to silence him, and bury his report? But why?”
Monk answered, his voice a little hoarse. “Yes, I am beginning to think it is possible. And there has to be a reason, something deeper than just wanting to delay his report, and thus the bill.”
They sat without speaking for several moments. The fire burned gently in the hearth, creating a warm light and a soft, whispering sound.
“What are you going to do?” Melisande said at last, looking at Runcorn. There was fear both in her voice and in her face.
Runcorn looked back at her. Monk had never before seen emotion so naked or so intensely readable in his face. It was as if he and Melisande were alone in the room. He cared intensely what she thought of him, yet he knew he must make the decision alone.
Monk barely drew breath, willing Runcorn to give the right answer.
Ash collapsed in the fireplace and the coals settled.
“If we do nothing, we become part of this … conspiracy, if there is one,” Runcorn said at last. “I’m sorry, but we must learn the truth. If Lambourn was murdered then we must find out and prove who did it, and who concealed it, and why.” He put out his hand gently and touched hers. “It may be very dangerous.”
She smiled at him, her eyes bright with fear and pride. “I know.”
Monk had no need to answer her question for himself. He had come to Runcorn in the first place because
