A Dangerous Mourning (32 page)

"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," Runcom 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," Runcom 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."

Runcom'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 laun-drymaid 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?" Runcorn 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 Runcorn lost his control and slurred his words in rage.

"All right, raped, if you prefer—don't be pedantic," Runcorn 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." Runcom'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 race 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."

Runcom'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?

Chapter 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. HesentTarrant."

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 born 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. Runcorn is mentioned several times as being in charge of the investigation. You aren't mentioned at all." He shrugged. "Neither ami."

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 trufh 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 and 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. "Run-corn'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? "

Monk was about to deny that as ridiculous, then he remembered Hester and the doctor in the infirmary, and had a sudden blossoming of fellow-feeling, a warmth inside evaporating a little of the chill in him.

"She might," he conceded.

"I'll go to Queen Anne Street and tell her." Evan straightened his jacket, unconsciously elegant even now.”Before I 'm thrown off the case too and I've no excuse to go back there."

Monk looked up at him. "Thank you—"

Evan made a little salute, with more courage in it than hope, and went out, leaving Monk alone with the remnants of his breakfast.

He stared at the table for several minutes longer, his mind half searching for something further, then suddenly a shaft of memory returned so vividly it stunned him. At some other time he had sat at a polished dining table in a room filled with gracious furniture and mirrors framed in gilt and a bowl of

flowers. He had felt the same grief, and the overwhelming burden of guilt because he could not help.

It was the home of the mentor of whom he had been reminded so sharply on the pavement in Piccadilly outside Cyprian's club. There had been a financial disaster, a scandal in which he had been ruined. The woman in the funeral carriage whose ugly, grieving face had struck him so powerfully—it was his mentor's wife he had seen in her place, she whose beautiful hands he recalled; it was her distress he had ached to relieve, and been helpless. The whole tragedy had played itself out relentlessly, leaving the victims in its wake.

He remembered the passion and the impotence seething inside him as he had sat on that other table, and the resolve then to learn some skill that would give him weapons to fight injustice, uncover the dark frauds that seemed so inaccessible. That was when he had changed his mind from commerce and its rewards and chosen the police.

Police. He had been arrogant, dedicated, brilliant—and earned himself promotion—and dislike; and now he had nothing left, not even memory of his original skills.

* * * * *

"He what?" Hester demanded as she faced Evan in Mrs. Willis's sitting room. Its dark, Spartan furnishings and religious texts on the walls were sharply familiar to her now, but this news was a blow she could barely comprehend. "What did you say?"

"He refused to arrest Percival, and told Runcorn what he thought of him,'' Evan elaborated. “With the result, of course, that Runcorn threw him off the force.''

"What is he going to do?" She was appalled. The sense of fear and helplessness was too close in her own memory to need imagination, and her position at Queen Anne Street was only temporary. Beatrice was not ill, and now that Percival had been arrested she would in all probability recover in a matter of days, as long as she believed he was guilty. Hester looked at Evan. "Where will he find employment? Has he any family?"

Evan looked at the floor, then up at her again.

“Not here in London, and I don't think he would go to them anyway. I don't know what he'll do," he said unhappily. "It's

all he knows, and I think all he cares about. It's his natural skill."

"Does anybody employ detectives, apart from the police?" she asked.

He smiled, and there was a flash of hope in his eyes, then it faded. "But if he hired out his skills privately, he would need means to live until he developed a reputation—it would be too difficult."

"Perhaps," she said reluctantly, not yet prepared to consider the idea. "In the meantime, what can we do about Per-cival?"

"Can you meet Monk somewhere to discuss it? He can't come here now. Will Lady Moidore give you half an afternoon free?"

"I haven't had any time since I came here. I shall ask. If she permits me, where will he be?"

"It's cold outside." He glanced beyond her to the single, narrow window facing onto a small square of grass and two laurel bushes. "How about the chocolate house in Regent Street?"

"Excellent. I will go and ask Lady Moidore now."

"What will you say?" he asked quickly.

"I shall lie," she answered without hesitation. "I shall say a family emergency has arisen and I need to speak with them.'' She pulled a harsh, humorous face. "She should understand a family emergency, if anyone does!"

* * * * *

"A family emergency." Beatrice turned from staring out of the window at the sky and looked at Hester with consternation. "I'm sorry. Is it illness? I can recommend a doctor, if you do not already have one, but I imagine you do—you must have several."

"Thank you, that is most thoughtful." Hester felt distinctly guilty. "But as far as I know there is no ill health; it is a matter of losing a position, which may cause a considerable amount of hardship."

Beatrice was fully dressed for the first time in several days, but she had not yet ventured into the main rooms of the house, nor had she joined in the life of the household, except to spend a little time with her grandchildren, Julia and Arthur. She looked very pale and her features were drawn. If she felt any relief at Percival's arrest it did not show in her expression. Her body was tense and she stood awkwardly, ill at ease. She forced a smile, bright and unnatural.

"I am so sorry. I hope you will be able to help, even if it is only with comfort and good advice. Sometimes that is all we have for each other—don't you think?'' She swung around and stared at Hester as if the answer were of intense importance to her. Then before Hester could reply she walked away and started fishing in one of her dressing table drawers searching for something.

"Of course you know the police arrested Percival and took him away last night. Mary said it wasn't Mr. Monk. I wonder why. Do you know, Hester?"

There was no possible way Hester could have known the truth except by being privy to police affairs that she could not share.

"I have no idea, your ladyship. Perhaps he has become involved in another matter, and someone else was delegated to do this. After all, the detection has been completed—I suppose."

Beatrice's fingers froze and she stood perfectly still.

"You suppose? You mean it might not? What else could they want? Percival is guilty, isn't he?"

"I don't know." Hester kept her voice quite light. "I assume they must believe so, or they would not have arrested him; though we cannot say beyond any possible doubt until he has been tried."

Beatrice drew more tightly into herself. "They'll hang him, won't they?"

Hester felt a trifle sick. "Yes," she agreed very quietly. Then she felt compelled to persist. "Does that distress you?"

"It shouldn't—should it?" Beatrice sounded surprised at herself. "He murdered my daughter."

"But it does?" Hester allowed nothing to slip by. "It is very final, isn't it? I mean—it allows for no mistakes, no time for second thoughts on anything."

Still Beatrice stood motionless on the spot, her hands plunged in the silks, chiffons and laces in the drawer.