A sudden, fearful death (36 page)

Sir Herbert has
betrayed me totally! At first I could hardly believe it. I went to him, full of
hope—and, fool that I was, of confidence. He laughed at me and told me it was
totally impossible and always would be.

I realized, like a
hard slap in the face, that he had been using me, and what I could give him. He
never intended to keep his word.

But I have a way
of keeping him to it. I will not permit him the choice. I hate force—I abhor
it. But what else is left me? I will not give up—I will not! I have the
weapons, and I will use them!

Was that what had happened? She had gone to him with her
threat and he had retaliated with his own weapon— murder?

Faith Barker was right. The letters
were enough to bring Sir Herbert Stanhope to trial—and very possibly enough to
hang him.

In the morning he would take them
to Runcorn.

* * * * *

It was barely eight o'clock when
Monk put the letters into his pocket and rode in a hansom to the police
station. He alighted, paid the driver, and went up the steps savoring every
moment, the bright air already warm. The sounds of shouting, the clatter of
hooves, and the rattle of cart wheels over the stones, even the smells of
vegetables, fish, rubbish, and old horse manure were inoffensive te him today.

"Good morning," he said
cheerfully to the desk sergeant, and saw the man's look of surprise, and then
alarm.

"Mornin' sir," he said
warily, his eyes narrowing. "What can we do for you, Mr. Monk?"

Monk smiled, showing his teeth.
"I should like to see Mr. Runcorn, if you please? I have important
evidence in connection with the murder of Prudence Barrymore."

"Yes sir. And what would that
be?"

"That would be confidential,
Sergeant, and concerns a very important person. Will you tell Mr. Runcorn,
please?"

The sergeant thought about it for a
moment, regarding Monk's face. A flood of memories came back to him, transparent
in his expression, and all the old fears of a quick and savage tongue. He
decided he was still more afraid of Monk than he was of Runcorn.

"Yes, Mr. Monk. I'll go and
ask him." Then he remembered that Monk no longer had any status. He
smiled tentatively. "But I can't say as he'll see you."

"Tell him it's enough for an
arrest," Monk added with acute satisfaction. "I'll take it elsewhere
if he'd rather?"

"No—no sir. I'll ask
him." And carefully, so as not to show any deferential haste, still less
anything that could be taken for obedience, he left the desk and walked across
the floor to the stairs.

He was gone for several minutes,
and returned with an almost expressionless face.

"Yes sir, if you like to go
up, Mr. Runcorn will see you now."

"Thank you," Monk said
with elaborate graciousness. Then he went up the stairs and knocked on Runcorn's
door. Now there were a host of memories crowding him too, countless times he
had stood here with all manner of news, or none at all.

He wondered what Runcorn was
thinking, if there was a flicker of nervousness in him, recollection of their
past clashes, victories and defeats. Or was he now so sure of himself, with
Monk out of office, that he could win any confrontation?

"Come." Runcorn's voice
was strong and full of anticipation.

Monk opened the door and strode in,
smiling.

Runcorn leaned a little back in his
chair and gazed at Monk with bland confidence.

"Good morning," Monk said
casually, hands in his pockets, his fingers closing over Prudence's letters.

For several seconds they stared at
each other. Slowly Runcorn's smile faded a little. His eyes narrowed.

"Well?" he said testily.
"Don't stand there grinning. Have you got something to give the police, or
not?"

Monk felt all the old confidence
rushing back to him, the knowledge of his superiority over Runcorn, his quicker
mind, his harder tongue, and above all the power of his will. He could not
recall specific victories, but he knew the 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 was Oliver Rathbone.

He read all the papers and
considered the matter with care. The case against Sir Herbert was strong, but
far from conclusive. He had had the opportunity, along with at least a score of
other people. He had had the means, as did anyone with sufficient strength in
his or her hands—and with a group of women like the average nurses, that
included almost everyone. The only evidence of motive was the letters written
by Prudence Barrymore to her sister—but they were a powerful indictment,
uncontested.