left them open to the censure of the world.
He reached the
middle of the bridge and saw an empty cab going the other way. He stepped out
into the road and hailed it, giving the police station address.
The journey was
too short. He was still not ready when he arrived, but then perhaps he never
would be. He paid the driver and went up the station steps and inside. He was
recognized immediately.
"Mornin',
Mr. Monk," the desk sergeant said guardedly. "What can we do for you,
sir?"
Monk could not
remember the man, but that meant nothing, except that he had not worked with
him since the accident, nearly eight years ago now. Had he really known Hester
so long? Why had it taken him years to find the courage within himself, and the
honesty, to acknowledge his feelings for her? The answer was easy. He did not
want to give anyone else the power to hurt him so much. And in closing the door
on the possibility of pain, of course, he had closed it on the chance for joy
as well.
"Good
morning, Sergeant," he replied, stopping in front of the desk. "I
would like to speak to Superintendent Runcorn, please. It concerns a case he
handled recently."
"Yes, sir,"
the sergeant said with a hint of satisfaction at the lack of authority in
Monk's voice. "That will be on behalf of whom, sir?"
Monk forbore
from smiling, although he wanted to. The man had not recognized his police
coat. "On behalf of the Thames River Police," he replied, opening his
jacket a little so that his uniform showed beneath.
The sergeant's
eyes widened and he let out his breath slowly. "Yes, sir!" he said,
turning on his heel and retreating, and Monk heard his footsteps as he went
upstairs to break the news.
Five minutes
later Monk was standing in Runcorn's office. It had a large, comfortable desk
in it and the air was warm from the stove in the corner. There were books on
the shelf opposite and a rather nice carving of a wooden bear on a plinth in
the middle. It was all immaculately tidy as always-part of Runcorn's need to
conform, and impress.
Runcorn himself
had changed little. He was tall and barrel-chested, with large eyes a fraction
too close together above a long nose. His hair was still thick and liberally
sprinkled with gray. He had put on a few pounds around the waist.
"So it's
true!" he said, eyebrows raised, voice too carefully expressionless.
"You're in the River Police! I told Watkins he was daft, but seems he
wasn't." His face stretched into a slow, satisfied smile at his own power
to give help or withhold it. "Well, what can I do for you, Inspector? It
is Inspector, isn't it?" There was a wealth of meaning behind the words.
Monk and Runcorn had once been of equal rank, long ago. It was Monk's tongue
that had cost him his seniority. He had been more elegant than Runcorn,
cleverer, immeasurably more the gentleman, and he always would be. They both
knew it. But Runcorn was patient-prepared to play the game by the rules, bite
back his insolence, curb his impatience, climb slowly. Now he had his reward in
superior rank, and he could not keep from savoring it.
"Yes, it
is," Monk replied. He ached to be tart, but he could not afford it.
"Down at
Wapping? Live there, too?" Runcorn pursued the subject of Monk's fall in
the world. Wapping was a less elegant, less salubrious place than Grafton
Street had been, or at least than it had sounded.
"Yes,"
Monk agreed again.
"Well,
well," Runcorn mused. "Would never have guessed you'd do that! Like
it, do you?"
"Only been
there a few weeks," Monk told him.
Again Runcorn
could not resist the temptation. "Got tired of being on your own, then?
Bit hard, I should imagine." He was still smiling. "After all, most
people can call the police for nothing. Why should they pay someone? Knew you'd
have to come back one day. What do you need my help with? Out of your depth
already?" He oozed pleasure now.
Monk itched to
retaliate. He had to remind himself again that he
He reached the
middle of the bridge and saw an empty cab going the other way. He stepped out
into the road and hailed it, giving the police station address.
The journey was
too short. He was still not ready when he arrived, but then perhaps he never
would be. He paid the driver and went up the station steps and inside. He was
recognized immediately.
"Mornin',
Mr. Monk," the desk sergeant said guardedly. "What can we do for you,
sir?"
Monk could not
remember the man, but that meant nothing, except that he had not worked with
him since the accident, nearly eight years ago now. Had he really known Hester
so long? Why had it taken him years to find the courage within himself, and the
honesty, to acknowledge his feelings for her? The answer was easy. He did not
want to give anyone else the power to hurt him so much. And in closing the door
on the possibility of pain, of course, he had closed it on the chance for joy
as well.
"Good
morning, Sergeant," he replied, stopping in front of the desk. "I
would like to speak to Superintendent Runcorn, please. It concerns a case he
handled recently."
"Yes, sir,"
the sergeant said with a hint of satisfaction at the lack of authority in
Monk's voice. "That will be on behalf of whom, sir?"
Monk forbore
from smiling, although he wanted to. The man had not recognized his police
coat. "On behalf of the Thames River Police," he replied, opening his
jacket a little so that his uniform showed beneath.
The sergeant's
eyes widened and he let out his breath slowly. "Yes, sir!" he said,
turning on his heel and retreating, and Monk heard his footsteps as he went
upstairs to break the news.
Five minutes
later Monk was standing in Runcorn's office. It had a large, comfortable desk
in it and the air was warm from the stove in the corner. There were books on
the shelf opposite and a rather nice carving of a wooden bear on a plinth in
the middle. It was all immaculately tidy as always-part of Runcorn's need to
conform, and impress.
Runcorn himself
had changed little. He was tall and barrel-chested, with large eyes a fraction
too close together above a long nose. His hair was still thick and liberally
sprinkled with gray. He had put on a few pounds around the waist.
"So it's
true!" he said, eyebrows raised, voice too carefully expressionless.
"You're in the River Police! I told Watkins he was daft, but seems he
wasn't." His face stretched into a slow, satisfied smile at his own power
to give help or withhold it. "Well, what can I do for you, Inspector? It
is Inspector, isn't it?" There was a wealth of meaning behind the words.
Monk and Runcorn had once been of equal rank, long ago. It was Monk's tongue
that had cost him his seniority. He had been more elegant than Runcorn,
cleverer, immeasurably more the gentleman, and he always would be. They both
knew it. But Runcorn was patient-prepared to play the game by the rules, bite
back his insolence, curb his impatience, climb slowly. Now he had his reward in
superior rank, and he could not keep from savoring it.
"Yes, it
is," Monk replied. He ached to be tart, but he could not afford it.
"Down at
Wapping? Live there, too?" Runcorn pursued the subject of Monk's fall in
the world. Wapping was a less elegant, less salubrious place than Grafton
Street had been, or at least than it had sounded.
"Yes,"
Monk agreed again.
"Well,
well," Runcorn mused. "Would never have guessed you'd do that! Like
it, do you?"
"Only been
there a few weeks," Monk told him.
Again Runcorn
could not resist the temptation. "Got tired of being on your own, then?
Bit hard, I should imagine." He was still smiling. "After all, most
people can call the police for nothing. Why should they pay someone? Knew you'd
have to come back one day. What do you need my help with? Out of your depth
already?" He oozed pleasure now.
Monk itched to
retaliate. He had to remind himself again that he
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