He refused to accept that she had surrendered. At least he could not yet.
He wanted to prepare what he would say to Runcorn, weigh his words to rob them of criticism, perhaps even gain his support. The wind was cold blowing up off the river, and the damp in it stung the flesh. It crept through the cracks between scarf and coat collar, and whipped trousers around the ankles. The magnificent Gothic lines of the Houses of Parliament stood on the far bank. Big Ben indicated that it was twenty minutes before eleven. He had been longer with Cardman than he had realized.
He hunched his shoulders and walked more rapidly along the footpath. Hansoms passed him, but they were all occupied. Should he have asked Cardman outright if he believed the Havillands had committed suicide? He thought the butler was a good judge of character, a strong man.
No. He was also loyal. Whatever he thought, he would not have told a stranger that both his master and then his mistress had committed such an act of cowardice before the law of man and of God. His own judgment might have been wiser and gentler, but he would not have 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
He wanted to prepare what he would say to Runcorn, weigh his words to rob them of criticism, perhaps even gain his support. The wind was cold blowing up off the river, and the damp in it stung the flesh. It crept through the cracks between scarf and coat collar, and whipped trousers around the ankles. The magnificent Gothic lines of the Houses of Parliament stood on the far bank. Big Ben indicated that it was twenty minutes before eleven. He had been longer with Cardman than he had realized.
He hunched his shoulders and walked more rapidly along the footpath. Hansoms passed him, but they were all occupied. Should he have asked Cardman outright if he believed the Havillands had committed suicide? He thought the butler was a good judge of character, a strong man.
No. He was also loyal. Whatever he thought, he would not have told a stranger that both his master and then his mistress had committed such an act of cowardice before the law of man and of God. His own judgment might have been wiser and gentler, but he would not have 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