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 could not afford to. “James Havilland,” he answered. “About two months ago. Charles Street.”
Runcorn’s face darkened a little, the pleasure draining out of it. “I remember. Poor man shot himself in his own stables. What is it to do with the River Police? It’s nowhere near the water.”
“Do you remember his daughter, Mary?” Monk remained standing. Runcorn had not offered him a seat, and for Monk to be comfortable would seem inappropriate in this conversation, given all the past that lay between them.
“Of course I do,” Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he ruled his little kingdom. “Has…has she complained to you that her father was murdered?”
Monk was stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should trespass on his case.
“Who did she think was responsible?” he asked.
Runcorn was too quick for him. “Did she?” he challenged him. “Why did you say
did
?”
“She fell off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening,” Monk replied.
Runcorn was stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. “Suicide?” he said hoarsely.
“I’m not sure,” Monk replied. “It looked like it at first. She was standing near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing, and then both overbalanced and fell.”
“A man?” Runcorn’s eyes widened. “Who? Argyll?”
“Why do you think it was Argyll?” Monk demanded.
Runcorn lost his temper, color flooding up his cheeks. “Don’t play your damn fool games with me, Monk!” he said harshly. “You always were a heartless bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she’s dead, too! It’s my case, and I’ll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer again. Do you hear me?”
Monk’s temper flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level voice. “If you’re fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone superintendent, you’ll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of authority,” he retorted. “I don’t know whether Mary Havilland jumped, fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards from two hundred feet away—too far to see in the dark.” He was not going to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about Hester’s history.
“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 could not afford to. “James Havilland,” he answered. “About two months ago. Charles Street.”
Runcorn’s face darkened a little, the pleasure draining out of it. “I remember. Poor man shot himself in his own stables. What is it to do with the River Police? It’s nowhere near the water.”
“Do you remember his daughter, Mary?” Monk remained standing. Runcorn had not offered him a seat, and for Monk to be comfortable would seem inappropriate in this conversation, given all the past that lay between them.
“Of course I do,” Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he ruled his little kingdom. “Has…has she complained to you that her father was murdered?”
Monk was stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should trespass on his case.
“Who did she think was responsible?” he asked.
Runcorn was too quick for him. “Did she?” he challenged him. “Why did you say
did
?”
“She fell off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening,” Monk replied.
Runcorn was stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. “Suicide?” he said hoarsely.
“I’m not sure,” Monk replied. “It looked like it at first. She was standing near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing, and then both overbalanced and fell.”
“A man?” Runcorn’s eyes widened. “Who? Argyll?”
“Why do you think it was Argyll?” Monk demanded.
Runcorn lost his temper, color flooding up his cheeks. “Don’t play your damn fool games with me, Monk!” he said harshly. “You always were a heartless bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she’s dead, too! It’s my case, and I’ll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer again. Do you hear me?”
Monk’s temper flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level voice. “If you’re fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone superintendent, you’ll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of authority,” he retorted. “I don’t know whether Mary Havilland jumped, fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards from two hundred feet away—too far to see in the dark.” He was not going to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about Hester’s history.
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