Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

With immeasurable sorrow she looked across at Menard. "You paid his debts. What else did you do?"
    There was an aching silence in the room.
    Monk could feel his heart beating as if it had the force to shake his whole body. They were poised on the edge of truth, and yet it was still so far away. It could be lost again by a single slip; they could plunge away into an abyss of fear, whispered doubts, always seeing suspicions, double meanings, hearing the footstep behind and the hand on the shoulder.
    Against his will, he looked across at Hester, and saw that she was looking at him, the same thoughts plain in her eyes. He turned his head quickly back to Menard, who was ashen-faced.
    "What else did you do?" Callandra repeated. "You knew what Joscelin was—"
    "I paid his debts." Menard's voice was no more than a whisper.
    "Gambling debts," she agreed. "What about his debts of honor, Menard? What about his terrible debts to men like Hester's father and brother—did you pay them as well?"
    "I—I didn't know about the Latterlys," Menard stammered.
    Callandra's face was tight with grief.
    "Don't equivocate, Menard. You may not have known the Latterlys by name, but you knew what Joscelin was doing. You knew he got money from somewhere, because you knew how much he had to gamble with. Don't tell us you didn't learn where it came from. I know you better than that. You would not have rested in that ignorance— you knew what a fraud and a cheat Joscelin was, and you knew there was no honest way for him to come by so much. Menard—" Her face was gentle, full of pity. "You have behaved with such honor so far—don't soil it now by lying. There is no point, and no escape."
    He winced as if she had struck him, and for a second Monk thought he was going to collapse. Then he straightened up and faced her, as though she had been a long-awaited execution squad—and death was not now the worst fear.
    "Was it Edward Dawlish?" Now her voice also was barely above a whisper. "I remember how you cared for each other as boys, and your grief when he was killed. Why did his father quarrel with you?"
    Menard did not evade the truth, but he spoke not to Callandra but to his mother, his voice low and hard, a lifetime of seeking and being rejected naked in it finally.
    "Because Joscelin told him I had led Edward into gambling beyond his means, and that in the Crimea he had got in over his head with his brother officers, and would have died in debt—except that Joscelin settled it all for him."
    There was a rich irony in that, and it was lost on no one. Even Fabia flinched in a death's-head acknowledgment of its cruel absurdity.
    "For his family's sake," Menard continued, his voice husky, his eyes on Callandra. "Since I was the one who had led him to ruin."
    He gulped. "Of course there was no debt. Joscelin never even served in the same area as Edward—I found that out afterwards. It was all another of his lies—to get money." He looked at Hester. "It was not as bad as your loss. At least Dawlish didn't kill himself. I am truly sorry about your family."
    "He didn't lose any money." Monk spoke at last. "He didn't have time. You killed Joscelin before he could take it. But he had asked."
    There was utter silence. Callandra put both her hands to her face. Lovel was stunned, unable to comprehend. Fabia was a broken woman. She no longer cared. What happened to Menard was immaterial. Joscelin, her beloved Joscelin, had been murdered in front of her in a new and infinitely more dreadful way. They had robbed her not only of the present and the future, but all the warm, sweet, precious past. It had all gone; there was nothing left but a handful of bitter ash.
    They all waited, each in a separate world in the moments between hope and the finality of despair. Only Fabia had already been dealt the ultimate blow.
    Monk found the nails of his hands cutting his palms, so tightly were his fists clenched. It could all still slip away from him. Menard could deny it, and there would be no proof sufficient. Runcorn would have only the bare facts, and come after Monk, and what was there to protect him?
    The silence was like a slow pain, growing with each second.
    Menard looked at his mother and she saw the movement of his head, and turned her face away, slowly and deliberately.
    "Yes," Menard said at last. "Yes I did. He was despicable. It wasn't only what he had done to Edward Dawlish, or me, but what he was going to go on doing. He had to be stopped—before it