William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

1
    “G
OOD MORNING ,
Monk,” Runcorn said with satisfaction spreading over his strong, narrow features. His wing collar was a trifle askew and apparently pinched him now and again. “Go over to Queen Anne Street. Sir Basil Moidore.” He said the name as though it were long familiar to him, and watched Monk’s face to see if he registered ignorance. He saw nothing, and continued rather more waspishly. “Sir Basil’s widowed daughter, Octavia Haslett, was found stabbed to death. Looks like a burglar was rifling her jewelry and she woke and caught him.” His smile tightened. “You’re supposed to be the best detective we’ve got—go and see if you can do better with this than you did with the Grey case!”
    Monk knew precisely what he meant. Don’t upset the family; they are quality, and we are very definitely not. Be properly respectful, not only in what you say, how you stand, or whether you meet their eyes, but more importantly in what you discover.
    Since he had no choice, Monk accepted with a look of bland unconcern, as if he had not understood the implications.
    “Yes sir. What number in Queen Anne Street?”
    “Number Ten. Take Evan with you. I daresay by the time you get there, there’ll be some medical opinion as to the time of her death and kind of weapon used. Well, don’t stand there, man! Get on with it!”
    Monk turned on his heel without allowing time for Runcorn to add any more, and strode out, saying “Yes sir” almostunder his breath. He closed the door with a sharpness very close to a slam.
    Evan was coming up the stairs towards him, his sensitive, mobile face expectant.
    “Murder in Queen Anne Street.” Monk’s irritation eased away. He liked Evan more than anyone else he could remember, and since his memory extended only as far back as the morning he had woken in the hospital four months ago, mistaking it at first for the poorhouse, that friendship was unusually precious to him. He also trusted Evan, one of only two people who knew the utter blank of his life. The other person, Hester Latterly, he could hardly think of as a friend. She was a brave, intelligent, opinionated and profoundly irritating woman who had been of great assistance in the Grey case. Her father had been one of the victims, and she had returned from her nursing post in the Crimea, although the war was actually over at that point, in order to sustain her family in its grief. It was hardly likely Monk would meet her again, except perhaps when they both came to testify at the trial of Menard Grey, which suited Monk. He found her abrasive and not femininely pleasing, nothing like her sister-in-law, whose face still returned to his mind with such elusive sweetness.
    Evan turned and fell into step behind him as they went down the stairs, through the duty room and out into the street. It was late November and a bright, blustery day. The wind caught at the wide skirts of the women, and a man ducked sideways and held on to his top hat with difficulty as a carriage bowled past him and he avoided the mud and ordure thrown up by its wheels. Evan hailed a hansom cab, a new invention nine years ago, and much more convenient than the old-fashioned coaches.
    “Queen Anne Street,” he ordered the driver, and as soon as he and Monk were seated the cab sped forward, across Tottenham Court Road, and east to Portland Place, Langham Place and then a dogleg into Chandos Street and Queen Anne Street. On the journey Monk told Evan what Runcorn had said.
    “Who is Sir Basil Moidore?” Evan asked innocently.
    “No idea,” Monk admitted. “He didn’t tell me.” He grunted. “Either he doesn’t know himself or he’s leaving us to find out, probably by making a mistake.”
    Evan smiled. He was quite aware of the ill feeling betweenMonk and his superior, and of most of the reasons behind it. Monk was not easy to work with; he was opinionated, ambitious, intuitive, quick-tongued and acerbic of wit. On the other hand, he cared passionately about real injustice, as he saw it, and minded little whom he offended in order to set it right. He tolerated fools ungraciously, and fools, in his view, included Runcorn, an opinion of which he had made little secret in the past.
    Runcorn was also ambitious, but his goals were different; he wanted social acceptability, praise from his superiors, and above all safety. His few victories over Monk were sweet to him, and to be savored.
    They were in Queen Anne Street, elegant and discreet houses