William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

purpose other than to make you appear diligent, I doubt. I don’t see how you can prove anything, whatever you suspect.”
    “Suspect?” Romola looked first at Monk, then at her sister-in-law, her voice rising with fear again. “Suspect of what? What has this to do with Octavia?”
    But Araminta ignored her and walked past her out of the door.
    Monk stood up and excused himself to Beatrice, inclined his head to Hester, then held the door open for them as they left, Romola behind them, agitated and annoyed, but helpless to do anything about it.
       As soon as Monk stepped inside the police station the sergeant looked up from the desk, his face sober, his eyes gleaming.
    “Mr. Runcorn wants to see you, sir. Immediate, like.”
    “Does he,” Monk replied dourly. “Well I doubt he’ll get much joy of it, but I’ll give him what there is.”
    “He’s in his room, sir.”
    “Thank you,” Monk said. “Mr. Evan in?”
    “No sir. He came in, and then he went out again. Didn’t say where.”
    Monk acknowledged the reply and went up the stairs to Runcorn’s office. He knocked on the door and at the command went in. Runcorn was sitting behind his large, highly polisheddesk, two elegant envelopes and half a dozen sheets of fine notepaper written on and half folded lying next to them. The other surfaces were covered with four or five newspapers, some open, some folded.
    He looked up, his face dark with anger and his eyes narrow and bright.
    “Well. Have you seen the newspapers, eh? Have you seen what they are saying about us?” He held one up and Monk saw the black headlines halfway down the page: QUEEN ANNE STREET MURDERER STILL LOOSE. POLICE BAFFLED . And then the writer went on to question the usefulness of the new police force, and was it money well spent or now an unworkable idea.
    “Well?” Runcorn demanded.
    “I hadn’t seen that one,” Monk answered. “I haven’t spent much time reading newspapers.”
    “I don’t want you reading the newspapers, damn it,” Runcorn exploded. “I want you doing something so they don’t write rubbish like this. Or this.” He snatched up the next one. “Or this.” He threw them away, disregarding the mess as they slid on the polished surface and fell onto the floor in a rattling heap. He grasped one of the letters. “From the Home Office.” His fingers closed on it, knuckles white. “I’m getting asked some very embarrassing questions, Monk, and I can’t answer them. I’m not prepared to defend you indefinitely—I can’t. What in hell’s name are you doing, man? If someone in that house killed the wretched woman, then you haven’t far to look, have you? Why can’t you get this thing settled? For heaven’s sake, how many suspects can you have? Four or five at the most. What’s the matter with you that you can’t finish it up?”
    “Because four or five suspects is three or four too many—sir. Unless, of course, you can prove a conspiracy?” Monk said sarcastically.
    Runcorn slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t be impertinent, damn you! A smart tongue won’t get you out of this. Who are your suspects? This footman, what’s his name—Percival. Who else? As far as I can see, that’s it. Why can’t you settle it, Monk? You’re beginning to look incompetent.” His anger turned to a sneer. “You used to be the best detective we had, but you’ve certainly lost your touch lately. Why can’t you arrest this damned footman?”
    “Because I have no proof he did anything,” Monk replied succinctly.
    “Well who else could it be? Think clearly. You used to be the sharpest and most rational man we had.” His lip curled. “Before that accident you were as logical as a piece of algebra—and about as charming—but you knew your job. Now I’m beginning to wonder.”
    Monk kept his temper with difficulty. “As well as Percival, sir,” he said heavily, “it could be one of the laundry maids—”
    “What?” Runcorn’s mouth opened in disbelief close to derision. “Did you say one of the laundrymaids? Don’t be absurd. Whatever for? If that’s the best you can do, I’d better put someone else on the case. Laundrymaid. What in heaven’s name would make a laundrymaid get out of her bed in the middle of the night and creep down to her mistress’s bedroom and stab her to death? Unless the girl is raving mad. Is she raving mad, Monk? Don’t say you couldn’t recognize a lunatic if you saw one.”
    “No, she is not raving mad; she