William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

diction became more perfect as Runcorn lost his control and slurred his words in rage.
    “All right, raped, if you prefer—don’t be pedantic,” Runcorn shouted. “Forcing yourself on a parlormaid is not the next step before murdering your sister-in-law.”
    “Raping. Raping a seventeen-year-old maid who is a servant in your house, a dependent, who dare not say much to you, or defend herself, is not such a long way from going to your sister-in-law’s room in the night with the intention of forcing yourself on her and, if need be, raping her.” Monkused the word loudly and very clearly, giving each letter its value. “If she says no to you, and you think she really means yes, what is the difference between one woman and another on that point?”
    “If you don’t know the difference between a lady and a parlormaid, Monk, that says more about your ignorance than you would like.” Runcorn’s face was twisted with all the pent-up hatred and fear of their long relationship. “It shows that for all your arrogance and ambition, you’re just the uncouth provincial clod you always were. Your fine clothes and your assumed accent don’t make a gentleman of you—the boor is still underneath and it will always come out.” His eyes shone with a kind of wild, bitter triumph. He had said at last what had been seething inside him for years, and there was an uncontrollable joy in its release.
    “You’ve been trying to find the courage to say that ever since you first felt me treading on your heels, haven’t you?” Monk sneered. “What a pity you haven’t enough courage to face the newspapers and the gentlemen of the Home Office that scare the wits out of you. If you were man enough you’d tell them you won’t arrest anyone, even a footman, until you have reasonable evidence that he’s guilty. But you aren’t, are you? You’re a weakling. You’ll turn the other way and pretend not to see what their lordships don’t like. You’ll arrest Percival because he’s convenient. Nobody cares about him! Sir Basil will be satisfied and you can wrap it up without offending anyone who frightens you. You can present it to your superiors as a case closed—true or not, just or not—hang the poor bastard and close the file on it.”
    He stared at Runcorn with ineffable contempt. “The public will applaud you, and the gentlemen will say what a good and obedient servant you are. Good God, Percival may be a selfish and arrogant little swine, but he’s not a craven lickspittle like you—and I will not arrest him until I think he’s guilty.”
    Runcorn’s face was blotched with purple and his fists were clenched on the desk. His whole body shook, his muscles so tight his shoulders strained against the fabric of his coat.
    “I am not asking, Monk, I am ordering you. Go and arrest Percival—now!”
    “No.”
    “No?” A strange light flickered in Runcorn’s eyes: fear, disbelief and exultancy. “Are you refusing, Monk?”
    Monk swallowed, knowing what he was doing.
    “Yes. You are wrong, and I am refusing.”
    “You are dismissed!” He flung his arm out at the door. “You are no longer employed by the Metropolitan Police Force.” He thrust out one heavy hand. “Give me your official identification. As of this moment you have no office, no position, do you understand me? You are dismissed! Now get out!”
    Monk fished in his pocket and found his papers. His hands were stiff and he was furious that he fumbled. He threw them on the desk and turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the door open.
    Out in the passage he almost pushed past two constables and a sergeant with a pile of papers, all standing together frozen in disbelief and a kind of awed excitement. They were witnessing history, the fall of a giant, and there was regret and triumph in their faces, and a kind of guilt because such vulnerability was unexpected. They felt both superior and afraid.
    Monk passed them too quickly for them to pretend they had not been listening, but he was too wrapped in his own emotions to heed their embarrassment.
    By the time he was downstairs the duty constable had composed himself and retired to his desk. He opened his mouth to say something, but Monk did not listen, and he was relieved of the necessity.
    It was not until Monk was out in the street in the rain that he felt the first chill of realization that he had thrown away not only his career but his livelihood. Fifteen minutes ago he had been an admired and