William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

presume now that the ‘illness’ is at an end, her ladyship will recover rapidly?”
    “Is the illness at an end?” she said with elaborate surprise. “I thought from Sergeant Evan that it was far from over; in fact it appears to have suffered a serious relapse, which may even prove fatal.”
    “For the footman, yes—but hardly her ladyship and her family,” he said without trying to hide his bitterness.
    “But for you.” She regarded him without the sympathy she felt. He was in danger of sinking into self-pity, and she believed most people were far better bullied out of it than catered to. Real compassion should be reserved for the helplessly suffering, of whom she had seen immeasurably too many. “So you have apparently given up your career in the police—”
    “I have not given it up,” he contradicted angrily. “You speak as if I did it with deliberate intent. I refused to arrest a man I did not believe guilty, and Runcorn dismissed me for it.”
    “Very noble,” she agreed tersely. “But totally foreseeable. You cannot have imagined for a second that he would do anything else.”
    “Then you will have an excellent fellow-feeling,” he returned savagely. “Since you can hardly have supposed Dr. Pomeroy would permit you to remain at the infirmary after prescribing the dispensing medicine yourself!” He was apparently unaware of having raised his voice, or of the couple at the next table turning to stare at them. “Unfortunately Idoubt you can find me private employment detecting as a freelance, as you can with nursing,” he finished.
    “It was your suggestion to Callandra.” Not that she was surprised; it was the only answer that made sense.
    “Of course.” His smile was without humor. “Perhaps you can go and ask her if she has any wealthy friends who need a little uncovering of secrets, or tracing of lost heirs?”
    “Certainly—that is an excellent idea.”
    “Don’t you dare!” He was furious, offended and patronized. “I forbid it!”
    The waiter was standing at his elbow to accept their order, but Monk ignored him.
    “I shall do as I please,” Hester said instantly. “You will not dictate to me what I shall say to Callandra. I should like a cup of chocolate, if you would be so good.”
    The waiter opened his mouth, and then when no one took any notice of him, closed it again.
    “You are an arrogant and opinionated woman,” Monk said fiercely. “And quite the most overbearing I have ever met. And you will not start organizing my life as if you were some damned governess. I am not helpless nor lying in a hospital bed at your mercy.”
    “Not helpless?” Her eyebrows shot up and she looked at him with all the frustration and impotent anger boiling up inside her, the fury at the blindness, complacency, cowardice and petty malice that had conspired to have Percival arrested and Monk dismissed, and the rest of them unable to see any way to begin to redress the situation. “You have managed to find evidence to have the wretched footman taken away in manacles, but not enough to proceed any further. You are without employment or prospects of any, and have covered yourself with dislike. You are sitting in a chocolate house staring at the dregs of an empty cup. And you have the luxury to refuse help?”
    Now the people at all the tables in the immediate vicinity had stopped eating or drinking and were staring at them.
    “I refuse your condescending interference,” he said. “You should marry some poor devil and concentrate your managerial skills on one man and leave the rest of us in peace.”
    She knew precisely what was hurting him, the fear of the future when he had not even the experience of the past to drawon, the specter of hunger and homelessness ahead, the sense of failure. She struck where it would wound the most surely, and perhaps eventually do the most good.
    “Self-pity does not become you, nor does it serve any purpose,” she said quietly, aware now of the people around them. “And please lower your voice. If you expect me to be sorry for you, you are wasting your time. Your situation is of your own making, and not markedly worse than mine—which was also of my own making, I am aware.” She stopped, seeing the overwhelming fury in his face. She was afraid for a moment she had really gone too far.
    “You—” he began. Then very slowly the rage died away and was replaced by a sharp humor, so hard as to be almost sweet, like a clean wind off the sea.