William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

early. I do not wish to ask for time from the infirmary without good reason.”
    “And will they consider your desire to hear the verdict to be a good reason?” he said dryly.
    She pulled a small face, not quite a smile. “No. I shall not phrase my request in quite those terms.”
    “Is it what you wished—the infirmary?” Again he was as frank and direct as she recalled, and his understanding as comfortable.
    “No—” She did not think of prevaricating. “It is full ofincompetence, unnecessary suffering, ridiculous ways of doing things which could so easily be reorganized, if only they would give up their petty self-importances and think of the end and not the means.” She warmed to the subject and his interest. “A great deal of the trouble lies with their whole belief of nursing and the nature of people who should work in it. They pay only six shillings a week, and some of that is given in small beer. Many of the nurses are drunk half the time. But now the hospital provides their food, which is better than their eating the patients’ food, which they used to. You may imagine what type of men and women it attracts! Most of them can neither read nor write.” She shrugged expressively. “They sleep just off the wards, there are far too few basins or towels for them, and nothing more than a little Conde’s fluid and now and again soap to wash themselves—even their hands after cleaning up waste.”
    His smile became wider and thinner, but there was a gleam of sympathy in his eyes.
    “And you?” she asked. “Are you still working for Mr. Runcorn?” She did not ask if he had remembered more about himself, that was too sensitive and she would not probe. The subject of Runcorn was raw enough.
    “Yes.” He pulled a face.
    “And with Sergeant Evan?” She found herself smiling.
    “Yes, Evan too.” He hesitated. He seemed about to add something when Oliver Rathbone came down the steps dressed for the street and without his wig and robes. He looked very trim and well pleased.
    Monk’s eyes narrowed, but he refused to comment.
    “Do you think we may be hopeful, Mr. Rathbone?” Hester asked eagerly.
    “Hopeful, Miss Latterly,” he replied guardedly. “But still far from certain.”
    “Don’t forget it is the judge you are playing to, Rathbone,” Monk said tartly, buttoning his jacket higher. “And not Miss Latterly, or the gallery—or even the jury. Your performance before them may be brilliant, but it is dressing and not substance.” And before Rathbone could reply he bowed fractionally to Hester, turned on his heel, and strode off down the darkening street.
    “A man somewhat lacking in charm,” Rathbone saidsourly. “But I suppose his calling requires little enough. May I take you somewhere in my carriage, Miss Latterly?”
    “I think charm is a very dubious quality,” she said with deliberation. “The Grey case is surely the finest example of excessive charm we are likely ever to see!”
    “I can well believe that you do not rate it highly, Miss Latterly,” he retorted, his eyes perfectly steady but gleaming with laughter.
    “Oh—” She longed to be equally barbed, as subtly rude, and could think of nothing whatsoever to say. She was completely unsure whether the amusement in him was at her, at himself, or at Monk—or even whether it contained unkindness or not. “No—” She fumbled for words. “No. I find it unworthy of trust, a spurious quality, all show and no substance, glitter without warmth. No thank you; I am returning with Lady Callandra—but it is most courteous of you to offer. Good day, Mr. Rathbone.”
    “Good day, Miss Latterly.” He bowed, still smiling.

3
    S
IR BASIL MOIDORE
stared at Monk across the carpeted expanse of the morning room floor. His face was pale but there was no vacillation in it, no lack of composure, only amazement and disbelief.
    “I beg your pardon?” he said coldly.
    “No one broke into your house on Monday night, sir,” Monk repeated. “The street was well observed all night long, at both ends—”
    “By whom?” Moidore’s dark eyebrows rose, making his eyes the more startlingly sharp.
    Monk could feel his temper prickling already. He resented being disbelieved more than almost anything else. It suggested he was incompetent. He controlled his voice with considerable effort.
    “By the policeman on the beat, Sir Basil, a householder who was up half the night with a sick wife, the doctor who visited him.” He did not