William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

be to employ you to investigate the case—but I fear there will be little to find that will be of use to her.”
    “You are quite right,” Monk agreed. “It does sound thankless. But since you are here, I presume you want me to do it anyway.” It was not a question but a conclusion. “You had better tell me about it.”
    With difficulty Rathbone kept his equanimity. He would not permit Monk to maneuver him into defensiveness. He smiled deliberately.
    “Have you read of the recent death of General Thaddeus Carlyon?”
    “Naturally.”
    “His wife has confessed to killing him.”
    Monk’s eyebrows rose and there was sarcasm in his face, but he said nothing.
    “There has to be more than she has told me,” Rathbone went on levelly, with some effort. “I need to know what it is before I go into court.”
    “Why does she say she did it?” Monk sat down astride one of the two wooden chairs, facing Rathbone over the back of it. “Does she accuse him of anything as a provocation?”
    “Having an affair with the hostess of the dinner party at which it happened.” This time it was Rathbone who smiled bleakly.
    Monk saw it and the light flickered in his eyes. “A crime of passion,” he observed.
    “I think not,” Rathbone answered. “But I don’t knowwhy. She seems to have a depth of feeling in inappropriate places for that.”
    “Could she have a lover herself?” Monk asked. “There would be a great deal less latitude for that than for anything he might do in such a field.”
    “Possibly.” Rathbone found the thought distasteful, but he could not reason it away. “I shall need to know.”
    “Did she do it?”
    Rathbone thought for several moments before answering.
    “I don’t know. Apparently her sister-in-law believes it was the younger daughter, who is seemingly very lightly balanced and has been emotionally ill after the birth of her child. She quarreled with her father both before the night of his death and at the dinner party that evening.”
    “And the mother confessed to protect her?” Monk suggested.
    “That is what the sister-in-law says she believes.”
    “And what do you believe?”
    “Me? I don’t know.”
    There was a moment’s silence while Monk hesitated.
    “You will be remunerated by the day,” Rathbone remarked almost casually, surprised by his own generosity. “At double police pay, since it is temporary work.” He did not need to add that if results were poor, or hours artificially extended, Monk would not be used again.
    Monk’s smile was thin but wide.
    “Then you had better tell me the rest of the details, so I can begin, thankless or not. Can I see Mrs. Carlyon? I imagine she is in prison?”
    “Yes. I will arrange permission for you, as my associate.”
    “You said it happened at a dinner party …”
    “At the house of Maxim and Louisa Furnival, in Albany Street, off Regent’s Park. The other guests were Fenton and Sabella Pole, Sabella being the daughter; Peverell and Damaris Erskine, the victim’s sister and brother-in-law; and a Dr. Charles Hargrave and his wife—and of course General and Mrs. Carlyon.”
    “And the medical evidence? Was that provided by this Dr. Hargrave or someone else?”
    “Hargrave.”
    A look of bitter amusement flickered in Monk’s eyes.
    “And the police? Who is on the case?”
    Rathbone understood, and for once felt entirely with Monk. A pompous fool who was prepared to allow others to suffer to save his pride infuriated him more than almost anything else.
    “I imagine it will fall under Runcorn’s command,” he said, meeting Monk’s eyes with understanding.
    “Then there is no time to be wasted,” Monk said, straightening up and rising from his seat. He squared his shoulders. “The poor devils haven’t a chance without us. God knows who else they will arrest—and hang!” he added bitterly.
    Rathbone made no answer, but he was aware of the quick stab of memory, and he felt Monk’s anger and pain as if it were his own.
    “I’m going to see them now,” he said instead. “Tell me what you learn.” He rose to his feet as well and took his leave, passing the landlady on the way out and thanking her.
    At the police station Rathbone was greeted with civility and some concern. The desk sergeant knew his reputation, and remembered him as being associated with Monk, whose name still called forth both respect and fear not only in the station but throughout the force.
    “Good afternoon, sir,” the sergeant said