William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

that be?”
    “That would be confidential, Sergeant, and concerns a very important person. Will you tell Mr. Runcorn, please?”
    The sergeant thought about it for a moment, regarding Monk’s face. A flood of memories came back to him, transparent in his expression, and all the old fears of a quick andsavage tongue. He decided he was still more afraid of Monk than he was of Runcorn.
    “Yes, Mr. Monk. I’ll go and ask him.” Then he remembered that Monk no longer had any status. He smiled tentatively. “But I can’t say as he’ll see you.”
    “Tell him it’s enough for an arrest,” Monk added with acute satisfaction. “I’ll take it elsewhere if he’d rather?”
    “No—no sir. I’ll ask him.” And carefully, so as not to show any deferential haste, still less anything that could be taken for obedience, he left the desk and walked across the floor to the stairs.
    He was gone for several minutes, and returned with an almost expressionless face.
    “Yes sir, if you like to go up, Mr. Runcorn will see you now.”
    “Thank you,” Monk said with elaborate graciousness. Then he went up the stairs and knocked on Runcorn’s door. Now there were a host of memories crowding him too, countless times he had stood here with all manner of news, or none at all.
    He wondered what Runcorn was thinking, if there was a flicker of nervousness in him, recollection of their past clashes, victories and defeats. Or was he now so sure of himself, with Monk out of office, that he could win any confrontation?
    “Come.” Runcorn’s voice was strong and full of anticipation.
    Monk opened the door and strode in, smiling.
    Runcorn leaned a little back in his chair and gazed at Monk with bland confidence.
    “Good morning,” Monk said casually, hands in his pockets, his fingers closing over Prudence’s letters.
    For several seconds they stared at each other. Slowly Runcorn’s smile faded a little. His eyes narrowed.
    “Well?” he said testily. “Don’t stand there grinning. Have you got something to give the police, or not?”
    Monk felt all the old confidence rushing back to him, the knowledge of his superiority over Runcorn, his quickermind, his harder tongue, and above all the power of his will. He could not recall specific victories, but he knew the flavor of them as surely as if it were a heat in the room, indefinable, but immediate.
    “Yes, I have something,” he replied. He pulled the letters out and held them where Runcorn could see them.
    Runcorn waited, refusing to ask what they were. He stared at Monk, but the certainty was ebbing away. Old recollections were overpowering.
    “Letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister,” Monk explained. “I think when you have read them you will have sufficient evidence to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope.” He said it because he knew it would rattle Runcorn, who was terrified of offending socially or politically important people, and even more of making a mistake from which he could not retreat, or blame anyone else. Already a flush of anger was creeping up his cheeks and a tightness around his mouth.
    “Letters from Nurse Barrymore to her sister?” Runcorn repeated, struggling to gain time to order his thoughts. “Hardly proof of much, Monk. Word of a dead woman—unsubstantiated. Don’t think we would be arresting anyone on that. Never get a conviction.” He smiled, but it was a sickly gesture, and his eyes reflected nothing of it.
    Memory came flashing back of that earlier time when they were so much younger, of Runcorn being equally timid then, afraid of offending a powerful man, even when it seemed obvious he was hiding information. Monk could feel the power of his contempt then as acutely as if they were both still young, raw to their profession and their own abilities. He knew his face registered it just as clearly now as it had then. And he saw Runcorn’s recognition of it, and the hatred fire in his eyes.
    “I’ll take the letters and make my own decision as to what they’re worth.” Runcorn’s voice was harsh and his lips curled, but his breathing was harder and his hand, thrust out to grasp the papers, was rigid. “You’ve done theright thing bringing them to the police.” He added the last word with satisfaction and now his eyes met Monk’s.
    But time had telescoped, at least for Monk, and he thought in some sense for Runcorn too; the past was always there between them, with all its wounds and angers, resentments, failures, and petty