William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

revenges.
    “I hope I have.” Monk raised his eyebrows. “I’m beginning to think perhaps I should have taken them to someone with the courage to use them openly and let the court decide what they prove.”
    Runcorn blinked, his eyes hot, full of confusion. That defensive look was just the same as it had been when he and Monk had quarreled over the case years ago. Only Runcorn had been younger, his face unlined. Now the innocence had gone, he knew Monk and had tasted defeat, and final victory had not wiped it out.
    What had that case been about? Had they solved it in the end?
    “Not your place,” Runcorn was saying. “You’d be withholding evidence, and that’s a crime. Don’t think I wouldn’t prosecute you, because I would.” Then a deep pleasure came into his eyes. “But I know you, Monk. You’ll give them to me because you wouldn’t miss the chance of showing up someone important. You can’t abide success, people who have made it to the top, because you haven’t yourself. Envious, that’s what you are. Oh, you’ll give me those letters. You know it, and I know it.”
    “Of course you know it,” Monk said. “That’s what terrifies you. You’ll have to use them. You’ll have to be the one to go and question Sir Herbert, and when he can’t answer, you are going to have to press him, drive him into a corner, and in the end arrest him. And the thought of it scares you bloodless. It’ll ruin your social aspirations. You’ll always be remembered as the man who ruined the best surgeon in London!”
    Runcorn was white to the lips, sweat beads on his skin. But he did not back down.
    “I’ll—” He swallowed. “I’ll be remembered as the manwho solved the Prudence Barrymore murder,” he said huskily. “And that’s more than you will, Monk! You’ll be forgotten!”
    That stung, because it was probably true.
    “You won’t forget me, Runcorn,” Monk said viciously. “Because you’ll always know I brought you the letters. You didn’t find them yourself. And you’ll remember that every time someone tells you how clever you are, what a brilliant detective—you’ll know it is really me they are talking about. Only you haven’t the courage or the honor to say so. You’ll just sit there and smile, and thank them. But you’ll know.”
    “Maybe!” Runcorn rose in his seat, his face red. “But you damn well won’t, because it will be in the clubs, and halls and dining rooms where you’ll not be invited.”
    “Neither will you—you fool,” Monk said with stinging scorn. “You are not a gentleman, and you never will be. You don’t stand like one, you don’t dress like one, you don’t speak like one—and above all you haven’t the nerve, because you know you aren’t one. You are a policeman with ambitions above yourself. Especially for the policeman who is going to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope—and that’s how you’ll be remembered!”
    Runcorn’s shoulders hunched as if he intended hitting Monk. For seconds they stared at each other, both poised to lash out.
    Then gradually Runcorn relaxed. He sat back in his chair again and looked up at Monk, a very slight sneer curling his lips.
    “You’ll be remembered too, Monk, not among the great and famous, not among gentlemen—but here in the police station. You’ll be remembered with fear—by the ordinary P.C.s you bullied and made miserable, by the men whose reputations you destroyed because they weren’t as ruthless as you or as quick as you thought they should be. You ever read your Bible, Monk? ‘How are the mighty fallen?’ Remember that?” His smile widened. “Oh, they’ll talk about you in the public houses and on the street comers, they’llsay how good it is now you’re gone. They’ll tell the new recruits who complain that they don’t know they’re born. They should see what a real hard man is—a real bully.” The smile was all the way to his eyes. “Give me the letters, Monk, and go and get on with your prying and following and whatever it is you do now.”
    “What I do now is what I have always done,” Monk said between his teeth, his voice choking. “Tidy up the cases you can’t manage and clean up behind you!” He thrust the letters out and slammed them on the desk. “I’m not the only one who knows about them, so don’t think you can hide them and blame some other poor sod who is as innocent as that poor bloody footman you hanged.” And with that he turned on his heel and walked out,