William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

the truth, and the truth mattered. They had too little of it to make sense as it was. Rathbone had paid him to learn all he could. He had promised Hester. He needed to cling to his sense of honor, the integrity, and the trust of the friends he had now. What he had been was acutely painful to contemplate. He had no memory of it, no understanding.
    Did Rhys Duff understand himself?
    That was irrelevant. Monk was a grown man, and whether he remembered it or not, he was responsible. He was certainly in possession of all his faculties and answerable at present. His only reason for not facing himself was fear of what he would find, and the gall to his pride of facing Runcorn and admitting his remorse.
    Had he what it took—courage?
    He had been cruel, arbitrary, too hasty to judge, but he had never been a liar, and he had never ever been a coward.
    He finished the last of his tea, took a bun and paid for it, then, eating as he went, he started towards the police station.
    He was obliged to wait until quarter past nine before Runcorn arrived. He looked warm and dry in his smart overcoat, his face pink and freshly barbered, his shoes shining.
    He regarded Monk soberly, his gaze going from Monk’s dripping hair and his exhausted face, hollow eyes, down his wet coat to his sodden and filthy boots. Runcorn’s expression was smug, glowing with rich satisfaction.
    “You look on hard times, Monk,” he said cheerfully. “You want to come in and warm your feet? Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?”
    “I’ve had one, thank you,” Monk said. Only a sharp reminder inside himself of his contempt for cowardice kept him there, and the thought of what Hester would think of himif he were to fail the final confrontation now. “But I’ll come in. I want to talk to you.”
    “I’m busy,” Runcorn replied. “But I suppose I can spare you fifteen minutes. You look terrible!” He opened his office door and Monk followed him in. Someone had already lit the fire and the room was extremely pleasant. There was a faint smell of beeswax and lavender polish.
    “Sit down,” Runcorn offered. “But take your coat off first, or you’ll mark my chair.”
    “I’ve spent the night in St. Giles,” Monk said, still standing.
    “You look like it,” Runcorn retorted. He wrinkled his nose. “And, frankly, you smell like it too.”
    “I spoke to Bessie Mallard.”
    “Who is she? And why are you telling me?” Runcorn sat down and made himself comfortable.
    “She used to be a whore. Now she has a small boardinghouse. She told me about the night they raided the brothel in Cutters’ Row and caught the magistrate, Gutteridge, and he fell downstairs—” He stopped. There was a tide of dull purple spreading up Runcorn’s face. His hands on the smooth desktop were curling into fists.
    Monk took a deep breath. There was no evading it.
    “Why did I hate you enough to let you do that? I don’t remember.”
    Runcorn stared at him, his eyes widening as he realized what Monk was saying.
    “Why do you care?” His voice was high, sounded a little hurt. “You ruined me with Ellen. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
    “I don’t know. I’ve told you … I can’t remember. But it was a vicious thing to do, and I want to know why I did it.”
    Runcorn blinked. He was thrown off balance. This was not the Monk he thought he knew.
    Monk leaned forward over the desk, staring down at Runcorn. Behind the freshly shaved face, the mask of self-satisfaction, there was a man with a wound to his esteem which had never healed. Monk had done that … or at least part of it. He needed to know why.
    “I’m sorry,” he said aloud. “I wish I had not done it. But I need to know why I did. Once we worked together, trusted each other. We went to St. Giles side by side, never doubting the other. What changed? Was it you … or me?”
    Runcorn sat silent for so long Monk thought he was not going to answer. Monk could hear the clatter of heavy feet outside, and rain dripping from the eaves onto the windowsill. Outside was the distant rumble of traffic in the street and a horse whinnying.
    “It was both of us,” Runcorn said at last. “It began over the coat, you could say.”
    “Coat! What coat?” Monk had no idea what he was talking about.
    “I got a new coat with a velvet collar. You went and got one with fur, just that bit better than mine. We were going out to the same place to dine.”
    “How stupid,” Monk said immediately.
    “So I got back