William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

have courage. We shall do all we can, Miss Latterly and I.”

3
    M onk sat alone in the large chair in his rooms in Fitzroy Street. He was unaware of Evan’s case or of Hester’s involvement with one of the victims. He had not seen Hester for more than two weeks, and it was high to the front of his mind that he did not wish to see her in the immediate future. His participation in Rathbone’s slander case had taken him to the Continent, both to Venice and to the small German principality of Felzburg. It had given him a taste of an entirely different life of glamour, wealth and idleness, laughter and superficiality, which he had found highly seductive. There were also elements not unfamiliar to him. The experience had awoken memories of his distant past, before he had joined the police. He had struggled hard to catch them more firmly, and failed. Like all the rest of his past, it was lost but for a few glimpses now and then, sudden windows opening, showing only a little, and then closing again and leaving him more confused than before.
    He had fallen in love with Evelyn von Seidlitz. At least he thought it was love. It was certainly delicious, exciting, filling his mind and very definitely quickening his pulse. He had been hurt, but not as profoundly surprised as he should have been, to discover she was shallow and, under the surface charm and wit, thoroughly selfish. By the end of the matter he had longed for Hester’s leaner, harder virtues, her honesty, her love of courage and truth. Even her morality and frequently self-righteousopinions had a kind of cleanness to them, like a sweet, cold wind after heat and a cloud of flies.
    He leaned forward and picked up the poker to move the coals. He prodded at them viciously. He did not wish to think of Hester. She was arbitrary, arrogant and at times pompous, a fault he had hitherto thought entirely a masculine one. He could not afford to be vulnerable to such thoughts.
    He had no case of interest at present, which added to his dark mood. There were petty thefts to deal with, usually either a servant who was tragically easy to apprehend or a housebreaker who was almost impossible, appearing as he did out of the massed tens of thousands in the slums and disappearing into them again within the space of an hour.
    But such cases were better than no work at all. He could always go and see if there was any information Rathbone wanted, but that was a last resort, as a matter of pride. He liked Rathbone. They had shared many causes and dangers together. They had worked with every ounce of imagination, courage and intelligence for too many common purposes not to know a certain strength in each other which demanded admiration. And because they had shared both triumph and failure, they had a bond of friendship.
    But there was also an irritation between them, a difference which rankled too often, pride and judgments which clashed rather than complemented. And there was always Hester. She both drew them together and kept them apart.
    But he preferred not to think about Hester, especially in relation to Rathbone.
    He was pleased when the doorbell rang and a minute later a woman came in. She was in early middle age, but handsome in a full-blown, obvious way. Her mouth was too large, but sensuously shaped, her eyes were magnificent, her bones rather too well padded with flesh. Her figure was definitely buxom. Her clothes were dark and plain, of indifferent quality, but there was an air about her which at once proclaimed a confidence, even a brashness. She was neither a lady nor one who associated with ladies.
    “Are you William Monk?” she asked before he had time tospeak. “Yes, I can see you are.” She looked him up and down very candidly. “Yer’ve changed. Can’t say what, exac’ly, but yer different. Point is … are yer still any good?”
    “Yes, I am extremely good!” he replied warily. It seemed she knew him, but he had no idea who she was, except what he could deduce from her appearance.
    She gave a sharp laugh. “Mebbe you ’aven’t changed that much! Still gives yerself airs.” The amusement died out of her face and it became hard and cautious. “I want ter ’ire yer. I can pay.”
    It was not likely to be work he would enjoy, but he was not in a position to refuse. He could at least listen to her. It was unlikely she would have domestic problems. That sort of thing she would be more than capable of dealing with herself.
    “Me name’s Vida ’Opgood,”