William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

he’d come to nothing after he left here. Private agent of enquiry, indeed! He’s no good for anything but a policeman, and now he’s no good even for that.” His eyes were bright with satisfaction and there was a half smile on his lips. “He’s come right down in the world, hasn’t he, our Monk, if he’s reduced to running after prostitutes in Seven Dials. Who’s going to pay him?”
    Evan felt a tight, hard knot of rage inside him.
    “Presumably someone who cares just as much about poor women as rich ones,” he said with his teeth clenched. “And who doesn’t believe it will do them any good appealing to the police.”
    “Someone who’s got more money than brains, Sergeant Evan,” Runcorn retorted, a flush of anger blotching his cheeks. “And if Monk were an honest man, and not a desperate one trying to scrape any living he can, no matter at whose expense, then he’d have told them there’s nothing he can do.” He jerkedone hand dismissively. “He’ll never find who did it, if anything was done. And if he did find them, who’s to prove it was rape and not a willing one that got a bit rough? And even supposing all of that, what’s a court going to do? When was a man ever hanged or jailed for taking a woman who sells her body anyway? And at the end of it all, what difference would it make to Seven Dials?”
    “What difference is one death more or less to London?” Evan demanded, leaning towards him, his voice thick. “Not much—unless it’s yours—then it makes all the difference in the world.”
    “Stay with what you can do something about, Sergeant,” Runcorn said wearily. “Let Monk worry about rape and Seven Dials if he wants to. Perhaps he has nothing else, poor devil. You have. You’re a policeman, with a duty. Go and find out who murdered Leighton Duff, and why. Then bring me proof of it. There’d be some point in that.”
    “Yes sir.” Evan replied so sharply it was almost one word, then swiveled on his heel and went out of the room, the anger burning inside him.
    The following morning when he set out for Ebury Street he was still turning over in his mind his conversation with Runcorn. Of course Runcorn was right to consider the possibility that Sylvestra was at the heart of it. She was a woman of more than beauty; there was a gravity, a mystery about her, an air of something different and undiscovered which was far more intriguing than mere perfection of form or coloring. It was something which might fascinate for a lifetime and last even when the years had laid their mark on physical loveliness.
    Evan should have thought of it himself, and it had never crossed his mind.
    He walked part of the way. It was not an unpleasant morning, and his mind worked more clearly if he exerted some effort of body. He strode along the pavement in the crisp air, frost sharpened. There were rims of white along the roofs where the snow had remained, and curls of smoke rose from chimneys almost straight up. At the edge of Hyde Park the baretrees were black against a white sky, the flat winter light seeming almost shadowless.
    He must learn a great deal more about Leighton Duff: What manner of man had he been? Could this, after all, be a crime of passion or jealousy, and not a random robbery at all? Had Rhys’s presence there simply been the most appalling mischance?
    And how much of what Sylvestra said was the truth? Were her grief and confusion for her son, and not for her husband at all? Evan must learn very much more of her life, her friends, especially those who were men, and who might possibly now court a fascinating and quite comfortably situated widow. Dr. Wade was the first and most apparent place to begin.
    It was a thought which repelled him, and he shivered as he crossed Buckingham Palace Road, running the last few steps to get out of the way of a carriage turning from the mews off Stafford Place. It went past him at a smart clip, harness jingling, horses' hooves loud on the stones, their breath steaming in the icy air.
    The other questions which lay unresolved at the back of his mind concerned his relationship with Runcorn. There were many occasions when he saw a side of him he almost liked, at least a side he could understand and feel for. Runcorn’s aspirations to better himself were such as any man might have, most particularly one from a very ordinary background, a good-looking man whose education was unremarkable, but where intelligence and ability were greater than his