William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

triumphant, but his voice was rising higher and there was a sharpness that betrayed old wounds between them which none of this could heal. There was no ease on his face, no peace with himself.
    Monk felt his own body rigid. Runcorn had struck home with his words, and they both knew it.
    “Is that your answer?” he said very quietly, stepping back. “I tell you that women are being raped and beaten in an area in which you are responsible for the law, and you reply by rehearsing old quarrels with me as a justification for looking the other way? You may have the job, the money for it, and the liking of some of your juniors … do you think you have any claim to their respect—or anyone’s—if they heard you say this? I had forgotten why I despised you … but you remind me. You are a coward, and you put your personal, petty dislikes before honor.”
    He straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “I shall go back and tell Mrs. Hopgood that I told you I had evidence and wanted to share it with you; but you were so intent on having your personal revenge on me, you would not look at it. It will get out, Runcorn. Don’t imagine this is between you and me, because it isn’t. Our dislike for each other is petty and dishonorable. These women are being injured, maybe the next one will be killed, and it will be our fault, because we couldn’t work together to stop these men—”
    Runcorn rose to his feet, his skin sweating, white around the lips.
    “Don’t you dare tell me how to do my job! And don’t try coercing me with threats! Bring me one piece of evidence I can use in a court and I’ll arrest any man it points to! So far you’ve told me nothing that means a thing. And I’m not wasting men until I know there’s a probable crime and some chance of prosecution. One decent woman who’s been raped, Monk. One woman who will give evidence I can use …”
    “Who are you trying?” Monk retaliated. “The man or the woman, the rapist or the victim?”
    “Both,” Runcorn said, suddenly lowering his voice. “I have to deal with reality. Have you forgotten that, or are you just pretending you have because that is easier? Gives you a high moral note, but it’s hypocrisy, and you know it.”
    Monk did know it. It infuriated him. He hated it with all the passion of which he was capable. There were times when he hated people, almost all people, for their willing blindness. It was injustice, burning, callous, self-righteous injustice.
    “Have you got anything, Monk?” Runcorn asked, this time quietly and seriously.
    Still standing, Monk told him everything he knew and how he knew it. He told him the victims he had spoken to, collating it all chronologically, showing how the attacks had increased in violence, each time the injuries worse and more viciously given. He told Runcorn how he had traced the men to specific hansom drivers, times and places. He gave him the most consistent physical descriptions.
    “All right,” Runcorn said at last. “I agree crimes have been committed. I don’t doubt that. I wish I could do something about it. But set your outrage aside for long enough to let your brain think clearly, Monk. You know the law. When did you ever see a gentleman convicted of rape? Juries are made up of property owners. You can’t be a juror if you’re not. They are all men … obviously. Can you imagine any jury in the land convicting one of their own of raping a series of prostitutes from Seven Dials? You would put the women through a terrible ordeal … for nothing.”
    Monk did not speak.
    “Find out who they are, if you can, by all means,” Runcornwent on. “And tell your client. But if she provokes the local men into attacking those responsible, even killing them, then we still step in. Murder’s another thing. We’ll have to go on with it until we find them. Is that what you want?”
    Runcorn was right. It was choking to have to concede it.
    “I’ll find out who they are,” Monk said almost under his breath. “And I’ll prove it … not to Vida Hopgood or to you. I’ll prove it to their own bloody society. I’ll see them ruined!” And with that he turned on his heel and went out of the door.
    It was dark and snowing outside, but he barely noticed. His rage was blazing too hotly for mere ice in the wind to temper it.

7
    R hys progressed only very slowly. Dr. Wade pronounced himself satisfied with the way in which his external wounds were healing. He came out of Rhys’s room