William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

committed such an act of cowardice before the law of man and of God. His own judgment might have been wiser and gentler, but he would not have left them open to the censure of the world.
    He reached the middle of the bridge and saw an empty cab going the other way. He stepped out into the road and hailed it, giving the police station address.
    The journey was too short. He was still not ready when he arrived, but then perhaps he never would be. He paid the driver and went up the station steps and inside. He was recognized immediately.
    “Mornin’, Mr. Monk,” the desk sergeant said guardedly. “What can we do for you, sir?”
    Monk could not remember the man, but that meant nothing, except that he had not worked with him since the accident, nearly eight years ago now. Had he really known Hester so long? Why had it taken him years to find the courage within himself, and the honesty, to acknowledge his feelings for her? The answer was easy. He did not want to give anyone else the power to hurt him so much. And in closing the door on the possibility of pain, of course, he had closed it on the chance for joy as well.
    “Good morning, Sergeant,” he replied, stopping in front of the desk. “I would like to speak to Superintendent Runcorn, please. It concerns a case he handled recently.”
    “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said with a hint of satisfaction at the lack of authority in Monk’s voice. “That will be on behalf of whom, sir?”
    Monk forbore from smiling, although he wanted to. The man had not recognized his police coat. “On behalf of the Thames River Police,” he replied, opening his jacket a little so that his uniform showed beneath.
    The sergeant’s eyes widened and he let out his breath slowly. “Yes, sir!” he said, turning on his heel and retreating, and Monk heard his footsteps as he went upstairs to break the news.
    Five minutes later Monk was standing in Runcorn’s office. It had a large, comfortable desk in it and the air was warm from the stove in the corner. There were books on the shelf opposite and a rather nice carving of a wooden bear on a plinth in the middle. It was all immaculately tidy as always—part of Runcorn’s need to conform, and impress.
    Runcorn himself had changed little. He was tall and barrel-chested, with large eyes a fraction too close together above a long nose. His hair was still thick and liberally sprinkled with gray. He had put on a few pounds around the waist.
    “So it’s true!” he said, eyebrows raised, voice too carefully expressionless. “You’re in the River Police! I told Watkins he was daft, but seems he wasn’t.” His face stretched into a slow, satisfied smile at his own power to give help or withhold it. “Well, what can I do for you, Inspector? It is
Inspector,
isn’t it?” There was a wealth of meaning behind the words. Monk and Runcorn had once been of equal rank, long ago. It was Monk’s tongue that had cost him his seniority. He had been more elegant than Runcorn, cleverer, immeasurably more the gentleman, and he always would be. They both knew it. But Runcorn was patient—prepared to play the game by the rules, bite back his insolence, curb his impatience, climb slowly. Now he had his reward in superior rank, and he could not keep from savoring it.
    “Yes, it is,” Monk replied. He ached to be tart, but he could not afford it.
    “Down at Wapping? Live there, too?” Runcorn pursued the subject of Monk’s fall in the world. Wapping was a less elegant, less salubrious place than Grafton Street had been, or at least than it had sounded.
    “Yes,” Monk agreed again.
    “Well, well,” Runcorn mused. “Would never have guessed you’d do that! Like it, do you?”
    “Only been there a few weeks,” Monk told him.
    Again Runcorn could not resist the temptation. “Got tired of being on your own, then? Bit hard, I should imagine.” He was still smiling. “After all, most people can call the police for nothing. Why should they pay someone? Knew you’d have to come back one day. What do you need my help with? Out of your depth already?” He oozed pleasure now.
    Monk itched to retaliate. He had to remind himself again that he could not afford to. “James Havilland,” he answered. “About two months ago. Charles Street.”
    Runcorn’s face darkened a little, the pleasure draining out of it. “I remember. Poor man shot himself in his own stables. What is it to do with the River Police? It’s nowhere near the water.”
    “Do