William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

same as they told me,” Runcorn said when Monk had finished his account. “I went back over the instructions I was given.” He looked faintly embarrassed. “I thought at the time they were to protect Lambourn’s reputation, and his widow’s feelings. Now they look a good deal more as if they were to conceal the truth. And if someone went to that much trouble to conceal the truth, we have to wonder why.”
    “He walked up there in his shirtsleeves,” Monk reasoned aloud. “Or else he had a jacket and someone removed it. But Petherton said that the evening before was mild. He was out in his own garden. The night turned cold and by morning it was definitely chill. It looks as if Lambourn might not have intended to go so far, and definitely not to stay there.”
    Runcorn nodded but did not interrupt.
    “Petherton was certain there was no knife, and nothing with which to carry liquid—unless it was very small indeed, and in his trouser pocket. Watkins agreed, except he was also certain there was nothing in Lambourn’s pocket. I don’t think they are both lying. And you can’t swallow those things dry.”
    “Someone else was there, then, and at best took away the knife and whatever Lambourn drank the opium with after Lambourn had committed suicide,” Runcorn concluded. “Or at worst, Mrs. Lambourn was right, and he was murdered.” He looked at Monk, his brow furrowed.
    “And they expected to be able to conceal it,” Monk thought aloud. “But they were careless. No knife. Nothing to take the opium with. No jacket to walk that distance on an October evening. Was that becausethey were caught by surprise and had to act quickly, without preparation? Or was it just arrogance?”
    Melisande spoke for the first time. “It seems very stupid,” she said slowly. “The knife should have been there beside him. He should’ve been wearing a jacket. Why didn’t they leave those items there, even if it was murder?” She looked from one to the other of them. “Was there something in the knife or the vial that would have made it obvious who the killer was?”
    No one needed to answer her. Runcorn looked at Monk intently. “Is it really possible someone killed him to silence him, and bury his report? But why?”
    Monk answered, his voice a little hoarse. “Yes, I am beginning to think it is possible. And there has to be a reason, something deeper than just wanting to delay his report, and thus the bill.”
    They sat without speaking for several moments. The fire burned gently in the hearth, creating a warm light and a soft, whispering sound.
    “What are you going to do?” Melisande said at last, looking at Runcorn. There was fear both in her voice and in her face.
    Runcorn looked back at her. Monk had never before seen emotion so naked or so intensely readable in his face. It was as if he and Melisande were alone in the room. He cared intensely what she thought of him, yet he knew he must make the decision alone.
    Monk barely drew breath, willing Runcorn to give the right answer.
    Ash collapsed in the fireplace and the coals settled.
    “If we do nothing, we become part of this … conspiracy, if there is one,” Runcorn said at last. “I’m sorry, but we must learn the truth. If Lambourn was murdered then we must find out and prove who did it, and who concealed it, and why.” He put out his hand gently and touched hers. “It may be very dangerous.”
    She smiled at him, her eyes bright with fear and pride. “I know.”
    Monk had no need to answer her question for himself. He had come to Runcorn in the first place because this was precisely what he feared. He admitted to himself now that if he had truly believed Dinah Lambourn was guilty, he would not have taken the case to Rathbone, let alone pursue the evidence himself.
    Runcorn stood up and stoked the fire.
    They talked a little more, making further plans to report to Rathbone. Then Monk said good night and went outside into the dark street. The rain had stopped, but it was colder. At this late hour, it might be difficult to get a cab. He would have a better chance if he went toward the lamplit streets in the center of the town, where there were clubs and theaters with other people looking for transport, perhaps even a place where cabbies ate, or waited for fares.
    He was walking briskly along the footpath, seeing clearly enough in the light from a few lamps at front doors, when he was aware of someone behind him. His first thought was that it might