The Silent Cry

He had to know. He was too close now not to grasp it, whatever it was.

"Well, yer droppedim right in it, din't yer?" she said incredulously. "Yer knew all them folk was there, an' yer never toP 'im. Let 'im charge in an' make a right fool of is self Don't suppose nuffink was said, but they don' never fergive that kind o' thing. Lorst 'is promotion then, an' lorst 'is girl too, cos 'er father were one of 'em, weren't 'e?" She shrugged. "I'd watch me back, if I was you, even arterall this time. "E don' fergive, yer know? Carries a grudge 'and, does Runcorn.”

Monk was barely listening. He could not remember doing it, even after her description. But he could remember the feeling of victory, the deep, hot satisfaction of knowing he had beaten Runcorn. Now it was only shame. It was a shabby trick and too deep a revenge for anything Runcorn could have done to him. Not that he knew of anything.

He thanked her quietly and walked out, leaving her puzzled, muttering to herself about how times had changed.

Why? He walked with his head down into the rain, hands deep in his pockets, ignoring the gutters and his wet feet. It was fully light now. Why had he done such a thing? Had it been as deliberate and as calculatedly cruel as everyone else thought? If it had, then no wonder Runcorn still hated him. To lose the promotion was fair enough. That was the fortune of war. But to lose the woman he loved was a bitter blow, and one Monk would not now have dealt to any man.

The trial of Rhys Duff had already begun. The information he had was highly pertinent, even if it offered little real help. He should go and tell Rathbone. Hester would be hurt. How Sylvestra Duff would take the news that her husband was also a rapist, he could not even imagine.

He crossed Regent Street, barely noticing he was out of St. Giles, and stopped to buy a hot cup of tea. Perhaps he should not tell Rathbone?

It did not clear Rhys of the murder of his father, only of one rape, with which he was not charged anyway!

But it was part of the truth, and the truth mattered. They had too little of it to make sense as it was. Rathbone had paid him to learn all he could. He had promised Hester. He needed to cling on to his sense of honour, the integrity, and the trust of the friends he had now. What he had been was acutely painful. He had no memory of it, no understanding.

Did Rhys Duff understand himself?

That was irrelevant. Monk was a grown man, and whether he remembered it or not, he was responsible. He was certainly in possession of all his faculties and answerable now. His only reason for not facing himself was fear of what he would find, and the gall to his pride effacing Runcorn, and admitting his remorse.

Had he what it took courage?

He had been cruel, arbitrary, too hasty to judge, but he had never been a liar, and he had never ever been a coward.

He finished the last of his tea, took a bun and paid for it, then eating it as he went, he started towards the police station.

He was obliged to wait until quarter past nine before Runcorn arrived.

He looked warm and dry in his smart overcoat, his face pink and freshly barbered, his shoes shining.

He regarded Monk soberly, his gaze going from his dripping hair and his exhausted face, hollow eyes, down his wet coat to his sodden and filthy boots. His expression was smug, glowing with rich satisfaction.

"You look on hard times, Monk," he said cheerfully. "You want to come in and warm your feet? Perhaps you'd like a cup of tea?”

"I've had one, thank you," Monk said. Only sharp reminder inside himself of his contempt for cowardice kept him there, and the thought of what Hester would think of him if he were to fail the final confrontation now. "But I'll come in. I want to talk to you.”

"I'm busy," Runcorn replied. "But I suppose I can spare you fifteen minutes. You look terrible!" He opened his office door and Monk followed him in. Someone had already lit the fire and it was extremely pleasant. There was a faint smell of beeswax and lavender polish.

"Sit down," Runcorn offered. "But take your coat off first, or you'll mark my chair.”

"I've spent the night in St. Giles," Monk said, still standing.

"You look like it," Runcorn retorted. He wrinkled his nose. "And, frankly, you smell like it too.”

"I spoke to Bessie Mallard.”

"Who is she? And why are you telling me?" Runcorn sat down and made himself comfortable.

"She used to be a whore. Now she has a small boarding house. She told me about the night they raided the brothel in Cutters' Row, and caught the magistrate, Gutteridge, and he fell downstairs…" He stopped.

There was a tide of dull purple spreading up Runcorn's face. His hands on the smooth desk top were curling into fists.

Monk took a deep breath. There was no evading it.

"Why did I hate you enough to let you do that? I don't remember.”

Runcorn stared at him, his eyes widening as he realised what Monk was saying.

"Why do you care?" His voice was high, a little hurting. "You ruined me with Dora. Wasn't that what you wanted?”

"I don't know. I've told you… I can't remember. But it was a vicious thing to do, and I want to know why I did it.”

Runcorn blinked. He was thrown off balance. This was not the Monk he thought he knew.

Monk leaned forward over the desk, staring down at him. Behind the freshly shaved face, the mask of self-satisfaction, there was a man with a wound to his esteem which had never healed. Monk had done that… or at least part of it. He needed to know why.

"I'm sorry," he said aloud. "I wish I had not done it. But I need to know why I did. Once we worked together, trusted each other. We went to St. Giles side by side, never doubting each other. What changed?

Was it you… or me?”

Runcorn sat silent for so long Monk thought he was not going to answer.

He could hear the clatter of heavy feet outside, and rain dripping from the eaves on to the window sill. Outside was the distant rumble of traffic in the street and a horse whi

"It was both of us," Runcorn spoke at last. "It began over the coat, you could say.”

"Coat! What coat?" Monk had no idea what he was talking about.

"I got a new coat with a velvet collar. You went and got one with fur, just that bit better than mine. We were going out to the same place to dine.”

"How stupid," Monk said immediately.

"So I got back at you," Runcorn replied. "Something to do with a girl.

I don't even know what now. It just went from one thing to another, until it got too big to go back on.”

"That was all? Just childish jealousies?" Monk was horrified. "You lost the woman you loved over a coat collar?”

The blood was dark in Runcorn's face. "It was more than that!" he said defensively. "It was…" He looked up at Monk again, his eyes hot and angry, more honest than Monk had ever seen them before. For the first time he knew, there was no veil between them. "It was a hundred things, you undermining my authority with the men, laughing at me behind my back, taking credit for my ideas, my arrests…”

Monk felt the void of ignorance swallowing him. He did not know whether that was the truth, or simply the way Runcorn excused himself.

He hated it with the blind, choking panic of helplessness. He did not know! He was fighting without weapons. He might have been a man like that! He did not feel it was himself, but then how much had his accident changed him? Or was it simply that he had been forced to look at himself from the outside, as a stranger might have, and seeing himself, had changed?

"Did I?" he said slowly. "Why you? Why did I do that only to you.

Why no one else? What did you do to me?”

Runcorn looked miserable, puzzled, struggling with his thoughts.

Monk waited. He must not prompt. A wrong word, even one, and the truth would slip away from him.