A sudden, fearful death - Anne Perry [123]
“Of course.” She looked at him gravely for a moment, then straightened her shoulders. “I shall inform you of anything that I think could possibly be of use. Do you require it written down, or will a verbal report be sufficient?”
With difficulty he kept himself from smiling. “Oh, a verbal report will be far better,” he said soberly. “Then if I wish to pursue any issue further I can do it at the time. Thank you very much for your assistance. I am sure justice will be the better served.”
“I thought it was Sir Herbert you were trying to serve,” she said dryly, but not without amusement. Then she politely took her farewell and excused herself back to her duties.
He stood in the small room for a moment or two after she had gone. He felt a sense of elation slowly filling him. He had forgotten how exhilarating she was, how immediate and intelligent, how without pretense. To be with her was at once pleasingly familiar, oddly comfortable, and yet also disturbing. It was something he could not easily dismiss from his thoughts or choose when he would think about it and when he would not.
Monk had very mixed feelings about undertaking to work for Oliver Rathbone in Sir Herbert Stanhope’s defense. When he had read the letters he had believed they were proof of a relationship quite different from anything Sir Herbert had admitted. It was both shameful, on a personal and professional level, and—if she were indiscreet, as she had so obviously threatened to be—a motive for murder … a very simple one which would easily be believed by any jury.
But on the other hand Rathbone’s account of it having been all in Prudence’s feverish overemotional imagination was something which with any other woman would have been only too easily believable. And was Monk guilty of having credited Prudence with a moral strength, a single-minded dedication to duty, that was superhuman, overlooking her very ordinary, mortal weaknesses? Had he once again created in his imagination a woman totally different from, and inferior to, the real one?
It was a painful thought. And yet wounding as it was, he could not escape it. He had read into Hermione qualities she did not have, and perhaps into Imogen Latterly too. How many other women had he so idealized—and hopelessly misread?
It seemed where they were involved he had neither judgment nor even the ability to learn from his mistakes.
At least professionally he was skilled—more than skilled, he was brilliant. His cases were record of that; they were a list of victory after victory. Even though he could remember few details, he knew the flavor, knew from other men’s regard for him that he seldom lost. And no one spoke lightly of him or willingly crossed his will. Men who served with him gave of their best. They might dread it, obey with trepidation, but when success came they were elated and proud to be part of it. It was an accolade to have served with Monk, a mark of success in one’s career, a stepping-stone to greater things.
But with another, all too familiar, jar of discomfort, he was reminded of Runcorn’s words by the memory of having humiliated the young constable who was working with him on that case so long ago which hovered on the edge of his memory with such vividness. He could picture the man’s face as he lashed him with words of scorn for his timidity, his softheartedness with witnesses who were concealing truth, evading what was painful for them, regardless of the cost to others. He felt a sharp stab of guilt for the way he had treated the man, who was not dilatory, nor was he a coward, simply more sensitive to others’ feelings and approaching the problem with a different way of solving it. Perhaps his way was less efficient than Monk’s, but not necessarily of less moral worth. Monk could see that now with the wisdom of hindsight, the clearer knowledge of himself. But at the time he had felt nothing but contempt and he had made no effort to conceal it.
He could not remember what had happened to the man,