Defend and Betray - Anne Perry [113]
Apparently he had remained in Shrewsbury for three weeks, going relentlessly over and over the same ground until he found a weakness here, a change of emphasis there, the possibility of a different interpretation or a shred of new evidence. Runcorn had sent for him to come back; everything they had indicated guilt, and justice should be allowed to take its course, but Monk had defied him and remained.
Eventually he had pieced together a story, with the most delicate of proof, that Phyllis Dexter had had three miscarriages and two stillbirths, and had eventually refused her husband’s attentions because she could no longer bear the pain it caused her. In a drunken fury at her rejection, as if it were of him, not of her pain, he had attempted to force her. On this occasion his sense of outrage had driven him to assault her with the broken end of a bottle, and she had defended herself with the carving knife. In his clumsiness he had got the worst of the brief battle, and within moments of his first charge, he lay dead on the floor, the knife in his chest and the broken bottle shattered—a scatter of shards over the floor.
There was no note as to the outcome of the case. Whether the Shrewsbury police had accepted Monk’s deduction or not was not noted. Nor was there any record as to a trial.
There was nothing for Monk to do but purchase a ticket and take the train to Shrewsbury. The people there at least would remember such a case, even if few others did.
On the late afternoon of the thirteenth, in golden sunlight, Monk alighted at Shrewsbury station and made his way through the ancient town with its narrow streets and magnificent Elizabethan half-timbered houses to the police station.
The desk sergeant’s look of polite enquiry turned to one of wary self-defense, and Monk knew he had been recognized, and not with pleasure. He felt himself harden inside, but he could not justify himself because he had no memory of what he had done. It was a stranger with his face who had been here four years before.
“Well, Mr. Monk, I’m sure I don’t know,” the desk sergeant said to his enquiry. “That case is all over and done with. We thought as she was guilty, but you proved as she weren’t! It’s not for us to say, but it don’t do for a woman to go murderin’ ’er ’usband because she takes it into ’er ’ead as to refuse ’im what’s ’is by right. Puts ideas of all sorts in women’s ’eads. We’ll have them murderin’ their ’usbands all over the place!”
“You’re quite right,” Monk said tartly.
The desk sergeant looked surprised, and pleased.
“It’s not for you to say,” Monk finished.
The sergeant’s face tightened and his skin flushed red.
“Well I don’t know what you’ll be wanting from us. If you’d be so good as to tell me, I’ll mebbe see what I can do for you.”
“Do you know where Phyllis Dexter is now?” Monk asked.
The sergeant’s eyes lit with satisfaction.
“Yes I do. She left these parts right after the trial. Acquitted, she was; walked out o’ the courtroom and packed ’er things that night.”
“Do you know where she went?” Monk kept his temper with difficulty. He would like to wipe the smug smile off the man’s face.
The man’s satisfaction wavered. He met Monk’s eyes and his courage drained away.
“Yes sir. I heard as it were somewhere in France. I don’t rightly know where, but there’s them in the town as can tell you, I expect. At least where she went to from ’ere. As to where she is now, I expect being the detective you are, you’ll be able to learn that when you get there.”
There was nothing more to be learned here, so Monk duly thanked him and took his leave.
He spent the evening at the Bull Inn and in the morning went to find the doctor who had been concerned in the case. He went with some trepidation. Apparently he had made himself unpopular here; the desk sergeant’s aggression had been born of those weeks of fear and probably some humiliation as well. Monk knew his own