The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [110]
MacPherson pulled a face. “Ye have no’ changed, Monk. I should no’ have underestimated ye. Ye’re an evil devil. I could no’ cross ye. I tried to warn Runcorn agin ye, but he was too blind to see it. I’d tell him now to watch his back for getting rid o’ ye from the force, but it would no’ do any good. Ye’ll bide your time, and get him one way or another.”
Monk felt cold. Hard as he was, MacPherson thought Monk harder, more ruthless. He felt Runcorn the victim. He did not have the whole story. He did not know Runcorn’s social ambitions, his moral vacillation when a decision jeopardized his own career, or how he trimmed and evaded in order to please those in power … of any sort. He did not know his small-mindedness, the poverty of his imagination, his sheer cowardice, his meanness of spirit!
But then Monk himself did not know the whole story either.
And the coldest thought of all, which penetrated even into his bones, was whether Monk was responsible for what Runcorn had become. Was it something Monk had done in the past which had warped Runcorn’s soul and made him what he was now?
He did not want to know, but perhaps he had to. Imagination would torment him until he did. For now, perhaps it would be useful to allow MacPherson to retain his image of Monk as ruthless, never forgetting a grudge.
“Who do I go to?” he said aloud. “Who knows what’s going on in St. Giles?”
MacPherson thought for a moment or two.
“Willie Snaith, for one,” he said finally. “And old Bertha for another. But they’ll no’ speak to ye unless someone takes ye and vouches for ye.”
“So I assumed,” Monk replied. “Come with me.”
“Me?” MacPherson looked indignant. “Walk out on my business? And who’s to care for this place if I go attendin’ to your affairs for ye?”
Monk took one of Vida’s guineas out of his pocket and put it on the table.
MacPherson grunted. “Ye are desperate,” he said dryly. “Why? What’s it to you if a few miserable women are raped or beaten? Don’t tell me any of them mean something to you.” He watched Monk’s face closely. “There must be more. These bastards cross you somehow? Is that it? Or is it still to do with Runcorn and the po-liss? Trying to show them up, are ye?”
“I’ve already told you,” Monk said waspishly. “It’s not a police case.”
“Ye’re right,” MacPherson conceded. “It couldn’t be. Not one for putting himself out on a limb, Runcorn. Always safe, always careful. Not like you.” He laughed abruptly, then rose to his feet. “All right, then. Come on, and I’ll take you to see Willie.”
Monk followed immediately.
Outside, both dressed again in heavy overcoats, MacPherson led the way deeper into St. Giles and the old area that had earlier in the century been known as the Holy Land. He did not go by streets and alleys as Evan had done, but through passages sometimes no more than a yard wide. The darkness was sometimes impenetrable. It was wet underfoot. There was a constant sound of dripping water from eaves and gutterings, the rattle and scratch of rodent feet, the creak of rotting timbers. Several times MacPherson stopped and Monk, who could not see him, continued moving and bumped into him.
Eventually they emerged into a yard with a single yellow gas lamp and the light seemed brilliant by comparison. The outlines of timber frames stood sharp and black, brick and plaster work reflecting the glow. The wet cobbles shone.
MacPherson glanced behind him once to make sure Monk was still there, then went across and down a flight of stone steps into a cellar where one tallow candle smoked on a holder made of half an old bottle, but it showed the entrance to a tunnel and MacPherson went in without hesitation.
Monk followed. He had a sharp memory of stomach-knotting, skin-prickling danger, of sudden pain and then oblivion. He knew what it was. It came from the past he dreaded, when he and Runcorn had followed wanted men into areas just like this. Then there had been comradeship between them. There had never been the slightest resentment on his part, he knew that clearly. And he had gone in headfirst without a second’s doubt that