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Evan hesitated.

Monk said nothing. He did not want conversation.

After a moment Evan left and Monk sat down on his own chair, closing his eyes to shut out the room. It was going to be even harder than it had seemed last night. Evan had believed in him, liked him. Disillusionment so often turned to pity, and then to hate.

And what about Beth? Perhaps far up in Northumberland she need never know. Maybe he could find someone to write to her and say simply that he had died. They would not do it for him; but if he explained, told them of her children, then for her?

“Asleep, Monk? Or dare I hope you are merely thinking?” It was Runcorn’s voice, dark with sarcasm.

Monk opened his eyes. He had no career left, no future. But one of the few reliefs it brought was that he need no longer be afraid of Runcorn. Nothing Runcorn could do would matter in the least, compared with what he had already done to himself.

“Thinking,” Monk replied coldly. “I find it better to think before I face a witness than after I have got there. Either one stands foolishly silent, or rushes, even more foolishly, into saying something inept, merely to fill the chasm.”

“Social arts again?” Runcorn raised his eyebrows. “I would not have thought you would have had time for them now.” He was standing in front of Monk, rocking a little on his feet, hands behind his back. Now he brought them forward with a sheaf of daily newspapers displayed belligerently. “Have you read the newspapers this morning? There has been a murder in Stepney, a man knifed in the street, and they are saying it is time we did our job, or were replaced by someone who can.”

“Why do they presume there is only one person in London capable of knifing a man?” Monk asked bitterly.

“Because they are angry and frightened,” Runcorn snapped back. “And they have been let down by the men they trusted to safeguard them. That is why.” He slammed the newspapers down on the desk top. “They do not care whether you speak like a gentleman or know which knife and fork to eat with, Mr. Monk; but they care very much whether you are capable of doing your job and catching murderers and taking them off the streets.”

“Do you think Lord Shelburne knifed this man in Stepney?” Monk looked straight into Runcorn’s eyes. He was pleased to be able to hate someone freely and without feeling any guilt about lying to him.

“Of course I don’t.” Runcorn’s voice was thick with anger. “But I think it past time you stopped giving yourself airs and graces and found enough courage to forget climbing the ladder of your own career for a moment and arrested Shelburne.”

“Indeed? Well I don’t, because I’m not at all sure that he’s guilty,” Monk answered him with a straight, hard stare. “If you are sure, then you arrest him!”

“I’ll have you for insolence!” Runcorn shouted, leaning forward towards him, fists clenched white. “And I’ll make damned sure you never reach senior rank as long as I’m in this station. Do you hear me?”

“Of course I hear you.” Monk deliberately kept calm. “Although it was unnecessary for you to say so, your actions have long made it obvious; unless of course you wish to inform the rest of the building? Your voice was certainly loud enough. As for me, I knew your intentions long ago. And now …” He stood up and walked past him to the door. “If you have nothing else to say, sir; I have several witnesses to question.”

“I’ll give you till the end of the week,” Runcorn bellowed behind him, his face purple, but Monk was outside and going down the stairs for his hat and coat. The only advantage of disaster was that all lesser ills are swallowed up in it.

By the time he had reached the Latterlys’ house and been shown in by the parlor maid, he had made up his mind to do the only thing that might lead him to the truth. Runcorn had given him a week. And Evan would be back long before that. Time was desperately short.

He asked to see Imogen, alone. The maid hesitated, but it was morning and Charles was quite naturally out; and anyway, as a