The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [43]
Monk could think of no answer. He wished he could remember the things he had said and done to prompt Runcorn to these flavors, nuances of disapproval. Was he a brazen social climber? The thought was repugnant, even pathetic in a way, trying to appear something you are not, in order to impress people who don’t care for you in the slightest, and can most certainly detect your origins even before you open your mouth!
But did not most men seek to improve themselves, given opportunity? But had he been overambitious, and foolish enough to show it?
The thing lying at the back of his mind, troubling him all the time, was why he had not been back to see Beth in eight years. She seemed the only family he had, and yet he had virtually ignored her. Why?
Runcorn was staring at him.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Yes sir.” He snapped to attention. “I agree, sir. I think there may be something very unpleasant indeed. One has to hate very much to beat a man to death as Grey was beaten. I imagine if it is something to do with the family, they will do everything they can to hush it up. In fact the eldest son, the present Lord Shelburne, didn’t seem very eager for me to probe it. He tried to guide me back to the idea that it was a casual thief, or a lunatic.”
“And Her Ladyship?”
“She wants us to continue.”
“Then she’s fortunate, isn’t she?” Runcorn nodded his head with his lips twisted. “Because that is precisely what you are going to do!”
Monk recognized a dismissal.
“Yes sir; I’ll start with Yeats.” He excused himself and went to his own room.
Evan was sitting at the table, busy writing. He looked up with a quick smile when Monk came in. Monk found himself overwhelmingly glad to see him. He realized he had already begun to think of Evan as a friend as much as a colleague.
“How was Shelburne?” Evan asked.
“Very splendid,” he replied. “And very formal. What about Mr. Yeats?”
“Very respectable.” Evan’s mouth twitched in a brief and suppressed amusement. “And very ordinary. No one is saying anything to his discredit. In fact no one is saying anything much at all; they have trouble in recalling precisely who he is.”
Monk dismissed Yeats from his mind, and spoke of the thing which was more pressing to him.
“Runcorn seems to think it will become unpleasant, and he’s expecting rather a lot from us—”
“Naturally.” Evan looked at him, his eyes perfectly clear. “That’s why he rushed you into it, even though you’re hardly back from being ill. It’s always sticky when we have to deal with the aristocracy; and let’s face it, a policeman is usually treated pretty much as the social equal of a parlor maid and about as desirable to be close to as the drains; necessary in an imperfect society, but not fit to have in the withdrawing room.”
At another time Monk would have laughed, but now it was too painful, and too urgent.
“Why me?” he pressed.
Evan was frankly puzzled. He hid what looked like embarrassment with formality.
“Sir?”
“Why me?” Monk repeated a little more harshly. He could hear the rising pitch in his own voice, and could not govern it.
Evan lowered his eyes awkwardly.
“Do you want an honest answer to that, sir; although you must know it as well as I do?”
“Yes I do! Please?”
Evan faced him, his eyes hot and troubled. “Because you are the best detective in the station, and the most ambitious. Because you know how to dress and to speak; you’ll be equal to the Shelburnes, if anyone is.” He hesitated, biting his lip, then plunged on. “And—and if you come unstuck either by making a mess of it and failing to find the murderer, or rubbing up against Her Ladyship