The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [498]
They were excuses because he was afraid to find out.
He despised cowardice; it was the root of all the weaknesses he hated most. Anger he could understand, thoughtlessness, impatience, greed, even though they were ugly enough—but without courage what was there to fire or to preserve any virtue, honor or integrity? Without the courage to sustain it, not even love was safe.
He moved over to the window again and stared at the buildings opposite and the roofs shining in the sun. There was not even any point in evading it. It would hurt him until he found out what had happened, who she was and why he had felt so passionately, and yet walked away from it, and from her. Why were there no mementos in his room that reminded him of her, no pictures, no letters, nothing at all? Presumably the idea of her was one thing too painful to wish to remember. The reality was quite different. This would go on hurting. He would wake in the night with scalding disillusion—and terrible loneliness. For once he could easily, terribly easily, understand those who ran away.
And yet it was also too important to forget, because his mind would not let him bury it. Echoes kept tugging at him, half glimpses of her face, a gesture, a color she wore, the way she walked, the softness of her hair, her perfume, the rustle of silk. For heaven’s sake, why not her name? Why not all her face?
There was nothing he could do here over the weekend. The trial was adjourned and he had nowhere else to search for the third man. It was up to Rathbone now.
He turned from the window and strode over to the coat stand, snatching a jacket and his hat and going out of the door, only just saving it from slamming behind him.
“I’m going to Guildford,” he informed his landlady, Mrs. Worley. “I may not be back until tomorrow.”
“But you’ll be back then?” she said firmly, wiping her hands on her apron. She was an ample woman, friendly and businesslike, “You’ll be at the trial of that woman again?”
He was surprised. He had not thought she knew.
“Yes—I will.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you want to be on cases like that for, I’m sure. You’ve come a long way down, Mr. Monk, since you was in the police. Then you’d ’a bin chasin’ after people like that, not tryin’ to ’elp them.”
“You’d have killed him too, in her place, if you’d had the courage, Mrs. Worley,” he said bitingly. “So would any woman who gave a damn.”
“I would not,” she retorted fiercely. “Love o’ no man’s ever goin’ to make me into a murderess!”
“You know nothing about it. It wasn’t love of a man.”
“You watch your tongue, Mr. Monk,” she said briskly. “I know what I read in the newspapers as comes ’round the vegetables, and they’re plain enough.”
“They know nothing, either,” he replied. “And fancy you reading the newspapers, Mrs. Worley. What would Mr. Worley say to that? And sensational stories, too.” He grinned at her, baring his teeth.
She straightened her skirts with a tweak and glared at him.
“That isn’t your affair, Mr. Monk. What I read is between me and Mr. Worley.”
“It’s between you and your conscience, Mrs. Worley—it’s no one else’s concern at all. But they still know nothing. Wait till the end of the trial—then tell me what you think.”
“Ha!” she said sharply, and turned on her heel to go back to the kitchen.
He caught the train and alighted at Guildford in the middle of the morning. It was a matter of another quarter of an hour before a hansom deposited him outside the police station and he went up the steps to the duty sergeant at the desk.
“Yes sir?” The man’s face registered dawning recognition. “Mr. Monk? ’Ow are you, sir?” There was respect in his voice, even awe, but Monk did not catch any fear. Please God at least here he had not been unjust.
“I’m very well, thank you, Sergeant,” he replied courteously. “And yourself?”
The sergeant was not used to being asked how he was, and his face showed his surprise, but he answered levelly enough.
“I’m well, thank you sir. What can I do for you?