The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [51]
“Popular?” Evan pursued.
“Yeah. Used ter tell a lot o’ stories. People like that—passes the time.”
“Generous?” Evan asked.
“Gen’rous?” The landlord’s eyebrows rose. “No—not gen’rous. More like ’e took more’n ’e gave. Reckon as ’e din’t ’ave that much. An’ folk liked ter treat ’im—like I said, ’e were right entertainin’. Flash sometimes. Come in ’ere of an occasion an’ treat everyone ’andsome—but not often, like—mebbe once a monf.”
“Regularly?”
“Wotcher mean?”
“At a set time in the month?”
“Oh no—could be any time, twice a monf, or not fer two monfs.”
Gambler, Evan thought to himself. “Thank you,” he said aloud. “Thank you very much.” And he finished the cider and placed sixpence on the table and left, going out reluctantly into the fading drizzle.
He spent the rest of the afternoon going to bootmakers, hatters, shirtmakers and tailors, from whom he learned precisely what he expected—nothing that his common sense had not already told him.
He bought a fresh eel pie from a vendor on Guilford Street outside the Foundling Hospital, then took a hansom all the way to St. James’s, and got out at Boodles, where Joscelin Grey had been a member.
Here his questions had to be a lot more discreet. It was one of the foremost gentlemen’s clubs in London, and servants did not gossip about members if they wished to retain their very agreeable and lucrative positions. All he acquired in an hour and a half of roundabout questions was confirmation that Major Grey was indeed a member, that he came quite regularly when he was in town, that of course, like other gentlemen, he gambled, and it was possible his debts were settled over a period of time, but most assuredly they were settled. No gentleman welshed on his debts of honor—tradesmen possibly, but never other gentlemen. Such a question did not arise.
Might Mr. Evan speak with any of Major Grey’s associates?
Unless Mr. Evan had a warrant such a thing was out of the question. Did Mr. Evan have such a warrant?
No Mr. Evan did not.
He returned little wiser, but with several thoughts running through his head.
When Evan had gone, Monk walked briskly back to the police station and went to his own room. He pulled out the records of all his old cases, and read. It gave him little cause for comfort.
If his fears for this case proved to be real—a society scandal, sexual perversion, blackmail and murder—then his own path as detective in charge lay between the perils of a very conspicuous and well-publicized failure and the even more dangerous task of probing to uncover the tragedies that had precipitated the final explosion. And a man who would beat to death a lover, turned blackmailer, to keep his secret, would hardly hesitate to ruin a mere policeman. “Nasty” was an understatement.
Had Runcorn done this on purpose? As he looked through the record of his own career, one success after another, he wondered what the price had been; who else had paid it, apart from himself? He had obviously devoted everything to work, to improving his skill, his knowledge, his manners, his dress and his speech. Looking at it as a stranger might, his ambition was painfully obvious: the long hours, the meticulous attention to detail, the flashes of sheer intuitive brilliance, the judgment of other men and their abilities—and weaknesses, always using the right man for any task, then when it was completed, choosing another. His only loyalty seemed to be the pursuit of justice. Could he have imagined it had all gone unnoticed by Runcorn, who lay in its path?
His rise from country boy from a Northumbrian fishing village to inspector in the Metropolitan Police had been little short of meteoric. In twelve years he had achieved more than most men in twenty. He was treading hard on Runcorn’s heels; at this present rate of progress he could shortly hope for another promotion, to Runcorn’s place—or better.
Perhaps it all depended on the Grey case?
He could not have risen so far, and so fast, without treading on a good many people as he passed. There was a growing fear in him that he might not even have cared. He