The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [92]
Monk could see his satisfaction in the way he stood, shoulders a little high, chin up, the shine on his shoes gleaming in the light.
“Yes sir, I imagine they will,” he conceded. “But as you said over a week ago, it’s one of those investigations that is bound to rake up something extremely unpleasant, possibly several things. It would be very rash to say anything before we can prove it.”
“Have you got anything at all, Monk?” Runcorn’s face hardened, but his sense of anticipation was still there, his scent of blood. “Or are you as lost as Lamb was?”
“It looks at the moment as if it could be in the family, sir,” Monk replied as levelly as he could. He had a sickening awareness that Runcorn was controlling this, and enjoying it. “There was considerable feeling between the brothers,” he went on. “The present Lady Shelburne was courted by Joscelin before she married Lord Shelburne—”
“Hardly a reason to murder him,” Runcorn said with contempt. “Would only make sense if it had been Shelburne who was murdered. Doesn’t sound as if you have anything there!”
Monk kept his temper. He felt Runcorn trying to irritate him, provoke him into betraying all the pent-up past that lay between them; victory would be sweeter if it were acknowledged, and could be savored in the other’s presence. Monk wondered how he could have been so insensitive, so stupid as not to have known it before. Why had he not forestalled it, even avoided it altogether? How had he been so blind then when now it was so glaring? Was it really no more than that he was rediscovering himself, fact by fact, from the outside?
“Not that in itself.” He went back to the question, keeping his voice light and calm. “But I think the lady still preferred Joscelin, and her one child, conceived just before Joscelin went to the Crimea, looks a good deal more like him than like his lordship.”
Runcorn’s face fell, then slowly widened again in a smile, showing all his teeth; the cigar was still unlit in his hand.
“Indeed. Yes. Well, I warned you it would be nasty, didn’t I? You’ll have to be careful, Monk; make any allegations you can’t prove, and the Shelburnes will have you dismissed before you’ve time to get back to London.”
Which is just what you want, Monk thought.
“Precisely sir,” he said aloud. “That is why as far as the newspapers are concerned, we are still in the dark. I came because I wanted to ask you about the Latterly case—”
“Latterly! What the hell does that matter? Some poor devil committed suicide.” He walked around and sat down at his desk and began fishing for matches. “It’s a crime for the church, not for us. Have you got any matches, Monk? We wouldn’t have taken any notice of it at all if that wretched woman hadn’t raised it. Ah—don’t bother, here they are. Let them bury their own dead quietly, no fuss.” He struck a light and held it to his cigar, puffing gently. “Man got in over his head with a business deal that went sour. All his friends invested in it on his recommendation, and he couldn’t take the shame of it. Took that way out; some say coward’s way, some say it’s the honorable way.” He blew out smoke and stared up at Monk. “Damn silly, I call it. But that class is very jealous of what it thinks is its good name. Some of them will keep servants they can’t afford for the sake of appearance, serve six-course meals to guests, and live on bread and dripping the rest of the time. Light a fire when there’s company, and perish with cold the rest of the time. Pride is a wicked master, most especially social pride.” His eyes flickered with malicious pleasure. “Remember that, Monk.”
He looked down at the papers in front of him. “Why on earth are you bothering with Latterly? Get on with Grey; we need to solve it, however painful it may prove. The public won’t wait much longer; they’re even asking questions in the House of Lords. Did you know that?”
“No sir, but considering how Lady Shelburne feels, I’m not surprised.