A Sudden, Fearful Death

by Anne Perry

  He has it in his power to make me the happiest woman in the world. I know it sounds absurd, impossible, and I do understand what you tell me, all the cautions and warnings, and that you have only my happiness in mind. But if it all comes true … And he could make it happen, Faith—he could! It is not impossible after all. I have searched and thought, but I know of no law which cannot be fought or circumvented. Pray for me, my dear sister. Pray for me!

  And then the tone changed, quite suddenly, only a week before her death.

  Sir Herbert has betrayed me totally! At first I could hardly believe it. I went to him, full of hope—and, fool that I was, of confidence. He laughed at me and told me it was totally impossible and always would be.

  I realized, like a hard slap in the face, that he had been using me, and what I could give him. He never intended to keep his word.

  But I have a way of keeping him to it. I will not permit him the choice. I hate force—I abhor it. But what else is left me? I will not give up—I will not! I have the weapons, and I will use them!

  Was that what had happened? She had gone to him with her threat and he had retaliated with his own weapon—murder?

  Faith Barker was right. The letters were enough to bring Sir Herbert Stanhope to trial—and very possibly enough to hang him.

  In the morning he would take them to Runcorn.

  It was barely eight o’clock when Monk put the letters into his pocket and rode in a hansom to the police station. He alighted, paid the driver, and went up the steps savoring every moment, the bright air already warm. The sounds of shouting, the clatter of hooves, and the rattle of cart wheels over the stones, even the smells of vegetables, fish, rubbish, and old horse manure were inoffensive to him today.

  “Good morning,” he said cheerfully to the desk sergeant, and saw the man’s look of surprise, and then alarm.

  “Mornin’ sir,” he said warily, his eyes narrowing. “What can we do for you, Mr. Monk?”

  Monk smiled, showing his teeth. “I should like to see Mr. Runcorn, if you please? I have important evidence in connection with the murder of Prudence Barrymore.”

  “Yes sir. And what would that be?”

  “That would be confidential, Sergeant, and concerns a very important person. Will you tell Mr. Runcorn, please?”

  The sergeant thought about it for a moment, regarding Monk’s face. A flood of memories came back to him, transparent in his expression, and all the old fears of a quick and savage tongue. He decided he was still more afraid of Monk than he was of Runcorn.

  “Yes, Mr. Monk. I’ll go and ask him.” Then he remembered that Monk no longer had any status. He smiled tentatively. “But I can’t say as he’ll see you.”

  “Tell him it’s enough for an arrest,” Monk added with acute satisfaction. “I’ll take it elsewhere if he’d rather?”

  “No—no sir. I’ll ask him.” And carefully, so as not to show any deferential haste, still less anything that could be taken for obedience, he left the desk and walked across the floor to the stairs.

  He was gone for several minutes, and returned with an almost expressionless face.

  “Yes sir, if you like to go up, Mr. Runcorn will see you now.”

  “Thank you,” Monk said with elaborate graciousness. Then he went up the stairs and knocked on Runcorn’s door. Now there were a host of memories crowding him too, countless times he had stood here with all manner of news, or none at all.

  He wondered what Runcorn was thinking, if there was a flicker of nervousness in him, recollection of their past clashes, victories and defeats. Or was he now so sure of himself, with Monk out of office, that he could win any confrontation?

  “Come.” Runcorn’s voice was strong and full of anticipation.

  Monk opened the door and strode in, smiling.

  Runcorn leaned a little back in his chair and gazed at Monk with bland confidence.

  “Good morning,” Monk said casually, hands in his pockets, his fingers closing over Prudence’s letters.

  For several seconds they stared at each other. Slowly Runcorn’s smile faded a little. His eyes narrowed.

  “Well?” he said testily. “Don’t stand there grinning. Have you got something to give the police, or not?”

  Monk felt all the old confidence rushing back to him, the knowledge of his superiority over Runcorn, his quicker mind, his harder tongue, and above all the power of his will. He could not recall specific victories, but he knew the flavor of them as surely as if it were a heat in the room, indefinable, but immediate.

  “Yes, I have something,” he replied. He pulled the letters out and held them where Runcorn could see them.

  Runcorn waited, refusing to ask what they were. He stared at Monk, but the certainty was ebbing away. Old recollections were overpowering.

  “Letters from Prudence Barrymore to her sister,” Monk explained. “I think when you have read them you will have sufficient evidence to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope.” He said it because he knew it would rattle Runcorn, who was terrified of offending socially or politically important people, and even more of making a mistake from which he could not retreat, or blame anyone else. Already a flush of anger was creeping up his cheeks and a tightness around his mouth.

  “Letters from Nurse Barrymore to her sister?” Runcorn repeated, struggling to gain time to order his thoughts. “Hardly proof of much, Monk. Word of a dead woman—unsubstantiated. Don’t think we would be arresting anyone on that. Never get a conviction.” He smiled, but it was a sickly gesture, and his eyes reflected nothing of it.

  Memory came flashing back of that earlier time when they were so much younger, of Runcorn being equally timid then, afraid of offending a powerful man, even when it seemed obvious he was hiding information. Monk could feel the power of his contempt then as acutely as if they were both still young, raw to their profession and their own abilities. He knew his face registered it just as clearly now as it had then. And he saw Runcorn’s recognition of it, and the hatred fire in his eyes.

  “I’ll take the letters and make my own decision as to what they’re worth.” Runcorn’s voice was harsh and his lips curled, but his breathing was harder and his hand, thrust out to grasp the papers, was rigid. “You’ve done the right thing bringing them to the police.” He added the last word with satisfaction and now his eyes met Monk’s.

  But time had telescoped, at least for Monk, and he thought in some sense for Runcorn too; the past was always there between them, with all its wounds and angers, resentments, failures, and petty revenges.

  “I hope I have.” Monk raised his eyebrows. “I’m beginning to think perhaps I should have taken them to someone with the courage to use them openly and let the court decide what they prove.”

  Runcorn blinked, his eyes hot, full of confusion. That defensive look was just the same as it had been when he and Monk had quarreled over the case years ago. Only Runcorn had been younger, his face unlined. Now the innocence had gone, he knew Monk and had tasted defeat, and final victory had not wiped it out.

  What had that case been about? Had they solved it in the end?

  “Not your place,” Runcorn was saying. “You’d be withholding evidence, and that’s a crime. Don’t think I wouldn’t prosecute you, because I would.” Then a deep pleasure came into his eyes. “But I know you, Monk. You’ll give them to me because you wouldn’t miss the chance of showing up someone important. You can’t abide success, people who have made it to the top, because you haven’t yourself. Envious, that’s what you are. Oh, you’ll give me those letters. You know it, and I know it.”

  “Of course you know it,” Monk said. “That’s what terrifies you. You’ll have to use them. You’ll have to be the one to go and question Sir Herbert, and when he can’t answer, you are going to have to press him, drive him into a corner, and in the end arrest him. And the thought of it scares you bloodless. It’ll ruin your social aspirations. You’ll always be remembered as the man who ruined the best surgeon in London!”

  Ru
ncorn was white to the lips, sweat beads on his skin. But he did not back down.

  “I’ll—” He swallowed. “I’ll be remembered as the man who solved the Prudence Barrymore murder,” he said huskily. “And that’s more than you will, Monk! You’ll be forgotten!”

  That stung, because it was probably true.

  “You won’t forget me, Runcorn,” Monk said viciously. “Because you’ll always know I brought you the letters. You didn’t find them yourself. And you’ll remember that every time someone tells you how clever you are, what a brilliant detective—you’ll know it is really me they are talking about. Only you haven’t the courage or the honor to say so. You’ll just sit there and smile, and thank them. But you’ll know.”

  “Maybe!” Runcorn rose in his seat, his face red. “But you damn well won’t, because it will be in the clubs, and halls and dining rooms where you’ll not be invited.”

  “Neither will you—you fool,” Monk said with stinging scorn. “You are not a gentleman, and you never will be. You don’t stand like one, you don’t dress like one, you don’t speak like one—and above all you haven’t the nerve, because you know you aren’t one. You are a policeman with ambitions above yourself. Especially for the policeman who is going to arrest Sir Herbert Stanhope—and that’s how you’ll be remembered!”

  Runcorn’s shoulders hunched as if he intended hitting Monk. For seconds they stared at each other, both poised to lash out.

  Then gradually Runcorn relaxed. He sat back in his chair again and looked up at Monk, a very slight sneer curling his lips.

  “You’ll be remembered too, Monk, not among the great and famous, not among gentlemen—but here in the police station. You’ll be remembered with fear—by the ordinary P.C.s you bullied and made miserable, by the men whose reputations you destroyed because they weren’t as ruthless as you or as quick as you thought they should be. You ever read your Bible, Monk? ‘How are the mighty fallen?’ Remember that?” His smile widened. “Oh, they’ll talk about you in the public houses and on the street comers, they’ll say how good it is now you’re gone. They’ll tell the new recruits who complain that they don’t know they’re born. They should see what a real hard man is—a real bully.” The smile was all the way to his eyes. “Give me the letters, Monk, and go and get on with your prying and following and whatever it is you do now.”

  “What I do now is what I have always done,” Monk said between his teeth, his voice choking. “Tidy up the cases you can’t manage and clean up behind you!” He thrust the letters out and slammed them on the desk. “I’m not the only one who knows about them, so don’t think you can hide them and blame some other poor sod who is as innocent as that poor bloody footman you hanged.” And with that he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Runcorn white-faced, his hands shaking.

  8

  SIR HERBERT STANHOPE was arrested and charged, and Oliver Rathbone was retained to conduct his defense. He was one of the most brilliant lawyers in London and, since Monk’s first case after his accident, well acquainted with both Monk and Hester Latterly. To say it was a friendship would be both to understate it and to overstate it. With Monk it was a difficult relationship. Their mutual respect was high; indeed, it amounted to admiration. They also felt a complete trust not only in the competence but each in the professional integrity of the other.

  However, on a personal level matters were different. Monk found Rathbone more than a little arrogant and complacent, and he had mannerisms which irritated Monk at times almost beyond bearing. Rathbone, on the other hand, found Monk also arrogant, abrasive, willful, and inappropriately ruthless.

  With Hester it was quite different. Rathbone had a regard for her which had grown deeper and more intimate with time. He did not consider her totally suitable as a lifetime companion. She was too opinionated, had very little idea of what it was suitable for a lady to interest herself in—to wit, criminal cases. And yet, curiously, he enjoyed her company more than that of any other woman, and he found himself caring surprisingly deeply what she thought and felt for him. His mind turned to her more often than he could satisfactorily explain to himself. It was disconcerting, but not entirely unpleasant.

  And what she thought and felt for him were emotions she had no intention of allowing him to know. At times he disturbed her profoundly—for example, when he had kissed her so suddenly and gently over a year ago. And there had been a sweetness in their time spent at Primrose Hill with his father, Henry Rathbone, whom Hester liked enormously. She would always remember the closeness she had felt walking in the garden in the evening, and the scents of summer in the wind, cut grass and honeysuckle, the leaves of the apple orchard beyond the hedge, dark against the stars.

  And yet at the back of her mind there was always Monk. Monk’s face intruded into her thoughts; his voice, and its words, spoke in the silence.

  Rathbone was not in the least surprised to receive the call from Sir Herbert Stanhope’s solicitors. Such a man would naturally seek the best defense available, and there were many who would aver without question that that was Oliver Rathbone.

  He read all the papers and considered the matter with care. The case against Sir Herbert was strong, but far from conclusive. He had had the opportunity, along with at least a score of other people. He had had the means, as did anyone with sufficient strength in his or her hands—and with a group of women like the average nurses, that included almost everyone. The only evidence of motive was the letters written by Prudence Barrymore to her sister—but they were a powerful indictment, uncontested.

  Reasonable doubt would be sufficient to gain an acquittal in law and avoid the hangman’s noose. But to save Sir Herbert’s reputation and honor there must be no doubt at all. That meant he must provide another suspect for the public to blame. They were the ultimate jury.

  But first he must seek an acquittal before the court. He read the letters again. They required an explanation, a different interpretation that was both innocent and believable. For that he would have to see Sir Herbert himself.

  It was another hot day, sultry with an overcast sky. He disliked visiting the prison at any time, but in the close, oppressive heat it was more unpleasant than usual. The odors were of clogged drains, closed rooms containing exhausted bodies, fear ebbing slowly to despair. He could smell the stone as the doors closed behind him with a hard, heavy clang and the warder led him to the room where he would be permitted to interview Sir Herbert Stanhope.

  It was bare gray stone with only a simple wooden table in the center and a chair on either side. One high window, barred and with an iron grille, let in the light high above the eye level of even the tallest man. The warder looked at Rathbone.

  “Call when you want out, sir.” And without adding anything further he turned and left Rathbone alone with Sir Herbert. In spite of the fact that they were both prominent men, they had not met before, and they regarded each other with interest. For Sir Herbert it might well prove to be a matter of his life or death. Oliver Rathbone’s skill was the only shield between him and the noose. Sir Herbert’s eyes narrowed and he concentrated intensely, weighing the face he saw with its broad forehead, curious very dark eyes for a man otherwise fair, long sensitive nose and beautiful mouth.

  Rathbone also regarded Sir Herbert carefully. He was bound to defend this man, a famous public figure, at least in the medical world. The center of the case upon which would rest a good many reputations—his own included, if he did not conduct himself well. It was a terrible responsibility to have a man’s life in one’s hands—not as it was for Sir Herbert, where it lay on the dexterity of the fingers, but simply upon one’s judgment of other human beings, the knowledge of the law, and the quickness of your wits and your tongue.

  Was he innocent? Or guilty?

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Rathbone,” Sir Herbert said at last, inclining his head but not offering his hand. He was dressed in his own clothes. He had not yet stood trial, and therefore was legally innocent. He must still be treated with resp
ect, even by jailers.

  “How do you do, Sir Herbert,” Rathbone replied, walking to the farther chair. “Please sit down. Time is precious, so I will not waste it with pleasantries we may both take for granted.”

  Sir Herbert smiled bleakly and obeyed. “This is hardly a social occasion,” he agreed. “I assume you have acquainted yourself with the facts of the case as the prosecution is presenting it?”

  “Naturally.” He sat on the hard chair, leaning a little across the table. “They have a good case, but not impeccable. It will not be difficult to raise a reasonable doubt. But I wish to do more than that or your reputation will not be preserved.”

  “Of course.” A look of dry, harsh amusement crossed Sir Herbert’s broad face. Rathbone was impressed that he was disposed to fight rather than to sink into self-pity, as a lesser man might have. He was certainly not handsome, nor was he a man to whom charm came easily, but he quite obviously had a high intelligence and the willpower and strength of nerve which had taken him to the forefront of a most demanding profession. He was used to having other men’s lives in his hands, to making instant decisions which weighed life and death, and he flinched from neither. Rathbone was obliged to respect him, an emotion he did not always feel toward his clients.

  “Your solicitor has already informed me that you have absolutely denied killing Prudence Barrymore,” he continued. “May I assume that you would give me the same assurance? Remember, I am bound to offer you the best defense I can, regardless of the circumstances, but to lie to me would be most foolish because it will impair my ability. I need to be in possession of all the facts or I cannot defend you against the prosecutor’s interpretation of them.” He watched closely as Sir Herbert looked at him steadily, but he saw no flicker in his face, no nervous movement, and he heard no wavering in his voice.