A Sudden, Fearful Death

"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 Runcom'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 Runcom 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!"

Runcorn 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!"

Runconrs 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.