train as it rushed past the houses toward the city. Runcorn, with his narrow face and deep-set eyes. He had been handsome then: bony nose, good brow, broad mouth. Even now it was only his expression, the mixture of temper and apology in his eyes, which marred him.
What had happened in the intervening years? How much of it had been Monk's doing? That was a thought which returned to him again and again. And yet that was foolish. Monk was not to blame. Whatever Runcorn was, it was his own doing, his own choice.
Why had that memory returned? Just a snatch, a journey in a train with Runcorn. Runcorn had been an inspector, and Monk a constable working on a case under his direction.
They were coming into the outskirts of Bayswater, not far to go to the Euston Road and home. It would be good to get out of this noisy, jiggling, confined space and walk in the fresh air. Not that Fitzroy Street would be like Boston Lane with the wind over the wheat fields.
He was aware of a sharp inner sense of frustration, of questions and answers that led nowhere, of knowing that someone was lying, but not who. They had been days on the case and learned nothing that made sense, no string of evidence that began to form a story.
Except that this was the first day. Prudence Barrymore had died only yesterday. The emotion came from the past, whatever he and Runcorn had been doing however many years ago-was it ten, fifteen? Runcorn had been different. He had had more confidence, less arrogance, less need to exert his authority, less need to show he was right. Something had happened to him in the years between which had destroyed an element of belief in himself, injuring some inner part so that now it was maimed.
Did Monk know what it was? At least had he known before the accident? Was Runcom's hatred of him born of that: his vulnerability, and Monk's use of it?
The train was going through Paddington now. Not long till he was home. He ached to be able to stand up.
He closed his eyes again. The heat in the carriage and the rhythmic swinging to and fro, the incessant clatter as the wheels passed over the joins in the rails, were hypnotic.
There had been another constable on the case as well, a slight young man with dark hair that stood up from the brow. The memory of him was vivid and acutely uncomfortable, but Monk had no idea why. He racked his brain but nothing came. Had he died? Why was there this unhap-piness in his mind when he pictured him?
Runcorn was different; for him he felt anger and a swift harsh contempt. It was not that he was stupid. He was not: his questions were perceptive enough, well phrased, well judged, and he obviously weighed the answers. He was not gullible. So why did Monk find himself unconsciously curling his lip?
What had the case been? He could not remember that either! But it had mattered, of that he had no doubt at all. It was serious. The superintendent had been asking them every day for progress. The press had been demanding someone be caught and hanged. But for what?
Had they succeeded?
He sat up with a jolt. They were at Euston Road and it was time he got off or he would be carried past his stop. Hastily, apologizing for treading on people's feet, he scrambled out of his seat and made his way out onto the platform.
He must stop dwelling in the past and think what next to do in the murder of Prudence Barrymore. There was nothing to report to Callandra yet, but she might have something to tell him, although it was a trifle early. Better to leave it a day or two, then he might have something to say himself.
He strode along the platform, threading his way among the people, bumping into a porter and nearly tripping over a bale of papers.
What had Prudence Barrymore been like as a nurse? Better to begin at the beginning. He had met her parents, her suitor, albeit unsuccessful, and her rival. In time he would ask her superiors, but they were, or might be, suspects. The best judge of the next stage in her career would be someone who had known her in the Crimea, apart from Hester. He dodged around two men and a woman struggling with a hat box.