Page 85 of The Face of a Stranger (William Monk 1)

What was the secret? Something in her attitude, an extra awareness, made Hester believe it had to do with Joscelin Grey, because Imogen both pursued and was afraid of the policeman Monk.

"You did not mention before that Joscelin Grey had known George," she said aloud.

Imogen looked out of the window. "Did I not? Well, it was probably a desire not to hurt you, dear. I did not wish to remind you of George, as well as Mama and Papa."

Hester could not argue with that. She did not believe it, but it was exactly the sort of thing Imogen would have done.

"Thank you," she replied. "It was most thoughtful of you, especially since you were so fond of Major Grey."

Imogen smiled, her far-off gaze seeing beyond the dappled light through the window, but to what Hester thought it unfair to guess.

"He was fun," Imogen said slowly. "He was so different from anyone else I know. It was a very dreadful way to die—but I suppose it was quick, and much less painful than many you have seen."

Again Hester did not know what to say.

* * * * *

When Monk returned to the police station Runcorn was waiting for him, sitting at his desk looking at a sheaf of papers. He put them down and pulled a face as Monk came in.

"So your thief was a moneylender," he said dryly. "And the newspapers are not interested in moneylenders, I assure you."

"Then they should be!" Monk snapped back. "They're a filthy infestation, one of the more revolting symptoms of poverty—"

"Oh for heaven's sake, either run for Parliament or be a policeman," Runcorn said with exasperation. "But if you value your job, stop trying to do both at once. And policemen are employed to solve cases, not make moral commentary.''

Monk glared at him.

"If we got rid of some of the poverty, and its parasites, we might prevent the crime before it came to the stage of needing a solution," he said with heat that surprised himself. A memory of passion was coming back, even if he could not know anything of its cause.

'' Joscelin Grey,'' Runcorn said flatly. He was not going to be diverted.

"I'm working," Monk replied.

"Then your success has been embarrassingly limited!"

"Can you prove it was Shelburne?" Monk demanded. He knew what Runcorn was trying to do, and he would

fight him to the very last step. If Runcorn forced him to arrest Shelburne before he was ready, he would see to it that it was publicly Runcorn's doing.

But Runcorn was not to be drawn.

"It's your job," he said acidly. "I'm not on the case."

"Perhaps you should be." Monk raised his eyebrows as if he were really considering it. "Perhaps you should take over?"

Runcorn's eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you cannot manage?" he asked very softly, a lift at the end of his words. "That it is too big for you?"

Monk called his bluff.

"If it is Shelburne, then perhaps it is. Maybe you should make the arrest; a senior officer, and all that."

Runcorn's face fell blank, and Monk tasted a certain sweetness; but it was only for a moment.

"It seems you've lost your nerve, as well as your memory," Runcorn answered with a faint sneer. "Are you giving up?"

Monk took a deep breath.

"I haven't lost anything," he said deliberately. "And I certainly haven't lost my head. I don't intend to go charging in to arrest a man against whom I have a damn good suspicion, but nothing else. If you want to, then take this case from me, officially, and do it yourself. And God help you when Lady Fabia hears about it. You'll be beyond anyone else's help, I promise you."