Anne Perry - Defend and Betray

“Yes sir?” The man's face registered dawning recognition. “Mr. Monk? 'Ow are you, sir?” There was respect in his voice, even awe, but Monk did not catch any fear. Please God at least here he had not been unjust.

“I'm very well, thank you, Sergeant,” he replied courteously. “And yourself?”

The sergeant was not used to being asked how he was, and his face showed his surprise, but he answered levelly enough.

“I'm well, thank you sir. What can I do for you? Mr. Markham's in, if it was 'im you was wanting to see? I ain't 'eard about another case as we're needin' you for; it must be very new.” He was puzzled. It seemed impossible there could be a crime so complicated they needed to call in Scotland Yard and yet it had not crossed his desk. Only something highly sensitive and dangerous could be so classed, a political assassination, or a murder involving a member of the aristocracy.

“I'm not with the police anymore,” Monk explained. There was little to be gained and everything to be risked by lying. “I've gone private.” He saw the man's incredulity and smiled. “A difference of opinion over a case-a wrongful arrest, I thought.”

The man's face lightened with intelligence. “That'd be the Moidore case,” he said with triumph.

“That's right!” It was Monk's turn to be surprised.”How did you know about that?”

“Read it, sir. Know as you was right.” He nodded with satisfaction, even if it was a trifle after the event. “What can we do for you now, Mr. Monk?”

Again honesty was the wisest. So far the man was a friend, for whatever reason, but that could easily slip away if he lied to him and were caught.

“I’ve forgotten some of the details of the case I came here for, and I'd like to remind myself. I wondered if it would be possible to speak with someone. I realize it's Saturday, and those who worked with me might be off duty, but today was the only day I could leave the City. I'm on a big case.”

“No difficulty, sir. Mr. Markham's right 'ere in the station, an' I expect as 'e'd be 'appy to tell you anything you wanted. It was 'is biggest case, an”e's always 'appy to talk about it again.” He moved his head in the direction of the door leading off to the right. “If you go through there, sir, you'll find 'im at the back, like always. Tell 'im I sent you.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Monk accepted, and before it became obvious that he did not remember the man's name, he went through the door and through the passageway. Fortunately the direction was obvious, because he remembered none of it.

Sergeant Markham was standing with his back to Monk, and as soon as Monk saw him there was something in the angle of his shoulders and the shape of his head, the set of his arms, that woke a memory and suddenly he was back investigating the case, full of anxiety and hard, urgent fear.

Then Markham turned and looked at him, and the moment vanished. He was in the present again, standing in a strange police duty room facing a man who knew him, and yet about whom he knew nothing except that they had worked together in the past. His features were only vaguely familiar; his eyes were blue like a million Englishmen, his skin fair and pale so early in the season, his hair still thick, bleached by sun a little at the front.

“Yes sir?” he enquired, seeing first of all Monk's civilian clothes. Then he looked more closely at his face, and recognition came flooding back. “Why, it's Mr. Monk.” The eagerness was tempered. There was admiration in his eyes, but caution as well. “ 'Ow are you, sir? Got another case?” The interest was well modified with other emotions less sanguine.

“No, the same as before.” Monk wondered whether to smile, or if it would be so uncharacteristic as to be ridiculous. The decision was quickly made; it was false and it would freeze on his face. “I've forgotten some of the details and for reasons I can't explain, I need to remind myself, or to be exact, I need your help to remind me. You still have the records?”

“Yes sir.” Markham was obviously surprised, and there was acceptance in his expression as habit. He was used to I obeying Monk and it was instinctive, but there was no com prehension.

“I'm not on the force anymore.” He dared not deceive Markham.

Now Markham was totally incredulous.

“Not on the force.” His whole being registered his amazement. “Not-not-on the force?” He looked as if he did not understand the words themselves.

“Gone private,” Monk explained, meeting his eyes.”I 've got to be back in the Old Bailey on Monday, for the Carlyon case, but I want to get these details today, if I can.”

“What for, sir?” Markham had a great respect for Monk, but he had also learned from him, and knew enough to accept no one's word without substantiation, or to take an order from a man with no authority. Monk would have criticized him unmercifully for it in the past.

“My own private satisfaction,” Monk replied as calmly as he could. “I want to be sure I did all I could, and that I was right. And I want to find the woman again, if I can.” Too late he realized how he had betrayed himself. Markham would think him witless, or making an obscure joke. He felt hot all over, sweat breaking out on his body and then turning cold.

“Mrs. Ward?” Markham asked with surprise. “Yes, Mrs. Ward!” Monk gulped hard. She must be alive, or Markham would not have phrased it that way. He could still find her!

“You didn't keep in touch, sir?” Markham frowned. Monk was so overwhelmed with relief his voice caught in his throat. “No.” He swallowed and coughed. “No-did you expect me to?”

“Well, sir.” Markham colored faintly. “I know you worked on the case so hard as a matter of justice, of course, but I couldn't help but see as you were very fond of the lady too-and she of you, it looked like. I 'alf thought, we aU thought…” His color deepened. “Well, no matter. Beg-gin' your pardon, sir. It don't do to get ideas about people and what they feel or don't feel. Like as not you'll be wrong. I can't show you the files, sir; seein' as you're not on the force any longer. But I ain't forgot much. I can tell you just about all of it. I'm on duty right now. But I get an hour for luncheon, leastways I can take an hour, and I 'm sure the duty sergeant'll come for me. An' if you like to meet me at the Three Feathers I'll tell you all I can remember.”

“Thank you, Markham, that's very obliging of you. I hope you'll let me stand you to a meal?”

“Yes, sir, that's handsome of you.”

And so midday saw Monk and Sergeant Markham sitting at a small round table in the clink and chatter of the Three Feathers, each with a plate piled full of hot boiled mutton and horseradish sauce, potatoes, spring cabbage, mashed turnips and butter; a glass of cider at the elbow; and steamed treacle pudding to follow.

Markham was as good as his word, meticulously so. He had brought no papers with him, but his memory was excellent. Perhaps he had refreshed it discreetly for the occasion, or maybe it was sufficiently sharp he had no need. He began as soon as he had taken the edge off his appetite with half a dozen mouthfuls.

“The first thing you did, after reading the evidence, was go back over the ground as we'd already done ourselves.” He left out the “sir” he would have used last time and Monk noted it with harsh amusement.

“That was, go to the scene o' the crime and see the broken window,” Markham went on. “O' course the glass was all cleaned up, like, but we showed you where it 'ad lain. Then we questioned the servants again, and Mrs. Ward 'erself. Do you want to know what I can remember o' that?”

“Only roughly,” Monk replied. “If there was anything of note? Not otherwise.”