The Dark Assassin

chapter Two
The tide was high the next morning and the river, with its smells of mud and salt, dead fish and rotting wood, seemed to be lapping right at the door as Monk walked across the dockside. The wind had fallen and it was calm, the surface of the water barely rippled as it seeped higher around the pier stakes and up the stone steps that led to the quaysides and embankments. The rime of ice overnight had melted in places, but there were still patches as slippery as oiled glass.

"Morning, sir," Orme said briskly as Monk came into the station. The stove had been burning all night and the room was warm.

"Good morning, Orme," Monk replied, closing the door behind him. There were three other men there: Jones and Kelly, busily sorting through papers of one kind or another, and Clacton, standing by the stove, his clothes steaming gently.

Monk greeted them and received dutiful acknowledgment, but no more. He was still a stranger, a usurper of Durban 's place. They all knew that it was in helping Monk that Durban had contracted the terrible disease that had brought about his death, and they blamed Monk for it. That Durban had gone on the mission both because he wished to, understanding the enormity of the danger, and because he considered it his duty, was irrelevant to their anger and the sense of unfairness that lay behind it.

Monk had gone on the same mission, and he was alive. They could not excuse that. They would have chosen Monk to die, every man of them.

Kelly, a soft-spoken Irishman, small-boned and neat, handed him the reports of crime overnight. "Nothin out o' the usual, sorr," he said, meeting Monk's eyes, then looking away. "Barge ran aground at low tide, but they got it off."

"Run aground intentionally?" Monk asked.

"Yes, sorr, I'd say so. No doubt the owners'll be reportin' some o' their cargo missin'." Kelly gave a bleak smile.

"Dragging it up through the mud, at low tide?" Monk questioned. "If they worked as hard at something honest, they'd probably make more."

"Clever an' wise was never the same thing, sorr," Kelly said dryly, turning back to his work.

Monk took reports from Jones and Clacton as well, and spoke briefly to Butterworth as he came in. Kelly made tea, hot and as dark as mahogany. It would take Monk a long time to drink it with pleasure, but it would set him apart to refuse. Additionally, tea had the virtue of warming the inside and lifting the spirits, even when it was not laced with the frequently added rum.

When the last patrols had landed and reported, and the next were gone out, Monk told them of his decision.

"The two people off Waterloo Bridge yesterday," he began.

"Suicides," Clacton said with a pinched expression. "Lovers' quarrel, I expect. Seems stupid for both of 'em to jump." He was a slender, strong young man of more than average height, who took himself very seriously and was prone to take offense where it was not intended. He could be helpful or obstructive, depending upon his opinion, which he rarely changed, whatever the circumstances. Monk found him irritating and was aware of his own temper rising. He had caught the other men watching him to see how he would handle Clacton. It was another test.

"Yes, it does," he agreed aloud. "Which makes me wonder if that was what happened."

"Thought you saw it," Clacton challenged, moving his weight a little to stand more aggressively. "Sir," he added as an afterthought.

"From the river," Monk replied. "It could have been accidental during a quarrel, or she jumped and he tried to stop her. Or even that he pushed her."

Clacton stared at him. "Why would 'e do that? No one else said so!"

"I thought it could be," Orme contradicted him. He was visibly irritated by Clactons attitude as well. His blunt, weathered face showed a quiet anger.

"If 'e was goin' to push 'er in, why wouldn't 'e wait 'alf an 'our, until dark?" Clacton demanded, his expression tightening. He moved a little closer to the stove, blocking it from Orme. "Don make sense. An' with a police boat right in front of 'im! No, she jumped, and 'e tried to stop 'er and lost 'is own balance. Clear as day."

"Don suppose 'e saw us," Jones answered him. " 'E'd a' bin lookin' at 'er, not at us was on the water below."

"Still make more sense ter wait until dark," Clacton retorted.

"Wot if she weren't goin' ter stand there on the bridge waitin' until it were dark?" Jones countered. "Mebbe she weren't that obligin'." He helped himself to more tea, deliberately taking the last of it.

"If 'e planned to push 'er over, 'e'd 'ave planned to get there at the right time!" Clacton said angrily, looking at the teapot, then moving to block the fire from Jones rather than from Orme.

"And o' course plans always go exactly right," Jones added sarcastically. "I seen 'at!"

There was a guffaw of laughter, probably occasioned by some failure of Clactons in the past. Monk was still trying to learn not only the job it-self but, at times even more important, the relationships between the men, their strengths, and their weaknesses. Lives could depend on it. The river was a more dangerous place than the city. Even the worst slums-with their creaking, dripping tenement houses, blind alleys, and occasional trapdoors-gave you ground to stand on and air to breathe. It had no tides to rise, to slime the steps, to carry things up- or downstream. It was not full of currents to pull you under and drifting wreckage just beneath the surface to catch you.

"We don't know," Monk said to all of them. "Mary Havilland's father died recently, and according to her sister, Mary was convinced that he was murdered. I have to investigate that possibility. If he was, then perhaps she was murdered also. Or her death and Toby Argyll's may have been a quarrel that ended in a tragic accident, not suicide by either one of them."

Kelly put down the final pieces of paper. "And then we could have them buried properly. Their families'd want that."

"Very much," Monk agreed.

"But if she wasn't murdered, it's not our job." Clacton looked at Kelly, then at Monk.

Monk felt his temper rising. One day he was going to have to deal with Clacton.

"It's my job now," he replied, an edge to his voice that should have been a warning to Clacton, and anyone else listening. "When I've done it, I'll give the results to whomever needs them-family, church, or magistrate. In the meantime, attend to the theft on Horseferry Stairs, and then see if you can trace the lost barge from Watson and Sons."

"Yes, sir," Clacton said unhesitatingly.

With that, Monk departed on the long cab journey from Wapping to Mary Havilland's address in Charles Street, just off Lambeth Walk.

The house was not ostentatious, but it was handsome enough, and had an appearance of considerable comfort. There was a mews behind for the keeping of carriages and horses, so presumably the residents were accustomed to such luxuries. As he expected, the curtains were drawn and there was a wreath on the door. Someone had even laid sawdust in the street to muffle the sound of horses' hooves.

The door was opened by a footman of probably no more than eighteen years. His face was so white his freckles stood out, and his eyes were pink-rimmed. It took him a moment or two to collect his wits when he saw a stranger on the step. "Yes, sir?"

Monk introduced himself and asked if he might speak to the butler. He already knew there was no other family resident. Jenny Argyll had said that Mary had been her only relative.

Inside, the house was in traditional mourning. The mirrors were covered, the clocks stopped, lilies in vases giving off a faint hothouse perfume. Their very unnaturalness in January was a reminder that familiar life had ended.

The butler came to Monk in the formal morning room. It was bitterly cold, no fire having been lit, and the glass fronts of the bookcases reflected the cold daylight that came under the half-drawn curtains like ice on a deep pond.

The butler, Cardman, was a tall, spare man with thick iron-gray hair and a bony face that might have been handsome in his youth but was now too strong in the planes of his cheek and nose. His light blue eyes were intelligent, and-unlike the footman-he had mastered his emotions, so they barely showed.

"Yes, sir?" he said, closing the door behind him. "How may I help you?"

Monk began by expressing his sympathy. Not only did it seem appropriate, even to a butler, but it was natural.

"Thank you, sir," Cardman acknowledged. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.

"We are not certain what happened," Monk began. "For many reasons, we need to know a great deal more."

A shadow of pain crossed Cardman's impassive face. "Mr. Argyll told us that Miss Havilland took her own life, sir. Is it necessary to intrude further into her unhappiness?"

His delicacy was admirable, but this was an enquiry that could either define guilt or pronounce innocence, and even to the dead, that was important. Monk could not afford to leave anything unprobed or go about his questions in the least offensive way if it was also the least efficient.

"You were aware of her unhappiness?" he asked as gently as he could.

"Mr. Havilland died less than two months ago," Cardman said stiffly. "Grief does not heal so soon."

It was a socially correct answer, giving away nothing and delivered with as much disapproval as a butler dared show.

Monk was brutal. "Is your father still alive, Mr. Cardman?"

Cardman's face tightened, the light of understanding flaming in his eyes, bright and angry. "No, sir."

Monk smiled. "I'm sure you grieved for him, but you did not despair." He thought briefly that part of the loss of his memory from the accident included complete obliteration of anything about his own father, or mother, for that matter. He knew only his sister, Beth, and that only because she had tried to keep in touch. He wrote seldom. The shame of that bit into him without warning, and he felt the heat in his face.

"No, sir," Cardman said stiffly.

Monk sat down in one of the big leather armchairs and crossed his legs. "Mr. Cardman, I mean to find out whether this was suicide or something else," he said levelly. "I have investigated deaths of many kinds, and I do not give up until I have what I seek. You will assist me, willingly or not. You can remain standing if you wish, but I prefer that you sit. I don't like staring up at you."

Cardman obeyed. Monk noticed a rigidity in his movement, as if he were unused to sitting in the presence of a guest, and certainly not in this room. He had probably been a servant all his life, perhaps starting as a boot boy forty years ago, or more. Yet he could have spent time in the army. There was a ramrod stiffness to him, a sense of dignity as well as self-discipline.

"Were you surprised?" Monk asked suddenly.

Cardman's eyes widened. "Surprised?"

"That Miss Havilland should throw herself off Waterloo Bridge?"

"Yes, sir. We all were."

"What was she like? Retiring or opinionated? Intelligent or not?" Monk was determined to get a meaningful answer from the man, not the bland words of praise a servant would normally give his employer, or anyone would accord to the dead. "Was she pretty? Did she flirt? Was she in love with Mr. Argyll, or did she perhaps prefer someone else? Might she have felt trapped in a marriage to him?"

"Trapped?" Cardman was startled.

"Oh, come now," Monk retorted. "You know as well as I do that not all young women marry for love! They marry suitably, or as opportunity is offered them." He knew this from Hester, and from some of the cases he had taken in his private capacity. The pressure and the humiliation of it barely touched the edges of his experience, but he had seen the marriage market at work, young women paraded like bloodstock for farmers to bid on.

Cardman was caught in an impossible situation. His expression registered his embarrassment and his understanding. Perhaps grief, and the knowledge that he no longer had a mistress to serve, broke down his resistance.

"Yes, sir," he admitted uncomfortably. "I think Miss Havilland did feel rather that she was taking the best offer that she had, and it would be the right thing to do in accepting Mr. Toby."

Monk had expected that answer, and yet it grieved him. The young woman with the passionate face whom he had pulled from the river deserved better than that, and would have hungered for it more than some. "And she broke the agreement after her fathers death?"

"Yes, sir." Cardman's voice dropped and there was a huskiness that once again betrayed his emotion. "She was very distressed by his death indeed. We all were."

"How did it happen?"

Cardman hesitated again, but he seemed to know that Monk would not allow him to go without first answering the question. Like Monk, Cardman was a leader in a tightly knit, hierarchical community with some of the most rigid rules on earth. And perhaps there was something in him that wanted to share his bewilderment and his pain with at least one other person.

"Mr. Havilland was a gentleman in the old sense of the term, sir," he began. "Not titled, you understand, and not with great wealth. He was fair to everybody, and he never carried a grudge. If any man wronged him and apologized, Mr. Havilland forgot the thing entirely. He was a good friend, but he never put friendship above what he thought was right, and he respected a poor man as much as a rich one, if that man was good to his word."

Monk was aware that Cardman was watching him, to see if he caught the unspoken thread bright between the words.

"I see," Monk acknowledged. "Much to be admired, but not one to take the way of many in society, or in business, either." He did not remember his days in merchant banking-they were gone with all the rest of his memory-but he had learned, piece by piece, much about the cost and the dishonor of some of his own acts, and those of people he had loved who had been ruined.

"No, sir, I'm afraid not," Cardman agreed. "He had many friends, but I think perhaps he had enemies as well. He was much worried before his death that the rebuilding of the sewers to Mr. Bazalgette's plans was going ahead rather too hastily, and the use of the big machines was going to cause a bad accident. He became most concerned about it and spent all this time looking into matters, trying to prove he was right."

"And did he prove it?" Monk asked.

"Not so far as I know, sir. It caused some unpleasantness with Mr. Alan Argyll, and Mr. Toby as well, but Mr. Havilland wouldn't stop. He felt he was right."

"That must have been very difficult for him, with both his daughters concerned with the Argyll brothers," Monk observed.

"Indeed, sir. There was some unpleasantness. I'm afraid feelings ran rather high. Miss Mary sided with her father, and that was when matters between her and Mr. Toby became strained."

"And she broke off her arrangement?"

"No, sir, not then." Cardman was obviously wretched speaking about it, and yet Monk could feel the weight of it inside like a dam needing release before the pressure of it burst the walls.

"Mr. Havilland was very concerned," Monk prompted. "You must have seen him frequently, even every day. Did he seem to you on the edge of losing his grip on self-control?"

"No, sir, not in the slightest!" Cardman said vehemently, his lean face alive with sudden, undisguised emotion. "He was not in a mood anything like despair! He was elated, if anything. He believed he was on the brink of finding proof of what he feared. There had been no accident, you see. Rather, he felt one might occur-something appalling, costing scores of lives-and he wanted above all things to prevent it." Admiration shone in his eyes, admiration that was deeper than mere loyalty.

"Have you always been in service, Cardman?" Monk said impulsively.

"I beg your pardon?" Cardman was taken by surprise.

Monk repeated the question.

"No, sir. I served for six years in the army. I don't see what that has to do with Mr. Havilland's death."

"Only your judgment of men under pressure."

Cardman was embarrassed and did not know how to accept what he realized was a compliment. He colored faintly and looked away.

"Were you surprised that Mr. Havilland took his life?" Monk asked.

"Yes, sir. Especially..." Cardman took a moment to master himself. He sat perfectly still, his knuckles white. "Especially in his own house, where Miss Mary was bound to know about it. A man can make such things look like an accident." He breathed in and out slowly. "It broke her heart. She was never the same afterwards." There was anger in his face now. A man he admired had inexplicably let him down; more than that, he had let them all down, most of all the daughter who had trusted him.

"But you did believe it nonetheless?" Monk asked. He felt like a surgeon cutting open a man still conscious and feeling every movement of the knife. He thought of Hester's battlefield surgery. She had steeled herself to do it, knowing the alternative was to let the men die.

"I had no choice," Cardman said quietly. "The stable boy found him out there in the mews in the morning, a bullet through his brain and the gun by his hand. The police proved he'd bought it himself, from a pawn shop just a few days before." There was obviously a great deal more he could have said-the feelings were naked in his eyes-but a lifetime's discretion governed him.

"Did he leave a note as to why he had done such a thing?" Monk asked.

"No, sir."

"And he said nothing to you or any of the other servants?"

"No, sir, simply that he wanted to wait up that night, and we should not concern ourselves, but retire as usual."

"And you detected nothing out of the ordinary in his manner? Even with the wisdom of knowing now what happened?"

"I have considered it, naturally, wondering if there was something I should have seen," Cardman admitted. He had the air of a man who has lived through a nightmare. "He seemed preoccupied, as if he was expecting something to happen, but in all honesty, I thought then that it was an irritation that plagued him, not a despair."

"Irritation?" Monk pressed. "Anger?"

Cardman frowned. "I would not have put it as strongly as that, sir. Rather more as if an old friend had disappointed him, or something was wearisome. I formed the opinion it was a familiar problem rather than a new one. He certainly did not seem afraid or desperate."

"So you were shocked the next morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Miss Mary?"

Cardman's face was pinched and his eyes were bright with tears he could not allow himself to shed. "I've never seen anyone more deeply hurt, sir. Mrs. Kittredge, the housekeeper, feared Miss Mary might meet her own death, she was so beside herself with grief. She refused to believe that he could have done it himself."

Monk refused to picture Mary Havilland's face. What in heaven's name had driven Havilland to do this to his daughter? At least with Hester's father it was the only way for him to answer the shame that had been placed upon him, through his own goodness of heart. He had been deceived, like so many others. He had considered death the only act left to an honorable man. What had Havilland feared or despaired of that had driven him to such an act?

"Why did she find it so hard to believe?" he said, more sharply than he had meant to.

Cardman started with surprise at the emotion in Monk's voice. "There was no reason," he said gravely. "That is why Miss Mary believed he had been murdered. More and more she became convinced that either he had found something in the tunneling works or he was about to, and for that he had been killed."

"What made her more convinced?" Monk said quickly. "Did something happen, or was it simply her need to clear her father of suicide?"

"If I knew, sir, I'd tell you," Cardman replied, looking directly into Monk's eyes. There was a kind of desperation in him, as if he was clinging to a last thread of hope too delicate to name. "Miss Mary read all through her father's papers, sat all day and up half the night. Over and over she searched them. Many's the time I'd go to his study and find her there at his desk, or fallen asleep in the big chair, one of his books open in her hands."

"What kind of book?" Monk did not know what he was looking for, but Cardman's emotion caught him also.

"Engineering," Cardman said, as if Monk should have understood.

Monk was puzzled. "Engineering, did you say?"

"Mr. Havilland was a senior engineer and surveyor for Mr. Argyll's company, until the day of his death. That's why they quarrelled. Mr. Argyll's company has never had a bad accident-in fact, they're better than most for safety-but Mr. Havilland believed it would happen."

"And he told Mr. Argyll?"

Cardman shifted position slightly.

"Yes, of course. But Mr. Argyll said it was just his feelings about being underground, closed in, as it were. Mr. Havilland was embarrassed to admit to them. Argyll as much as called him a coward, albeit politely. Of course he never used that word."

"Was that what Miss Havilland was doing also, enquiring into engineering, as regards the tunnels?"

"Yes, sir. I'm certain of it."

"But she found nothing, either?"

Cardman looked chagrined. "No, sir, not so far as I am aware."

"Did she continue to see Mr. Toby Argyll?"

"She broke off their agreement, but of course she still saw him socially now and then. She could hardly help it, since he was Miss Jennifer's brother-in-law, and the Argyll brothers were very close."

"Do you know Mrs. Argyll's feelings on the subject?" Monk asked. "She was surely caught in the middle of a most unfortunate development."

Cardman's lips pressed together before he spoke.

"She was loyal to her husband, sir. She was convinced that her father's fears had unbalanced his judgment, and she was annoyed with Miss Mary for pandering to him rather than encouraging him to abandon the matter." There was a wealth of anger and distress in his voice.

Monk was bitterly aware that the house in which Cardman lived was the center of a double disgrace, and there seemed no one left to care except the butler and the other servants for whom he was responsible.

"I see. Thank you very much for your honesty," Monk said, rising to his feet. "Just one more thing: Who investigated Mr. Havilland's death?"

"A Superintendent Runcorn," Cardman replied. "He was very civil about it, and seemed to be thorough. I cannot think of anything more that he could have done." He stood also.

Runcorn! That was the worst answer Cardman could have given. The past returned to Monk like a draft of cold air. How many times had he second-guessed Runcorn-gone over his work, corrected a flaw here and there, and altered the conclusion? It seemed as if he had always needed to prove himself the cleverer. Increasingly he disliked the man he had been then. The fact that he disliked Runcorn even more mitigated nothing.

"Mr. Argyll did not doubt the correctness of the verdict?" he asked aloud, his voice rasping with emotion.

"No, sir, just Miss Mary." Grief filled Cardman's face, and he seemed unashamed of it, as if at least in front of Monk he felt no need to mask it anymore. He swallowed hard. "Sir, I would be most grateful if you could inform us when... when she is... if Mrs. Argyll doesn't..." He did not know how to finish.

"I will make certain you are told," Monk said hoarsely. "But you might consider whether the female staff wish to attend. Burials can be... very arduous."

"You are telling me it will be in unhallowed ground. I know, sir. If Miss Mary was strong enough to go to her fathers burial, we can go to hers."

Monk nodded, tears in his throat, for Mary Havilland, for Hester's father, for uncounted people in despair.

Cardman saw him to the door in silent understanding.

Outside in the street Monk began to walk back down the hill towards Westminster Bridge. It would be the best place to catch a hansom, but he was in no hurry. He must face Runcorn in his own station and yet again challenge his judgment, but he was not ready to do it yet. Were it not for the thought of Mary Havilland buried in the grave of an outcast, her courage and loyalty to her father credited as no more than the dementia of a bereaved woman, he would have accepted the verdict and consider he had done all that duty required.

But he remembered her face, the white skin, the strong bones and the gentle mouth. She was a fighter who had been beaten. He refused to accept that she had surrendered. At least he could not yet.

He wanted to prepare what he would say to Runcorn, weigh his words to rob them of criticism, perhaps even gain his support. The wind was cold blowing up off the river, and the damp in it stung the flesh. It crept through the cracks between scarf and coat collar, and whipped trousers around the ankles. The magnificent Gothic lines of the Houses of Parliament stood on the far bank. Big Ben indicated that it was twenty minutes before eleven. He had been longer with Cardman than he had realized.

He hunched his shoulders and walked more rapidly along the footpath. Hansoms passed him, but they were all occupied. Should he have asked Cardman outright if he believed the Havillands had committed suicide? He thought the butler was a good judge of character, a strong man.

No. He was also loyal. Whatever he thought, he would not have told a stranger that both his master and then his mistress had committed such an act of cowardice before the law of man and of God. His own judgment might have been wiser and gentler, but he would not have left them open to the censure of the world.

He reached the middle of the bridge and saw an empty cab going the other way. He stepped out into the road and hailed it, giving the police station address.

The journey was too short. He was still not ready when he arrived, but then perhaps he never would be. He paid the driver and went up the station steps and inside. He was recognized immediately.

"Mornin', Mr. Monk," the desk sergeant said guardedly. "What can we do for you, sir?"

Monk could not remember the man, but that meant nothing, except that he had not worked with him since the accident, nearly eight years ago now. Had he really known Hester so long? Why had it taken him years to find the courage within himself, and the honesty, to acknowledge his feelings for her? The answer was easy. He did not want to give anyone else the power to hurt him so much. And in closing the door on the possibility of pain, of course, he had closed it on the chance for joy as well.

"Good morning, Sergeant," he replied, stopping in front of the desk. "I would like to speak to Superintendent Runcorn, please. It concerns a case he handled recently."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant said with a hint of satisfaction at the lack of authority in Monk's voice. "That will be on behalf of whom, sir?"

Monk forbore from smiling, although he wanted to. The man had not recognized his police coat. "On behalf of the Thames River Police," he replied, opening his jacket a little so that his uniform showed beneath.

The sergeant's eyes widened and he let out his breath slowly. "Yes, sir!" he said, turning on his heel and retreating, and Monk heard his footsteps as he went upstairs to break the news.

Five minutes later Monk was standing in Runcorn's office. It had a large, comfortable desk in it and the air was warm from the stove in the corner. There were books on the shelf opposite and a rather nice carving of a wooden bear on a plinth in the middle. It was all immaculately tidy as always-part of Runcorn's need to conform, and impress.

Runcorn himself had changed little. He was tall and barrel-chested, with large eyes a fraction too close together above a long nose. His hair was still thick and liberally sprinkled with gray. He had put on a few pounds around the waist.

"So it's true!" he said, eyebrows raised, voice too carefully expressionless. "You're in the River Police! I told Watkins he was daft, but seems he wasn't." His face stretched into a slow, satisfied smile at his own power to give help or withhold it. "Well, what can I do for you, Inspector? It is Inspector, isn't it?" There was a wealth of meaning behind the words. Monk and Runcorn had once been of equal rank, long ago. It was Monk's tongue that had cost him his seniority. He had been more elegant than Runcorn, cleverer, immeasurably more the gentleman, and he always would be. They both knew it. But Runcorn was patient-prepared to play the game by the rules, bite back his insolence, curb his impatience, climb slowly. Now he had his reward in superior rank, and he could not keep from savoring it.

"Yes, it is," Monk replied. He ached to be tart, but he could not afford it.

"Down at Wapping? Live there, too?" Runcorn pursued the subject of Monk's fall in the world. Wapping was a less elegant, less salubrious place than Grafton Street had been, or at least than it had sounded.

"Yes," Monk agreed again.

"Well, well," Runcorn mused. "Would never have guessed you'd do that! Like it, do you?"

"Only been there a few weeks," Monk told him.

Again Runcorn could not resist the temptation. "Got tired of being on your own, then? Bit hard, I should imagine." He was still smiling. "After all, most people can call the police for nothing. Why should they pay someone? Knew you'd have to come back one day. What do you need my help with? Out of your depth already?" He oozed pleasure now.

Monk itched to retaliate. He had to remind himself again that he could not afford to. "James Havilland," he answered. "About two months ago. Charles Street."

Runcorn's face darkened a little, the pleasure draining out of it. "I remember. Poor man shot himself in his own stables. What is it to do with the River Police? It's nowhere near the water."

"Do you remember his daughter, Mary?" Monk remained standing. Runcorn had not offered him a seat, and for Monk to be comfortable would seem inappropriate in this conversation, given all the past that lay between them.

"Of course I do," Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he ruled his little kingdom. "Has... has she complained to you that her father was murdered?"


Monk was stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should trespass on his case.

"Who did she think was responsible?" he asked.

Runcorn was too quick for him. "Did she?" he challenged him. "Why did you say did!"

"She fell off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening," Monk replied.

Runcorn was stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. "Suicide?" he said hoarsely.

"I'm not sure," Monk replied. "It looked like it at first. She was standing near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing, and then both overbalanced and fell."

"A man?" Runcorn's eyes widened. "Who? Argyll?"

"Why do you think it was Argyll?" Monk demanded.

Runcorn lost his temper, color flooding up his cheeks. "Don't play your damn fool games with me, Monk!" he said harshly. "You always were a heartless bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she's dead, too! It's my case, and I'll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer again. Do you hear me?"

Monk's temper flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level voice. "If you're fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone superintendent, you'll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of authority," he retorted. "I don't know whether Mary Havilland jumped, fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards from two hundred feet away-too far to see in the dark." He was not going to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about Hester's history. That was another grief, another time. "If I knew exactly what happened to James Havilland, it might help me."

Runcorn grunted, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders sagged a little. "Oh. Well, I suppose you do need that. Sit down." He waved at a wooden chair piled with papers, and eased himself into his own leather-padded seat behind his desk.

Monk moved the papers onto the floor and obeyed.

Runcorn's face became somber. He had dealt with death both accidental and homicidal all his adult life, but this one apparently moved him, even in memory.

"Stable boy found him in the morning," he began, looking down at his large hands rather than at Monk. "Seems the boy lived a mile or so away, and used to walk to work every morning. Mews are small there, and the room above the stable was kept for harnesses and the like. He could have slept in the straw, but seems he had an aunt with a lodging house in the area, and he helped out there too, and got fed and looked after for it. He seemed like an honest lad, but we checked it all, and it was the truth. He was home all night, and Havilland's butler said they'd never had a day's bother with him."

Monk nodded.

"Boy arrived about six," Runcorn went on. "Found his master on the floor of the room where they keep the hay and feed. Lying on his back, shot through the head. One clean bullet into the brain. Must've been standing near the middle of the room, and fell backwards. Blood exactly where you'd expect it to be. Gun fallen out of his hand but not more than a foot away."

Monk felt a chill settle over him.

"Boy went in and told the butler-can't remember his name," Runcorn went on. "Carter, or something like that."

"Cardman," Monk supplied.

"That's right," Runcorn agreed, blinking several times. "He went out to look. Saw just what the boy had said, and sent the footman for the police. It was nearer eight o'clock by the time I got there. Didn't know Havilland personally, but I knew him by repute. A very decent man. Hard to believe he'd taken his own life." He looked up at Monk suddenly. "But one thing police work teaches you: You never know what goes on in somebody else's mind. Loves and hates that their own families don't ever dream about."

Monk nodded. For once he had no quibble at all. He tried to imagine Runcorn and the scene: the small stable, the straw, the sound and smell of horses, the leather harnesses, the gleam of lantern light on polished brass, the dead man lying on the floor, the sickly smell of blood.

"Were the horses frightened?" he asked. "Any injuries?"

Runcorn frowned. "No. Bit nervous. They'd smelled blood and they must have heard the shot, but nothing was disturbed as if there'd been a fight. No wounds, no wood kicked, no cuts, neither of 'em really spooked. And before you ask, there were no other marks on the body, no bruises, clothes as neat as you please. I'd lay my reputation no one struggled or fought with him before he was shot. And the way he was lying, either he shot himself, which everything pointed to, or whoever else did it stood within a couple of feet of him, because there was nowhere else to stand in a room that size."

"And nothing was taken, nothing missing?" Monk asked without hope now. He had outwitted Runcorn many times in the past, but that was years ago. They had both learned in the time between: Monk to be a little gentler, and more honest in his reasons for cleverness; Runcorn to think a little harder before coming to conclusions, perhaps also to keep his attention on the case more, and less on his own vanity.

"Nothing to take in the stables," Runcorn replied. "Unless you count the odd horse brass, but the stable boy said they were all there."

"Coachman agree?" Monk put in.

"Seems a footman doubled as coachman," Runcorn answered. "He was handy, and with a butler and junior footman who doubled as boot boy, that was all that was necessary."

"And the house?" Monk pressed. "Anyone intrude in the night? Or impossible to tell, if Havilland had left the door open. Had he?"

"Yes. The butler says he sat up late. Told them he wanted to work in his study, and sent them all to bed. But a thorough search was made and both Miss Havilland herself and the housekeeper said nothing at all was missing, or even moved. And there were plenty of nice things, easy to carry, if a burglar'd wanted. Easy to sell."

"What time did he die?" Monk was not yet willing to give up, although it was beginning to look more and more as if Mary Havilland's belief in her father's murder was simply a desperate young woman's refusal to accept the truth that he had killed himself.

"Police surgeon reckoned between midnight and about three, close as he could tell. Pretty cold in the stables, late autumn. The thirteenth of November, to be exact. Frost was sharpish that night. I remember it was still white all around the edges of the leaves on the garden bushes we passed going in." Runcorn was hunched up, as if the memory chilled him.

"No one heard a shot?"

"No." Runcorn gave a tiny, bleak smile. "Which was unusual. You'd think someone would've. Tried shooting the thing myself, and it was loud enough. Could hear it clear a hundred yards off, on a still night like that. I followed that one all the way, but if anyone heard, they wouldn't admit to it." There was long experience in his face, and fighting against it a very faint quickening of hope.

Monk realized with surprise that Runcorn wanted Mary Havilland to be right; he simply could not see the possibility.

"Muffled by something?" Monk asked.

Runcorn shook his head no more than an inch or two. "Nothing there. Powder burns on his skin. If he'd wrapped a towel or a cloth around it to deaden the sound, that'd account for why nobody heard it, or maybe didn't recognize it for a shot, but then the cloth would still be there, and it wasn't. Unless... somebody took it away!" He did not quite make it a question, but it was in his eyes.

"No sign of anyone else there?" Monk asked, seeking the same hope.

"Not a thing, and I looked myself."

Monk believed him. Not only was Runcorn not easily a liar, there was a painful hunger in him to believe better of Havilland than the circumstances justified. Even now, two months later, it was still there.

Monk asked the next, obvious question. "Why? What was so wrong that he'd shoot himself in his own stables in the middle of the night?"

Runcorn pressed his lips together and hunched his shoulders a little more. "I looked." There was an edge of defense in his voice. "As far as anyone knew, his health was excellent. He ate well, slept well enough, walked often. We checked into his affairs; he certainly was more than comfortably off. No unaccounted expenditure. He didn't gamble. And if anyone was blackmailing him, it wasn't for money. If he had a mistress, we never found her. If he had bad habits, we saw no sign of them, either. He drank very little. Never been seen the worse for it. Wife died seven years ago. Had two daughters. Jenny, the elder, is married to Alan Argyll, a very successful businessman."

Runcorn took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "Havilland worked for Argyll's company as an engineer in the big rebuilding of the sewers. Well respected, well paid. Seemed to get on all right, at least until recently, when Havilland took it into his head that the tunnels were dangerous and there was going to be an accident one day. We couldn't find any evidence for it. Argyll's safety record is good, better than most. And we all know the new sewers are necessary, urgently so."

"And Mary?" Monk asked. He wanted to fault Runcorn, to find something the superintendent had forgotten or done badly, but he couldn't.

Runcorn's face softened. "The poor girl was beside herself with grief," he said defensively, as if he felt he needed to protect her memory from Monk's intrusion.

Monk liked him the better for that.

"She couldn't believe he would do such a thing," Runcorn went on. "Said he was on a crusade, and people in crusades get killed sometimes, but they don't shoot themselves. She said he was on the edge of finding out something about the tunnels, and someone killed him to stop him doing that. Lots of money at stake. Fortunes to be made, and I suppose lost, in all this. And reputations."

"What do you believe?" Monk asked.

"Asked a few questions about him," Runcorn said unhappily. "According to the men in the works, he'd gotten a bit eccentric. Scared stiff of tunnels and holes, so they said. Used to shake and go white as a ghost, break out in a sweat." He lifted one shoulder very slightly. "Happens to some people. Others it's heights, or spiders, or snakes. Whatever. Usually think of women being frightened of that sort of thing, but it doesn't have to be. Worked a case once with a woman who fainted at the sight of a mouse. Can't think why, but it doesn't have to have a reason. Knew another one terrified of birds, even a harmless little canary." He stopped. All the lines of his face sagged, making him look older, more tired than before. "He did seem obsessed with the dread of an accident, and as far as I could see, there was no reason for it."

"What did Mrs. Argyll think of her father in this?" Monk asked, remembering Jenny Argyll's stiff back and carefully controlled face.

"Blamed herself for not seeing how far his madness had gone," Runcorn answered, weariness and confusion in his eyes. "Said she would have had him better looked after if she'd known. Not that there was a thing she could've done, as her husband told her. As long as he breaks no laws-and Havilland didn't-a man's entitled to go as daft as he likes."

"And Mary?"

Runcorn sighed. "That's the thing. Poor girl refused to accept it. Determined her father was right and wouldn't let it rest. Started reading all his books, asking questions. Broke off her engagement to Toby Argyll and devoted herself to clearing her father's name. Wanted him buried in consecrated ground if it took her her life's work to do it." His voice sank even lower. "Now it looks as if the poor soul'll lie beside him. Do you know when they're going to do that, because-" He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat, then glared defensively at Monk as if challenging him to mock.

Monk had no desire to. In his mind's eye he could see again and again the figure of Mary tipping over the rail, clinging on to Toby Argyll, and the two of them plunging down into the icy river. He still did not know what had happened; nothing was clear, and he ended up not remembering but imagining, because he wanted her not to have done it herself.

And he remembered the strong bones and the gentle mouth of the white face they pulled out of the river, and that Mrs. Porter had said she was a woman of opinions and the courage to declare them.

"No, not yet. But I'll tell you when I do. Have to tell the butler, Card-man, as well."

Runcorn nodded, then looked away, his eyes too bright.

"You said you found where he bought the gun." Monk changed the subject.

Runcorn did not look at him. "Pawnshop half a mile away. Owner described him close enough. He was wearing a good coat, dark wool, and a scarf. Nothing odd in that, especially on a November night."

"Not very specific. Could have been anyone."

"Could have, except it was the same gun. Had one or two marks and scratches on it. He was certain enough."

"But why would Havilland have killed himself?" Monk persisted.

Runcorn shook his head. "Alan Argyll told me he was becoming an embarrassment to the company. He was reluctant to say so, but he was going to have to dismiss him. Havilland was upsetting the men, causing trouble. Argyll felt very badly about it, but he had no choice. Couldn't let everyone suffer because of one man's obsession. Said he hadn't told his wife, and certainly Mary didn't know, but he had intimated as much to Havilland himself. He begged us not to tell them, especially Mary. It wouldn't alter his suicide, and it would reduce him in their eyes. In fact, it would make suicide seem more rational. Maybe he did tell her after all." There was no relief in his face, no sense of resolution.

"Poor man," Monk said. "If he told her at last and she went off the bridge, taking Toby Argyll with her, he's going to feel a guilt for the rest of his life."

"What else could he do?" Runcorn said reasonably, his face still puckered in distaste.

"If Havilland was murdered, who did Mary think was responsible?"

"Her brother-in-law," Runcorn replied unhesitatingly. "But he wasn't. We checked up-he was out all evening at a function and went home with his wife a little after midnight. She'll swear for him, and so will the servants. Footman waited up; so did the lady's maid. No way he could have been there. Same for his brother, before you ask."

"He lives close by. No servants to swear for him," Monk pointed out.

"He was out of London that night," Runcorn responded. "Wasn't within a hundred miles. Checked on that, too."

"I see." There was nothing left to argue. He stood up with a strange hollowness inside him. "Thank you."

Runcorn rose as well. "Are you giving up?" It sounded like a challenge. There was a note in it close to despair.

"No!" Monk exclaimed. In truth, though, he had no idea where else to look for evidence. Inevitability closed in on him.

"Tell me," Runcorn said, frowning, "if you find anything. And..."

"Yes, I will," Monk promised. He thanked him, and left before it could grow any more awkward. There was nothing else for them to say to each other, and the brief truce was best unbroken by not trying.

Monk returned to Wapping station and spent the afternoon in the general duties that were part of his new job. He disliked the routine, especially writing reports and even more reading other people's, but he could not afford to do less than his best. Any error or omission could be the one that spelled failure. He must succeed. He had no other skills than for his work and most certainly no other friends like Callandra Daviot who could or should help financially.

At five o'clock it was completely dark. Worse than that, there was a heavy fog rolling in from the east, shrouding the river so closely he knew he would not find a boatman to attempt rowing him across. Already the streetlamps were dimming, blurred yellow ghosts fading altogether after twenty yards, so the night was impenetrable. The mournful baying of the foghorns on the water broke the silence, and there was little else to be heard but the steady drip of water and the slurp of the tide on the steps and against the embankment.

Monk left at half past five to begin the long walk up towards London Bridge, where if he was very fortunate he might find a hansom to take him over, and as far as Southwark Park and home.

He buttoned his coat, pulled his collar up, and set out.

He had gone about a quarter of a mile when he was aware of someone behind him. He stopped just beyond one of the mist-shrouded lamps and waited.

An urchin came into the pale circle of light. He looked about nine years old, as much as one could see of his face through the grime. He was wearing a long jacket and odd boots, but at least he was not barefoot on the icy stone.

"Hello, Scuff," Monk said with pleasure. The mudlark had been of help to him in the Maude Idris case, and Monk had seen him a dozen times since then, albeit briefly. Twice they had shared a meat pie. This was the first time he had seen the boots. "New find?" he asked, admiring them.

"Found one, bought the other," Scuff replied, catching up with him.

Monk started to walk again. It was too cold to stand still. "How are you?" he asked.

Scuff shrugged. "I got boots. You all right?" The second was said with a shadow of anxiety. Scuff thought Monk was an innocent, a liability to himself, and he made no secret of it.

"Not bad, thank you," Monk replied. "Do you want a pie, if we can find anyone open?"

"Yer won't," Scuff said candidly. "It's gonna be an 'ard winter. You wanna watch yerself. It's gonna get bad."

"It's pretty bad every winter," Monk replied. He could not afford to dwell too long on the misery of those who worked and slept outside, because he was helpless to do anything about it. What was a hot pie now and then to one small boy?

"This in't the same," Scuff replied, keeping step with Monk by skipping an extra one now and then. "Them big tunnels wot they're diggin' is upsettin' folk down there. Toshers in't appy."

Toshers were the men who made their living by hunting for and picking up small objects of value that found their way into the sewers, including a remarkable amount of jewelry. They usually hunted together, for fear of the armies of rats that could rapidly strip a man down to the bone if he was unlucky enough to lose his footing and injure himself. And there was always the possibility of a buildup of methane gas given off by the sewer contents, and of course a wave of water if the rain was torrential enough.

"Why are the toshers unhappy?" Monk asked. "There'll always be sewers, just better ones."

"Change," Scuff said simply, and with exaggerated patience. "Everybody's got their stretch, their beat, if yer like, seen as yer a policeman o' sorts."

"I'm a perfectly regular policeman!" Monk defended himself.

Scuff treated that assertion with the silence it deserved. In his opinion Monk was a dangerous novice who had taken Durban 's position out of a misguided idea of loyalty. He was miserably unsuited for it and was much in need of the guidance or protection of someone who knew what they were doing, such as Scuff himself. He had been born on the river, and at nine years old-or possibly ten, he wasn't sure-he knew an enormous amount, and was not too proud to learn more every day. But it was a heavy responsibility to look after a grown man who thought he knew so much more than he did.

"Is there going to be a fight over the new stretches?" Monk asked.

"Course there is," Scuff replied, sniffling. "An lots o' folk gotta move their places. 'Ow'd yer like it if some bleedin' great machine came an' crashed your 'ole street down wi'out a word, eh?"

Scuff was referring to the entire communities on the edge between honest poverty, close to destitution, and the semi-criminal underworld who lived nearly all their lives in the sewers, tunnels, and excavations beneath London. To drive a new tunnel through the old was like putting a hot poker into a wasps' nest. That had been Orme's analogy.

"I know," Monk replied. "Mr. Orme has already warned me. I'm not doing this alone, you know." He looked from left to right through the thickening fog to see if he could see the lights of any kind of food or hot-drink peddlers. The cold was like a tightening vise around them, crushing the heat out of their bodies. How did an urchin like Scuff-so thin he was merely skin and bone-survive? The baleful cry of the foghorns was growing more frequent on the water, and it was impossible to place the sound in the distortion of the mist.

" 'Ot-chestnut seller that way," Scuff said hopefully, sniffing again.

"Tonight?" Monk doubted it. It would be a bad night for barrows; no one would be able to see them in this.

"Charlie," Scuff said, as if that were explanation enough.

"Do you think so?"

"Course."

"I can't see anything. Which way?"

"Don need ter. I know where 'e'll be. Yer like chestnuts?" There was a definite lift in Scuff s voice now.

"Hot, I'd eat anything. Yes, I do."

Scuff hesitated, as if considering whether to strike a bargain, then his charity got the better of his business sense. "I'll take yer," he offered magnanimously. It was clear that Monk needed all the help he could get.

"Thank you," Monk accepted. "Perhaps you would join me?"

"I don' mind if I do."