The Dark Assassin

chapter Six
Monk was standing in the kitchen when he heard Hester come in at the front door. He spun around and strode into the hall. He immediately saw how she was dressed and that her face was pinched and weary. Her hair was straggling as if she had tied it in a knot rather than bothered dressing it at all, and her sleeves and trousers were wet.

"Where in hell have you been?" he said abruptly, alarm making his voice sharper than he had meant. He was very close to her, almost touching her. "What's happened?"

She did not even try to prevaricate. "I've been in the tunnels, with Sutton. I'm perfectly all right, but there's something terribly wrong there," she said, looking directly at him. "It isn't as easy as I thought. The engines are enormous, and they're shaking the ground. It's nothing to do with what James Havilland or Mary discovered. They all know it's dangerous; it's part of the job." Her eyes were searching his face now, looking for help, explanations to make sense of it. "They all know about the fact that there are streams underground, and wells, and that the clay slips. Hundreds of people live down there! But Mary was going from one person to another asking questions. What could she have been looking for, and why did it matter?"

Monk forced himself to be gentle as he accompanied Hester into the warmth of the kitchen. He was not in the least domestic by nature, but he had nonetheless cleaned out the stove and relit it. With Hester's absences in the clinic caring for the desperately ill and dying, he had been obliged to learn.

He took her coat from her and hung it up on the peg, where it could dry. She made no attempt to be evasive, which in itself alarmed him. She must be very badly frightened. He could see it in her eyes in the brightness of the kitchen gaslight. "Where did you learn all this?" he asked.

"The Thames Tunnel," she answered. "Not alone!" she added hastily. "I was perfectly safe." Involuntarily she shuddered, her body in a spasm of uncontrollable memory. She pushed a shaking hand through her hair. "William, there are people who live down there, all the time! Like... rats. They never come up to the wind or the light."

"I know. But it's probably no more a root of crime than the waterside slums or the docks, places like Jacob's Island." He put his arms around her and held her close. "You're not setting up any clinic for them!"

She laughed in spite of herself, and ended up coughing. "I hadn't even thought of it. But now that-"

"Hester!"

She smiled brightly at him.

He breathed out slowly, forcing himself to be calmer. Then he put more water in the kettle and slid it onto the hob. There was fresh bread and butter and cheese, and a slice of decent cake in the pantry.

"William..."

He stopped and faced her, waiting.

At last she spoke. "Mary went to all sorts of places and asked questions about rivers and clay, and how many people had been hurt, but she asked about engineers as well. And apparently she knew something about them-knew one sort from another. She took terrible risks. Either she didn't realize, or..." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She was so tired her skin was white, and in spite of his holding her, she had not stopped shivering.

"Do you think she was foolish enough to be unaware of the dangers?" he asked.

"No," she said in a soft, unhappy voice, but she did not pull away from him. "I think she cared about the truth so passionately that she preferred to take the risk rather than run away. I think she was afraid of a real disaster, worse than the Fleet."

"Because it's in a tunnel?"

"Fire," she told him. "Gas pipes go up into houses aboveground as well."

He understood. The possibilities were terrifying. "And they know?"

She nodded and moved back a step at last as the shivering eased. "It looks like it. She just couldn't prove it yet. Or maybe she could. Do you think that's why she was killed?"

"It could be," he said gently. "And it also might be why her father was killed, so don't imagine they would give a moment's thought as to whether or not they should kill you if they see you as a threat! So-"

"I know that! I have no intention of going back there again, I promise."

He looked at her closely, steadily, and saw the fear in her eyes. She would keep her word; he did not need to ask her for a promise. "Not only your life," he said, his voice softer. "The lives of others, too."

"I know. What are you going to do?"

"Make the tea," he said ruefully. "Then I'm going to consider who had the opportunity to kill James Havilland. As for Mary's death-we'll never prove that Toby meant to kill her, and since he died as well, the matter of justice has been rather well settled."

"Do you think she held on to him and took him with her on purpose?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "I think she could do that."

"It isn't enough, though, is it?"

He could never lie to her. She could see right inside him, whether she meant to or not.

"No. It doesn't make sense that Alan Argyll would take a risk like that. It would ruin him. There's something else that we don't know. We haven't got all of it."

She put her arms around him again, holding him more tightly.

In the morning the situation seemed less clear-cut. If it had been Toby Argyll, young and ambitious, who was behind it all, then he was beyond anyone's reach now, and blackening his name would be seen as pointlessly cruel. Alan Argyll would do everything possible to prevent that, and Monk would earn for the River Police a bitter enemy. His proof would have to be absolute. No one would care about rescuing the reputation of James Havilland, and even less about Mary's. Naturally Farnham would see no purpose in it at all.

Monk's accountability to Farnham was one of the prices to pay for the authority and regular income his uniform gave him. He did not fear financial insecurity this winter as he had last. Thinking of ways to skirt around Farnham s prejudices was a small enough price to pay.

He needed to know a lot more about both Toby and Alan Argyll. It was difficult to form an opinion of someone who was dead, especially if he had died young and tragically. No one liked to speak of such individuals except in hushed and careful tones, as if death removed all weaknesses from them, not to mention actual sins.

Perhaps a good place to begin would be with those who had cared for the other dead people, James and Mary Havilland. This time he would see the housekeeper, Mrs. Kitching. He might even ask Cardman again, and persuade him to be rather less stiffly discreet.

Cardman greeted Monk with courtesy. He stood in the morning room to answer Monk's questions, and if his mask slipped, it was only to show a swift anger that Mary Havilland was regarded by the church as a sinner who, by the finality of death, had forfeited her chance of repentance.

Monk felt helpless to reach out to the man's hard, isolated grief. Cardman was intensely private; perhaps it was his only armor. Monk had no wish to breach it. Instead he asked if he might see the housekeeper, and was conducted along the corridor and, after a brief enquiry, shown into her room.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kitching," he began.

"Hmph," she replied, her back straight as a ruler as she sat opposite him in her small, neat sitting room. She looked him up and down, noting his police uniform jacket-a sartorial burden he bore with difficulty- and then his white shirt collar and beautiful leather boots. "Police officer, is it? More of the officer, and less of the police, maybe? And what is it you're wanting now? I'll not say ill of Miss Havilland, so you can save your time. I'll go to my own grave saying she was a good woman, and I'll tell the good Lord so to his face."

"I'm investigating why she died, and who was the cause of it, Mrs. Kitching. I'd like to know a little more about the other people concerned in her life. For example, did you know Mr. Toby Argyll? I imagine he called here to see her quite often, especially after her father's death?"

"And before," she said quickly.

"Were they very close?"

"Depends what you mean." It was not a prevarication; she wished to be exact. Her eyes were more direct than those of any servant he had questioned before, at least as long as he could remember.

A thought flashed across his mind. "Will you be looking for another position after this, Mrs. Kitching?"

"I've no need to. I've saved a bit. I'm going to live with my brother and his wife, in Dorking. I'm just staying here till matters are settled."

He smiled. She was exactly the witness he was looking for, and so he returned to his earlier question. "What I mean, Mrs. Kitching, was he in love with her, and she with him?"

She gave a little sigh. "She certainly wasn't in love with him, but she started out liking him well enough. He was very personable, and he had wit and intelligence."

"And how did he feel about her?"

"Oh, she was handsome, Miss Mary." She blinked and took a deep breath. It was very clearly difficult for her to govern her distress. She glared at him, as if waking her grief were his fault. "That's what most gentlemen like, until they know you a little better."

"And then?" He kept his expression perfectly bland.

"Then they'd rather you didn't have too many opinions of your own," she said tartly, the tears standing out in her eyes. The thought flashed to him that perhaps she was thinking not only of Mary Havilland, but perhaps of some grief of her own now long in the past but still tender, still haunting her with loss. Many cooks and housekeepers were given the honorary title of Mrs., even if they had never married. It was a mark of adulthood rather than marriage, just as when a man moves from being master to mister. It was a distinction that had not occurred to him before. But then women were not legal entities in the same way that men were.

Again he found his sympathy for Mary clouding his judgment. He was imagining her as someone with courage, honor, and wit-someone he would have liked. But it might not have been so at all. In the beginning, he had loathed Hester. No, that was not true-he had been fascinated by her, attracted to her, but afraid of his own weakness. He had been certain that he wanted someone far more comfortable: a soft woman who did not challenge him, did not force him to live up to the best in himself, sometimes even beyond what he believed was in him. Hester's gentleness was deeper than mere agreeability; it was a passion, a tenderness of honesty, not of indifference or lack of the courage or interest to argue. Never, ever was it the lack of an opinion of her own.

Before her, he had fallen in love with quiet, discreet women who never argued, and then realized he was desperately, soul-achingly lonely. Nothing within them touched anything deeper than his skin.

What had happened to Toby Argyll? Had he had the courage to love Mary? Or had he found her too challenging, too thwarting of his vanity?

"You say he did not like her opinions, Mrs. Kitching, but was he in love with her?"

For the first time in their interview her uncertainty was sharp in her face.

He smiled bleakly. "My wife and I frequently disagree. Yet she would be loyal to me and love me through anything, good or bad. I know this because she has done so, without ever telling me I was right, if she thought otherwise."

She stared at him, shaking her head. "Then you wouldn't have liked Mr. Toby," she said with conviction. "He expected obedience. He had the money, you see, and ambitions. And he was clever."

"Cleverer than his brother?" he said quickly.

"I don't know. But I've a fancy he was beginning to think so." She suddenly realized how bold she was being in so speaking her mind; a flash of alarm crossed her face, then disappeared again. She was tasting a new and previously unimagined freedom.

In spite of the gravity of their discussion, Monk found himself smiling at her. Cardman would have been horrified. She was perhaps a year or two older than he. Monk wondered what the relationship had been between them. Superficial? Or had their station in life prevented what would have been a testing but rewarding love?

He thrust the notion from his mind. "Mr. Alan Argyll was different?" he asked. "And was Mrs. Argyll at all like her sister?"

Mrs. Kitching's face hardened. "Mr. Alan's a very clever man, a lot cleverer than Mr. Toby realized," she answered without hesitation. "Mr. Toby might have thought he'd get the upper hand in time, but he wouldn't. Miss Mary told me that. Not that I didn't think so myself, just seeing them in the withdrawing room. Miss Jenny's a realist, never was a dreamer like Miss Mary. Easier to get along with. Never asks for the impossible or fights battles she can't win. Been a good wife to Mr. Alan. I suppose Mr. Toby thought Miss Mary'd be the same. Well, he thought wrong!" She said that last with considerable satisfaction. Then she remembered again that Mary was dead. The tears washed down her cheeks, and this time she was unable to control them.

Monk was embarrassed, and angry with himself for being so. Why should he? Mrs. Kitching's was an honest grief; there was nothing in it to apologize for.

He thanked her with deep sincerity and then excused himself.

By midday Monk was back across the city at the construction works again. This time he found Aston Sixsmith aboveground and able to speak more easily. There was no point in asking him about Mary. He would be unlikely to know anything of use, but he might know something of the relationship between the two brothers. He would have to be far more circumspect here. Sixsmith would be loyal out of the need to guard his job, even if not from personal regard.

"Was Mr. Toby Argyll aware of Havilland's fear of tunnels?" he asked. They were standing on the bare clay at least a couple of hundred yards from the nearest machine, and the noise of it seemed distant in the brief winter sun.

Sixsmith pulled his wide mouth tight. "I'm afraid we all were. If you were watching the man, you couldn't miss it. And to be honest, Mr. Monk, it's part of your job to look for the man who'll crack because he's a danger to everyone else, especially if he's in charge of anything. I'm sorry." His highly expressive face was touched with sadness. "I liked Havilland, but liking's got nothing to do with safety. If he'd gone barmy or started telling the men that there was a river going to break through the walls, or choke-damp in the air, or a cave-in coming, he'd have started a panic. God knows what could have happened." He looked at Monk questioningly to see if he understood.

Monk understood completely. A man of Havilland's seniority and experience losing his nerve would be enough to create hysteria that could bring about the precise disaster he was afraid of. At the very least it would disrupt work, perhaps for days, and consequently the next project would be sure to go to a rival.

"Did you suspect it could be deliberate?" he asked.

Sixsmith was momentarily puzzled. "Deliberate weakness? He'd make himself unemployable anywhere else, which would be stupid. Why would any man do that? And he and both the Argyll brothers were friends. Family, in fact."

"I meant sabotage, for a suitable reward," Monk explained, but it sounded ugly as he said it, and he saw the revulsion in Sixsmith's face.

"From another company?" Sixsmith's lips curled. "If you'd known Havilland, you wouldn't even ask. He might have hid his weaknesses, and he might even have been something of a coward, but he was absolutely honest. He'd never have sold out. I'd lay my own life on that. And believe me, Mr. Monk, when you work with a man on things like that"-he jabbed his thumb downwards towards the tunnels beneath them-"you get to know who to trust, and who not to. Get it wrong and you don't always live to talk about it."

"So both of the Argyll brothers must have known of Havilland's fears, and that he was possibly a danger?"

Sixsmith's face tightened and he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I'm afraid so."

"And was Mary a danger also?"

Sixsmith considered for a moment before answering. "Not really. She had very little idea of what she was talking about... Can't you call it an accident-Mary's death, I mean?"

Monk noticed that he had not mentioned Toby's death. "Both of them?" he asked. "Mary and Toby Argyll, too?"

A flash of understanding lit Sixsmith's eyes. "Would have to be, wouldn't it?"

"Well, if hers wasn't suicide, then his wasn't either," Monk said reasonably. "The only alternative would be murder. Could he have meant to push her over? She went over backwards, hanging on to him."

Sixsmith breathed out slowly. "Trying to save herself, or trying to pull him in with her, you mean?" His face brightened. "Changed her mind, and trying to save herself.' There you are. Unfortunately she was too late. Already lost her balance, and his too. Tragedy. Simple."

"You didn't say 'but Toby would never hurt her,' " Monk observed.

Sixsmith looked at him very steadily, and now his expression was unreadable. "Didn't I? No, I suppose I didn't. Got to get back to work now, Mr. Monk. Can't afford delays. Costs money. Good day." He walked away easily with a long, swinging stride.

Monk stood still for a moment, sharply aware again of the cold- and the noise of engines. The next thing he needed to ascertain was the exact time James Havilland had died, or as near as the police surgeon could tell him.

"What the devil for?" the surgeon demanded when Monk found him in his consulting rooms. He was a lean man with a harassed air, as if constantly put upon and always trying to catch up with himself. "You come to me two months afterwards and ask me what time the poor man shot himself?" He glared at Monk. "Haven't you anything better to do? Go and catch some thieves! My neighbor's house was broken into last week. What about that?"

"Metropolitan Police," Monk replied, not without pleasure. "I'm Thames River Police."

"Well, poor Havilland died of a gunshot," the surgeon snapped. "Not a drop of water anywhere near him, even tap water, never mind the damn river!" He glared at Monk with triumph. "None of your business, sir!

Monk kept his temper with difficulty, and only because he wanted the information. "His daughter believed he was murdered-"

"I know that," the surgeon interrupted him. "The grief unhinged her. A great shame, but we don't have a cure for grief, unless the priest has. Not my field."

"Her death was very definitely from drowning in the river," Monk went on. "I saw her go in myself, and that could have been murder." He saw the doctor's startled look with satisfaction. "Unfortunately, the young man who may or may not have pushed her overbalanced and went in himself," he continued. "Both were dead when we pulled them out. I need to investigate her accusation, even if only to lay it to rest, for both families' sakes."

"Why the devil didn't you say so, man?" The surgeon turned away and began to look through a stack of papers in a drawer behind him. "Fool!" he muttered under his breath.

Monk waited.

Finally the man pulled out a couple of sheets with triumph and waved them in the air. "There you are. Very cold night. Lay on the stable floor. Warmer than outside, colder than the house. Should say he died no later than two in the morning, no earlier than ten. But as I remember the household staff say they heard him up at eleven, so that gives you something."

"Anything medical to prove he shot himself?" Monk asked.

"Like what, for God's sake? That's police work. Gun was on the floor where it would have fallen. If you're asking if he was shot at point-blank range, then yes-he was. Doesn't prove he did it himself. Or that he didn't."

"Any sign of a struggle? Or didn't you look?"

"Of course I looked!" the surgeon snapped. "And there was no struggle. Either he shot himself, or whoever else shot him took him by surprise. Now go and bury the dead decently, and leave me to get on with something that matters. Good day, sir."

"Thank you," Monk said sarcastically. "It's as well you deal with the dead. Your manner wouldn't do for the living. Good day, sir." And before the doctor could respond, he turned on his heel and marched out.

It was already approaching four o'clock and the winter dusk was closing in. Funny how the weather always became worse as the days began to lengthen after Christmas. It was snowing lightly in the street, and within an hour or two it would start to accumulate. He began to walk, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

So there had definitely been no fight. There was no evidence of a break-in, and nothing had been stolen. Someone had sent Havilland a note, almost certainly requesting a meeting in the stable. Either that person had taken Havilland by surprise and shot him, making it look like suicide, or Havilland had shot himself, presumably after the unknown party left.

If it was the former, then the person had gone to some considerable trouble to make it look like suicide rather than a quarrel or a burglary interrupted. Why? Surely it would have been simple enough to make it seem as if Havilland had seen or heard something and disturbed a thief. That would not have implicated anyone. So why the appearance of suicide?

The answer was glaringly obvious: to shame him, to discredit anything he might have been saying during the last few weeks of his life. If that was the case, then it had to be Alan or Toby Argyll-or both. Mary had known it, had possibly been on the verge of finding proof, and had paid for it with her life as well.

Without realizing it, Monk had been walking towards the police station, as if he had already made up his mind to go back. Why could it not have been anyone in charge of the case but Runcorn? Any other police superintendent would have been easier. At least he assumed it would; he might have made many enemies, and he was absolutely certain he had no friends he could call upon. If there were any debts of kindness to be collected from the past, he had forgotten them, along with everything else. The crimes he had solved as a private agent had not endeared him to the police.

He was still walking because it was too cold to stand still. He increased his speed, and five minutes later he was outside the police station. Ten minutes after that he was telling Runcorn what he had found out, and what he feared.

Runcorn sat silently, his face furrowed with thought.

"I'm going ahead with it," Monk said, then instantly wished he had not. In one sentence he had excluded Runcorn and made a challenge of it. He saw Runcorn's body stiffen, his shoulders hunch a little. He must retrieve the mistake, whatever it cost, and quickly. "I think you will, too," he said, swallowing hard, "now that you know about the letter. We'll do more if we do it together." That sounded like an offer, and he meant it as one.

Runcorn stared at him. "Metropolitan Police and River Police?" His blue-gray eyes were filled with amazement, memory, something that could almost have been hope.

Monk felt the old guilt back like a wave. They had been friends once, watched each other's backs in times of danger with an unquestioning trust. It was he who had broken that trust, not Runcorn. Now Runcorn must be wondering if this was just another trick.

Runcorn's face set hard. "If one of the Argylls-or both-had a man murdered to hide what he knew, then I'll see that justice is served," he said grimly. "And I won't let that girl stay buried as a suicide if she was murdered. Right, Monk." He rose to his feet. "We'll start again along the street where Havilland lived. I know neither of the Argylls was Havilland's actual killer because they were both well accounted for. I got that far, on Mary's word. Toby was in Wales, a hundred miles away, and Alan was at a party on the other side of the city with a hundred witnesses. His wife's word I wouldn't believe, but twenty members of Parliament I have to. But whoever shot Havilland must have been there. Maybe someone saw him, heard him, noticed something. Come on!"

Monk followed eagerly. There was an element of recapturing the past in walking the dark, bitter streets beside Runcorn. They moved from one place to another, finding off-duty hansom drivers huddled around a brazier, or local police on the beat. They separated to ask the questions and waste less time, but still they learned nothing. It was snowing again now, big, lazy flakes drifting out of the sky into the lamplight and settling feather light on the ground. Monk began to wonder more honestly what time had given Runcorn in the years since they had started out as equals. Monk himself had been badly hurt, lost his profession, been to the edge of an abyss of fear, of a self-knowledge unendurable even now. At the last moment it was Hester who had helped him prove to everyone-above all to himself-that he was not the man he dreaded he might be.

Monk had little enough materially. His reputation was dubious. He was still clumsy when it came to command. He had much to regret, to be ashamed of. But he had won far more than he had lost. He had solved many cases, fought for the truth, and mostly he had won.

Far above any of that he had personal happiness, an ease of heart that made him smile in repose and look forward to going home at the end of the day, certain of kindness, of trust and of hope.

What did Runcorn have? What gave him pleasure when he closed the office doors and became merely a man? Monk had no idea.

They stopped at a public house, where they each drank a pint of ale and ate a pork pie with thick, crumbly pastry. Then they set out again. They left black footprints on the white of the pavement. The reflection of the pale street made the lamps look yellow, like eerie moons on stalks. Their breath was visible, like smoke. Carriages passed them in the street, hooves muffled by snow. It was midnight.

"Been to the theater, most likely," Runcorn remarked as another carriage passed them, looming out of the darkness, and then was swallowed again between the lamps, reappearing outlined against the falling snow.

"One of them may have witnessed something!" Monk said eagerly.

"Mews," Runcorn said.

"What?"

"Mews," he repeated. "We need the coachmen. People will have gone inside and be in no mood to help us at this hour. Coachmen'll still be up. Got to unharness, cool the horses, rub them down, put everything away. It'll be another hour before they can go to bed."

Of course. Monk should have thought of it himself. In trying to wrench his mind into the habits of river boats, he had forgotten the obvious.

"Right," he agreed, turning to follow Runcorn, who was still hesitating. The rank that Runcorn had attained over the years had not taken from him the inner conviction that somehow Monk was the leader. His brain knew better, but his instinct was slower. By sheer force of will, Monk deliberately walked half a step behind.

They were sheltered for a few yards along the alley. Then, as they turned into the mews, the snow caught them again. All the stable lights were on, the doors open. Three men were busy along the length of it, working hard backing vehicles into coach houses, soothing animals and unharnessing them, trying to get finished as fast as possible and get out of the biting cold to warm up before going to bed.

"Names and addresses," Runcorn said, unnecessarily. "We'll not get much more than that out of the poor devils at this hour."

Monk smiled to himself. The "poor devils" were going to get home into the warmth a long time before he was.

"Evening," Runcorn began cheerfully as they approached the first man, who was busy unfastening a harness on a handsome bay horse.

"Evenin'," he replied guardedly. The horse threw its head up and the man caught the rein, steadying it. "Quiet now! I know yer want ter go ter bed. So do I, boy. Steady now! What is it, sir? Yer lorst?"

Runcorn introduced himself. "Nothing wrong," he said mildly. "Just wonder if you've been to the theater, or something like that, and if you have, if you go quite often. You might have seen something helpful to us. We'll come back at a better time to look into it."

The man hesitated. In the carriage lights his face was marked with weariness and the snow was dusting his hat and shoulders. "Prince o' Wales Theater," he answered guardedly.

"Go often?" Runcorn asked.

"Couple o' times a week, if there's somethin' good on."

"Excellent. Which number house do you belong to, and what's your master's name?"

"Not ternight." The man shook his head.

"Course not," Runcorn agreed. "Tomorrow, maybe, at a decent hour. What's his name?"

Monk gave a half salute and moved on to the next coachman, who was clearly visible in the lights about four houses along.

In half an hour they collected a reasonable list. They agreed to resume the following evening, a little earlier next time.

Monk's mood was considerably deflated when he arrived at the station in Wapping a little late the next morning.

"Mr. Farnham wants to see you, sir," Clacton said with a smile composed far more of satisfaction than friendliness. The smile broadened. " 'E's bin waitin' a while!"

Monk could think of no reply, save one, that would not play straight into Clacton 's hands. But the resolve hardened inside him to deal with Clacton decisively as soon as he could create the opportunity. This time he simply thanked him and went to report to Farnham.

"Cold getting to you, Monk?" Farnham said unsympathetically before Monk had closed the office door.

"Sir?" The room was warm and comfortable, smelling slightly of woodsmoke, and there was a cup of tea steaming on the desk next to a pile of papers.

"Fancy your bed more than a brisk river crossing?" Farnham elaborated. "Didn't see that that's what the job would need? On the water, Monk! That's where the work is!" He did not add that Durban would have been here long before this hour, but it was implicit in his expression.

"Yes, sir. It was a cold night," Monk agreed, biting his temper with great difficulty. Private work might leave him frighteningly short of money, but it afforded him the luxury of not putting up silently with remarks like that. He had to remind himself with cruel bluntness what it would cost him to retaliate now. "It was a harsh night," he added. "It was snowing quite hard when I got home at half past one."

Farnham looked irritated. "Chasing that suicide again? Do I have to remind you that river crime is up, which is our business-your business, Monk? There aren't many passenger boats on the water this time of year, but the few there are are experiencing more thefts than usual, and we aren't doing anything about it! Some people are suggesting that is because we don't care to." His face was hard and there were blotches of color in his cheeks.

Monk realized Farnham was losing control of his anger again, because the emotion inside him was too powerful to govern. It was fear, the possibility of disgrace to the police force he loved and which was his source not only of income and power, but of his belief in himself.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Monk said dutifully. "That perception is completely wrong. We care very much, and we must prove it."

"Yes, you damned well must!" Farnham agreed vehemently. "Suicides are tragic, but they happen. It's hard enough for the surviving family members without you nosing around asking pointless questions and keeping it in the forefront of everybody's minds."

He started to pace up and down. He had apparently forgotten his tea. "People are saying that the River Police are corrupt!" The pink deepened in his cheeks. "That has never happened before since I've been in the force! They even said we're taking a rake-off ourselves!" He stopped mid-stride and glared at Monk, his eyes bright and hot. "I won't have my force destroyed by that slander. I lost my best man in Durban. He was wise, brave, and loyal, and above all he was honest. He knew this river like his own backyard, and he knew its people, good and bad." He jabbed his finger at Monk. "No one would have said such a monstrous thing about us if he were alive. I don't expect you to take his place. You wouldn't know where to begin! But you'll clear up this mess and prove we don't look the other way at crime, any crime! And we take nothing out of it but our pay, which is hard earned by the best bunch of men who ever wore Her Majesty's uniform! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Good. Then get out and begin to do what you are hired for. Good day."

"Good morning, sir."

Monk went back to the outer room and his own desk, where the reports were of monetary theft. None of the men commented, but he felt Clacton 's eyes on him. The patrol had already gone out before Monk had arrived. He read the account of the night's events, the usual minor thefts, disturbances, and accidents. There was only one major incident, but it had narrowly avoided becoming a disaster, largely due to the rapid action of the River Police on duty.

Monk made a note to himself to congratulate the men concerned, and to do it as publicly as possible.

Farnham was not exaggerating. The thefts reported on the passenger boats going up and down the river had increased alarmingly. He had read the old reports from the same time last year, in Durban 's neat, strong hand, and it had more than doubled since then. The escalation had come since Monk had taken over.

Was that coincidence? Or had the thieves taken advantage of a new and slacker regime, a commander who was ignorant of a great deal of their names and habits, their connections with one another, their methods and tricks? A commander who also did not know his own men and whose men in turn had little confidence in him?

Then a darker and even uglier thought forced itself into his mind. Were Durban 's figures a good deal less than accurate? Was it possible that for his own reasons he had altered them, either to hide the true degree of crime or-a thought that was even more painful-because the accusers were right and the police were pocketing some of the takings themselves?

No. He refused to think that. Durban would not have stolen. Monk had known Durban only briefly and had not only admired him but liked him as a friend and companion. But who knew what other friends he had, or enemies, what debts paid and unpaid?

He realized with surprise that he intended to protect Durban-from Farnham, from whoever it was that accused them of corruption, even from Orme if necessary. It was not a matter of paying his own debt; it was simply out of friendship.

How to build such a defense was a great deal more difficult. He sat looking through the figures of recent crime again, reading and rereading them, trying to see a pattern in order to understand what had changed. Half an hour later he was forced to accept that he did not know any more than when he had begun.

He could not afford the luxury of pride and would have to ask one of his men. He sent for Orme. Confiding in him was a risk. If he did not understand what Monk was trying to do, he might feel confused and defensive, fearing that he was seeking to undermine Durban and establish himself on the ruin of another man's reputation.

If he already knew of the corruption and even was a party to it, then Monk would have left himself vulnerable in a way that might prove his ultimate defeat. With Orme against him he could not succeed in any part of his job.

"Yes, sir?" Orme stood in front of him, his jacket buttoned straight, his clean collar fastened a little tightly around his neck. He looked anxious.

"Close the door and sit down," Monk invited, indicating the wooden chair near the far side of his desk. "Mr. Farnham says that thefts have gone up alarmingly on the passenger boats," he said when Orme had obeyed. "Looking at the figures in all the reports, he's right. They're much higher than this time last year. Is that coincidence, or is there something I have neglected to do?"

Orme stared at him, evidently confused by his candor. Perhaps in the work they had done together he had already realized that Monk was a proud man and had difficulty relying on anyone else.

All Monk's instincts were to retreat, but he could not afford to. He had everything to gain from winning Orme's trust, and everything to lose without it. He forced himself to speak gently. "Mr. Farnham says that there are people suggesting we are corrupt. We have to clear this up and prove them wrong-or liars, if that's what they are."

Orme paled, his body stiff. His eyes met Monk's in a puzzled, unhappy gaze.

"The River Police have had a name for honesty for over half a century," Monk went on, his own voice quiet and angry. "I won't have it changed now! How do we stop this, Mr. Orme?"

Orme snapped to attention. Suddenly he realized Monk was asking his help, not somehow challenging him, and far less blaming him.

"There's a lot fer us to do, sir," he said carefully, as if testing Monk's intent.

"There is," Monk agreed. "There are the usual fights and robberies in the docks and along the barges and moored ships, the accidents, the dangerous wrecks or cargoes, the thefts, fights, sinkings, and fires."

"And murders," Orme added, watching Monk's eyes.

"And murders," Monk agreed.

"Do you reckon as she meant to go o'er, Mr. Monk?"

So he was thinking of Mary again, as if he too was haunted by her courage, her loneliness, the unsolved questions.

"No, I don't." He was being more honest than he had intended, but there was no help for now but to go on. If he could not rely on Orme, he was lost anyway. "I think she knew of something in the tunneling more dangerous than just the engines, or even the speed with which they're cutting. I don't know what it is yet, but I think someone killed her-and her father-over it."

"Argyll?" Orme said with surprise.

"Not directly, no. I think he probably paid someone to kill James Havilland, and Mary found that out, too."

Orme's face was grim with the anger a normally gentle man feels when he is outraged. There was something frightening in it, unselfish and implacable. "I think as you should keep followin' that until you find out 'oo it was, sir," he said levelly. "It's wrong ter let that go by. If we don't see it right fer a woman like that, wot use are we?"

"And the thefts from the passenger boats?" Monk asked. "Our reputation matters, too. It's part of our ability to do the job. If people don't trust us, we're crippled."

"We got to do wots right, an' trust it'll be seen as right," Orme said stubbornly. "I can't find out 'oo killed 'er. I 'aven't got the skill fer that. Never done it with people o' that class. Give me a river fight, dockers, thieves, lightermen, sailors even, an' I can sort it out. But not ladies like that. You done that fer years, Mr. Monk. You know murders wot are quiet. I know a punch in the face; you know a knife in the back. We'll get it all, between us."

"What about a hand in the pocket, a slit in the purse, and your money gone?" Monk asked.

Orme's mouth tightened. "I'll take care o' that. An' o' people with big mouths an' small minds. I know a lot o' people 'oo've got secrets. You can't help gettin' enemies in this job, but if yer careful, an' keep yer promises, you get friends as well."

"I don't know where the enemies are yet," Monk admitted.

Orme smiled mirthlessly. "Not yet you don't-but I do. There's a few I can use, an' I will. Believe me, sir, 'em boat thieves'll wish they 'adn't started. You find 'oo killed that poor girl. I'll be be'ind you, an' I'll watch yer back against Mr. Farnham."

"Thank you," Monk said with utmost sincerity.