The Dark Assassin

chapter Seven
Later in the afternoon Monk and Runcorn were in Charles Street again. They were about to begin the task of knocking on the doors of those who had been to the theater the night before, and might possibly have returned at about that same hour the night when James Havilland had died. The day's rain had turned the snow to slush, but now it was freezing again and the pavements were slippery underfoot. The pall over the city from so many domestic fires and factory chimneys blocked out the stars. The streetlamps glowed yellowish white with a halo of mist around each one, and the cold of the night caught in the throat. The noise of hooves was sharp and loud and carriage wheels crunched on the frozen slush.

Monk and Runcorn walked as swiftly as it was safe to do without losing one's footing. They kept their heads down out of the wind, their hats low, coat collars turned up.

Runcorn glanced at Monk as if about to speak, then seemed to change his mind. Monk smiled, partly to himself. He knew that Runcorn was thinking-just as he was himself-that they were almost certainly wasting their time. But having come this far, they might just as well try every house whose front door, servants' entrance, or mews might possibly have allowed one of the occupants to see someone come or go to Havilland's mews that night.

Monk had earlier checked with the library of past newspapers exactly which theaters had been open and the hours when the curtains had come down.

"Better get on with it," Runcorn said grimly, approaching the first door and climbing the steps.

That attempt was abortive, as was the second. The third took a little longer, but also yielded nothing. The man who came to speak to them was polite, but quickly made it apparent that he did not wish to become involved in anything that had happened in the street, or anyone else's home. They left feeling more despondent than if he had simply denied being out.

Runcorn pulled his coat collar up higher and glanced at Monk, but he did not say anything. They were now four doors away from Havilland's house, and on the opposite side of the street. Monk continued the investigation from habit, in the perverse refusal to surrender rather than any hope of achieving anything.

He and Runcorn walked up to the step side by side, but it was Runcorn who knocked on the door.

The footman who answered was young and somewhat flustered. He had very clearly not been expecting a caller at this hour of the night. "Yes, gentlemen?" he said with some alarm.

"Nothing wrong," Runcorn soothed him. "Is your master at home?"

"Yes!" The young man blinked. He should have been more circumspect, even at this hour of the night, and he realized it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The color washed over his face. "At least..."

"That would be Mr. Barclay, and Mrs. Ewart?" The lift of puzzlement was barely discernible in Runcorn's voice.

"Yes, sir." The footman's face was pink. He was plainly embarrassed and trying very hard to find a way out of his predicament. He was still struggling when a man in his middle thirties came across the hall behind him and into the vestibule. He was tall and rather elegant, and dressed in evening clothes as if he had only lately returned from some formal event.

"What is it, Alfred?" he asked with a frown. "Who are these gentlemen?"

"I don't know, sir. I was-"

"John Barclay," the man said brusquely. "Who are you and how may we be of assistance? Are you lost?"

"Superintendent Runcorn, Mr. Barclay," Runcorn introduced himself. "And Inspector Monk, of the Thames River Police. Sorry to disturb you so late, sir, but since you've been out at this hour, we wondered if you might do so quite often."

Barclay's eyebrows rose. "What of it? And what on earth can it have to do with the River Police? I haven't been anywhere near the river. Except across the bridge, of course. Did something happen?"

"Not tonight, sir." Runcorn was shivering, so his words were a trifle blurred.

Monk sneezed.

"I haven't seen anything to interest the police at any time," Barclay said a little impatiently. "I'm sorry, I can't help you." He glanced at Monk. "For heaven's sake, man, go home and get a hot toddy or something. It's nearly one in the morning!"

Something in the man's attitude irritated Runcorn. Monk saw it in the tightening of the muscles of his jaw and a slight alteration to the angle of his head. "Were you acquainted with Mr. James Havilland, four doors up, across the road, sir?" he asked.

Barclay stiffened. "I was, but not more than to be civil to. We had little in common."

"But you knew him?" Runcorn was determined either to keep Barclay on the step or to be invited inside. The night was bitter and the wind was coming from the northeast and blowing right into the house.

"I've told you, Inspector, or whatever your rank is-" Barclay began.

"Superintendent, sir," Runcorn corrected him.

"Yes, Superintendent. I knew him as one casually knows neighbors! One is civil, but one does not mix with them socially if they are not of the same... interests."

There was a light tap of heels across the parquet floor of the hall behind him, and the door opened, showing a woman of about his own age. She too was slender, with brown hair, blue eyes, and winged brows that gave her face a highly individual look.

"It's nothing, Melisande," he said hastily. "Go back into the warmth. It's a filthy night."

"Then don't keep the gentleman on the step, John," she said reasonably. She looked beyond him at Runcorn, and then at Monk. "Please come in and speak in comfort. Perhaps you would like something hot to drink? As my brother says, it's a rotten night. Your feet must be frozen at least. I know mine are."

"For heaven's sake, Mel, they're police!" Barclay hissed in what might have been intended as an aside but was perfectly audible, probably as far as the street.

"Oh, dear! Has something happened?" She came closer. Monk could see in the vestibule light that her face was lovely, but there was a patience and even a sadness in it that suggested that life was not as easy for her, or as rich, as superficial judgment might assume.

"Nothing that needs to concern you, my dear," Barclay said pointedly. "They are merely looking for witnesses."

She did not move away. "It must be urgent to bring you out at this time of night." She looked to Runcorn, who was standing more in the light than Monk was. "What is it you need to know, Mr...?"

"Runcorn, ma'am," he replied, suddenly sounding a trifle self-conscious. There was something in the elegance of her gown, the flawless curve of her throat, that seemed to make him more than normally aware of her, not only professionally but personally.

She smiled. "What is it that we might have seen, Mr. Runcorn?"

Runcorn coughed as if his throat was tight. "There's not much chance, ma'am, but we're pursuing everything we can. It's about Mr. James Havilland."

"I'm afraid I didn't know him well," she began.

"You didn't know him at all," Barclay exclaimed, then turned to Runcorn again. "We really have no idea what happened or why, except that the poor man shot himself. Frankly I can't imagine why you're wasting your time delving into it. Is there not enough crime to keep you busy? If you don't know where it is, I can certainly tell you!"

"John!" she remonstrated, then looked at Runcorn as if in apology. "What is it you think we may have seen?"

There was a sudden gentleness in Runcorn's face. Monk was beginning to realize how much he had changed in the last two years. Some kind of confidence within him had enabled him to look outwards with less need to defend himself, more awareness of the hurt of others.

"Anyone else in the street, or coming out of the mews," he answered her. "Apart from your own immediate friends and servants, any stranger at all, or person you wouldn't expect to see. Actually anyone else at all, because they might have seen something and be able to help."

"Help what?" Barclay asked scathingly. "Let the dead rest in peace! At least grant them that much decency. His poor daughter took her own life as well. I presume you know that?"

Monk spoke for the first time, with an edge to his voice. "I was there, on patrol on the river. She went over the bridge. I am not certain that she intended to."

Barclay looked surprised. "No one else seems to have any doubt. But even if she fell by accident, that has nothing to do with us. It was miles from here, and we can't help you. I'm sorry. Good night." He stepped back.

Melisande's gown was light and she was obviously cold, but she refused to step out of his way. She looked at Monk. "Is there some chance she did not take her life?" Her face was soft, her eyes lit with hope. "I didn't know her very well, but I would so much like to think that she was not so filled with despair that she would do such a thing, and of course also that she could have a proper burial. The other is so... brutal."

"Yes, there is a chance, ma'am," Monk replied. "That is part of what we are still investigating."

"And if we saw anyone in the street the night of her father's death, that might help?"

Yes.

Runcorn was staring at her with a steady, unwavering gentleness. Had he too seen the sadness in her, the vulnerability?

As if aware of it, she turned and answered as though it were Runcorn who had elaborated rather than Monk. "We were at the theater that night," she told him. "I can't remember what we saw, and it doesn't matter now. It went right out of my head when I heard the next day what had happened. But we did return about half past midnight, and we saw a man coming out of the mews opposite."

"He wasn't coming out," Barclay contradicted her with a wince. "He was on the footpath, staggering around. He had clearly been overindulging. I've no idea who he was, so I couldn't tell you where to find him. But even if I could, he would be useless to you. He couldn't even see where he was going, let alone be a credible witness to anything." His brow furrowed, his expression sharper. "But even if he'd seen Havilland put the gun to his head and pull the trigger, how would that help anyone? You know what happened. Let it be mercifully forgotten. It's no one's fault, and nothing whatever to do with us."

Monk was freezing. His body and Runcorn's were to some extent sheltering Barclay and his sister, but even so he felt a stiffening of anger, a heat of resentment rise inside him. "It is possible, sir, that Mr. Havilland did not kill himself!" he said sharply.

"Don't be absurd!" Barclay was angry now, rattled. "Are you suggesting there's some maniac going around shooting people in their own homes, in the middle of the night? Here?" He put his arm out as if to protect his sister.

She moved fractionally away from him, just out of his reach, her eyes still on Runcorn.

It was Runcorn who answered, not to contradict Barclay so much as to reassure Melisande. "No, sir. If it was someone else, then it was deliberately planned and arranged, and it was to do with his work. There is no need at all for anyone else to be alarmed. If we are right, then the man concerned is miles away from here, and the last thing he'd be likely to do is draw attention to himself by coming back."

Melisande smiled. "Thank you," she said quietly. "And he did come out of the mews. He staggered around a little as if he was drunk, and he said he was."

"He said he was?" Runcorn was startled. "What did he say, exactly?"

"He had a stain on his jacket." She touched her shoulder, about the place where she would have pinned a corsage. "About here. Quite a large stain, three or four inches across, dark, as if it was wet. He saw me looking at it, only briefly. I suppose that was rude, but it was such an odd place to have a stain so large. He said he had tripped and fallen in the mews. He"-she made a slight gesture as if brushing herself down-"he said he didn't know what he fell in, and would prefer not to think of it. Then he apologized and went on down the road." She glanced at her brother. "If he fell in the mews, then he should have smelled of horse manure."

Barclay's eyes showed not only his disgust but also his impatience. "I daresay he did, Mel!" he said sharply. "Dirt and horse dung." He made a guttural sound in his throat. "I'm perished standing out here. There really isn't anything more to say. Good night, officers."

Melisande refused to move, disregarding his growing anger. "But he didn't!" she insisted. "He didn't smell at all. He was very close to me. He passed only a foot away, and he didn't smell of anything except... sweat, and something a little sickly, and... something else quite strong, but I didn't recognize it." Again she was looking at Runcorn.

Monk felt a tingle of excitement, the first scent of meaning. He glanced at Runcorn and had to bite his lip to keep silent.

Runcorn let out his breath slowly. "What kind of smell, ma'am?" He was achingly careful not to suggest anything to her. "Can you describe it?"

"Really!" Barclay lost his temper. "What's the matter with you, man? Asking a lady to describe the precise stink of a beggar! I don't know what kind of person you are used to..."

The color washed up Melisande's cheeks. Her brother's rudeness clearly embarrassed her far more than the nature of the question.

Runcorn blushed also-for her, not for himself. Monk could see that in the anger and confusion in his eyes. He longed to help her, and he had no idea how to. Something in her manner, her particular kind of loneliness, had found his sympathy, and he was utterly and wholly in her defense.

Runcorn stared at Barclay with cold dislike. "It matters, sir," he said. His voice was shaking a little, but that could have been attributed to the cold. They were shuddering now, their feet almost numb. "This man may have seen a murder. I don't willingly distress anybody, but it sometimes happens that those who can help the most are also those who are sensitive to the... unpleasant details."

"Please, John, don't try to protect me from doing my duty. That would not be a service to me." Melisande looked at Runcorn, gratitude in her smile. "It was rather an acrid, smoky kind of smell. Not very pleasant, but not sour or dirty."

"Probably picked up someone's old cigar end." Barclay wrinkled his nose.

"No," she replied. "I know tobacco smoke. It definitely wasn't that, but it was rather smoky." She paled suddenly. "Oh! You mean it was gun-smoke?"

"It might have been," Runcorn agreed.

"You can't base a charge of murder on that!" Barclay protested.

"I don't." Runcorn could not conceal his dislike again. He looked at Barclay coldly. "There are other reasons for believing that Mr. Havilland might not have shot himself." He turned back to Melisande and his eyes softened. "Do you recall anything of this man's appearance, ma'am? Of what height was he? A big man or a small man? Anything about his face?"

She took a moment to bring it back to her mind. "He was very lean," she replied. "His face was thin, what I could see of it. He had a scarf"- she made a gesture around her throat and chin-"and a hat on. His hair was long-long onto his collar. I think he was very dark."

"It was the middle of a winter night!" Barclay said with an obvious effort to be reasonable in spite of everyone else's unreason. "He was of very average height and build and he had a dirty old coat on, with his collar turned up, as anyone would on such a night. That's all!"

"If his coat was dark, how did you see the wet stain on it?" Runcorn asked.

"Then it wasn't dark!" Barclay snapped. "It was a light coat, but it was still dirty. Now we've told you everything we can, and you have kept my sister standing here in the cold for more than long enough. Good night!"

Melisande drew in her breath, perhaps to point out that it was he who had chosen to remain on the step. She had tried to invite them inside. But she might have remembered it was Barclay she was dependent upon, not Runcorn or Monk.

"Good night," she said with a swift, apologetic glance, then turned to go inside.

The door closed, leaving them in sudden darkness. They were so numb from the icy wind that their first few steps were almost stumbling.

Runcorn walked in silence for almost a hundred yards, still lost in his own thoughts.

"Better see if anyone else saw him," Monk said at last. "Might be a groom from one of the houses."

Runcorn gave him a sideways look. "Might be," he agreed dryly. "I'm betting it was an assassin, hired by one of the Argyll brothers to get rid of Havilland. But we've got to rule out everything else, so tomorrow we'd best ask all around. I can put my men on that. I suppose you've got river things to attend to?"

Monk smiled. The sudden appreciation of his position was an oblique way of thanking him for not showing off in front of Melisande Ewart. "Yes. Spate of robberies, actually. Thank you."

Runcorn stared at him for a moment, as if to make sure there was no mockery in his eyes. Then he nodded and began walking again.

Monk was late to Wapping station again in the morning. He had not meant to be, but he had fallen asleep again after Hester had wakened him, and even her noisy riddling of the ashes from the stove had not wakened him. It was nearly ten o'clock when he climbed the steps from the ferry. They were slicked over with ice and dangerously slippery. He reached the top and saw Orme coming out of the station door. Had he been waiting for him? Why? Another warning that Farnham was after him? He felt cold inside.

Orme came towards him quickly, his coat collar up, wind tugging at his hair.

"Mornin', sir," he said quietly. "Like to walk that way a bit?" He inclined his head to indicate the stretch southwards.

"Good morning, Orme. What is it?" Monk took the hint and turned to keep in step.

"Did a good bit of lookin' around yesterday, Mr. Monk. Asked a few questions, collected a favor or two," Orme answered in a low voice. He led Monk away from the station and, within a few moments, out of sight of it. "It's right enough there's been a lot more thievin' in the last month or two-neat like, all tidy. Passenger standin' talkin', then a piece goes, watch or bracelet or whatever it is. Like as not it isn't noticed fer a little while, then o' course it's too late. Could be anywhere. There's always someone beside you as couldn't 'ave done it, an' they always say as they saw nothin'."

"Several people working together," Monk judged. "One to distract, one to take it, a passer, another to block the way with offers of help, and maybe a fifth to take it and disappear."

"Yer right. An' from what I 'eard, I'm pretty certain at least one of 'em was a kid, ten or eleven, each time."

"Not the same child?"

"No, just that sort of age. People take 'em for beggars, mudlarks, just strays 'anging around for a bit of food, likely, or to keep warm. Better in a boat than on the dockside in the wind."

Monk thought of Scuff. He would probably rather work than steal, but what was there for a child to do on the river in midwinter? The thought of hot food, a dry place out of the wind, and a blanket would be enough to tempt anyone. He was brave, imaginative, quick-the ideal target for a kidsman, one of those who took in unwanted children and made thieves of them. It was afar from ideal life, but in return the children ate and were clothed, and to some extent protected. The thought of Scuff ending like that sickened him. There was no leniency in the courts for children. A thief was a thief.

"Any idea who?" He found the words difficult to say.

Orme must have heard the emotion in his voice. He looked at him quickly, then away again. "Some. Only the arms and legs o' the gang, so to speak. Need to catch the 'ead to be any use. Won't be easy."

"We'll have to plan," Monk replied. "See if there's any pattern in the reports of theft. Any of the goods turn up? Who'd take that kind of stuff? Opulent receivers?" They took the valuable things and knew where and how to dispose of them. Durban would not have had to ask; he would have known their names, their places of business and storage, the goods in which they specialized.

"Yes, sir." Orme did not add anything.

Monk realized, as if he had suddenly come to a yawning hole in the earth in front of him, how much Orme missed Durban, and how far short Monk still was of filling that space. Perhaps he could never earn that loyalty or give the men cause to accept him as they had Durban, but he could earn their respect for his skill, and in time they would come to know that they could trust him.

For now it was Orme they trusted, Orme they would be loyal to and obey. Monk would get no more than lip service, and less than that from Clacton. That was a problem that still had to be addressed, and they would all be waiting to see how Monk handled it. Sooner or later Clacton himself would provoke a confrontation, and Monks authority would hang on whether he won, and how.

He tried to think of other plans he had used in the past to catch rings of thieves, but since the accident that had taken his memory he had worked largely on murder cases. Petty thieving belonged to a past before that-in the early years, when he and Runcorn had worked together, he thought wryly, not against each other. He had had flashes of going into the rookeries, those vast slums, which were part underground tunnels, part sagging tenements. There were passages, trapdoors, sudden drops, and blind ends-a hundred ways to get caught, and to get your throat cut. Your corpse would possibly go out on the tide, or if it finished in the sewer, most of it would be eaten by rats.

That world was violent and ugly. The poverty in it was so absolute that only the strongest and the luckiest survived. Police seldom went there at all, but if they did, they took with them someone they trusted not only in loyalty but in skill, speed, and nerve as well, and above all courage. He and Runcorn had trusted each other like that once.

In the rotting tenements of the waterlogged patch on the south bank known as Jacob's Island, there could be a hundred men hidden in the wrecks of buildings sinking slowly into the mud. The same was true of the teeming slums of the docks, the ever-shifting tides of the Pool of London with its great ships, its cargoes here one day and gone the next. The opium dens of Limehouse or the wrecks on the long stretches towards the sea might conceal anything. He would need to trust Orme with his life, as Orme would have to trust him. It would not come quickly or without testing.

"I'll work on a plan," he said aloud at last. "If you've got one, tell me."

"Yes, sir. I was thinkin'..." Orme stopped.

"Go on," Monk prompted.

"I'd like to catch the Fat Man," Orme said thoughtfully. "Owe 'im a lot, that one, over the years."

"I assume you mean a lot of harm, not a lot of good?"

"Oh, yes, sir, a lot o' harm indeed." There was an edge of emotion in Orme's voice that was extraordinarily sharp, as if from an accumulation of pain.

Monk was overwhelmed by how much he did not know about these men. Orme seemed not to resent him. In fact, he had deliberately steered him away from the station just now so that Farnham would not see him come in late. He had covered for him yesterday so that he could pursue the Havilland case.

An icy thought passed through Monk's mind: that Orme was deliberately allowing him to do those things in order to betray him to Farnham, giving him enough rope to hang himself. Why had Orme himself not got Durban 's job? He was extremely able, and the men trusted him and admired him. He was far better qualified for it than Monk. Why had Durban suggested Monk? Was that a betrayal, too?

He was floundering. His ignorance was like a vast black tide carrying him towards destruction.

"I was thinkin', sir"-Orme was still talking-"that if we get rid of the Fat Man, 'oo's the best opulent receiver on the river, then someone else'll take 'is place. I reckon that someone'll be Toes. An' Toes is someone we can keep better under control. 'E's greedy, but that's all. At least fer now. The Fat Man is different, 'e 'as streaks of cruelty we need to get rid of. 'E isn't above gettin' people cut up slow if they really cross 'im up. Clever with a knife, 'e is. Knows 'ow to 'urt without killin'."

Monk looked at Orme's grave, pinched face and read the pain in it again.

"Very well, let's get rid of him," he agreed.

Orme looked at him steadily. "Yes, Mr. Monk. An' no private scores settled. No favors and no revenge, that's what Mr. Durban used to say." He turned away quickly, his breath catching in his throat, and Monk knew that the ghost of Durban was always going to be there.

So he would use it. He would spend the day going through all Durban 's records until he had worked out what Durban would have done to trap the kidsmen and trace the goods to the Fat Man legitimately. No favors, no revenge. He also wanted to know why Orme had not been made commander. Perhaps he would be better off in ignorance, but he had to find out. It might matter one day; his life might even depend upon it.

Most of the cases that he studied were routine crimes exactly like those he had dealt with since he came. The only unusual thing in Durban 's notes was that they were briefer than Monk would have expected, and more personal. His handwriting was strong but occasionally untidy, as if written hastily or when he was tired. There were flashes of humor, and discreet asides that suggested to Monk that Durban had not been especially fond of Clacton either. The difference was that Durban had known how to keep him under control, largely because the other men would not tolerate Clacton 's disloyalty.

Monk smiled. At least he had found that solution, if he could work out how to use it.

He read carefully the reports of thefts from passenger boats. They seemed to vary, but in no particular pattern that he could detect. There were various other crimes, some very serious. One Durban had written on for many pages, and it had apparently disturbed him greatly. The writing was sprawling and many of the letters only half formed. There was a kind of jaggedness to it.

Monk read it because the urgency in it held him. It had nothing to do with theft or with passenger boats at all. It concerned the murder of a prosperous man in his early forties. His body had been found in the river, apparently shot to death some time the night before and dumped into the water. He was identified as Roger Thorwood, of Chelsea, a barber of considerable wealth and influence. He was mourned by his wife, Beatrice, and three surviving children.

Durban had put a great deal of time and energy into the investigation and followed every lead. His hope and frustration were clearly marked in his notes. But after nearly three months he had learned nothing of value and been obliged to abandon his concentration on it and turn his entire attention to other duties. The death of Roger Thorwood remained a mystery. Durban 's last entry on the subject was scribbled and in places almost illegible.

I have spoken to Mrs. Thorwood for the last time. There is nothing more I can do. All trails are closed. They had either nowhere or into a hopeless morass. I never thought I would say of any murder that it is better left, but I do of this. And it is wrong to expect Orme to carry the responsibility here any longer. It is not even as if one day he might be justly rewarded for his work or his loyalty. He owes it not to me, but because that is his nature, nonetheless I am profoundly grateful to him. There is no more to say.

Monk stared at the page. It was oddly difficult to turn over and continue with the murders, robberies, fights, and accidents that occurred later. There was something painfully unfinished about it, not only the mystery of Roger Thorwood s death but Durban 's obvious involvement. His anger and disappointment were there, and something else less obvious, which he was too guarded to name. Guarding someone else, or himself?

There was also his oblique reference to Orme never receiving appropriate recompense for his work. It seemed he had covered for Durban as well as for Monk. It raised the question again as to why he had not received the promotion his skill had earned him. It seemed that Durban knew the reason. Monk realized that perhaps he ought to, in order to make a better judgment of Orme. But he was glad there was no time to search now.

What he needed was a plan to catch the thieves on the passenger boats. More important, he wanted to trace them back to the opulent receiver who was organizing them, and probably the kidsmen as well.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon when Orme returned. Together, without mentioning Durban at all, they carefully constructed their strategy.

Orme looked nervous, but he did not argue with Monk's intention to be present.

"And Clacton," Monk added.

Orme looked at him quickly.

Monk smiled, but he did not explain himself.

Orme's mouth tightened, and he nodded.

Monk met Runcorn by the hot-chestnut stand just off Westminster Bridge Road. It was four in the afternoon and already dark. A heavy cloud hung like a pall over the city. There was the smell of chimney smoke in the air, and the wind held the sting of snow to come. Downriver on the incoming tide was a drift of fog, and Monk, standing within sight of the dark, flat water, could hear the boom of foghorns drifting up. Although there were several of them, it was an eerie sound of utter desolation. Now it echoed vaguely. When the fog came in it would be swallowed, cut off half finished, like a cry strangled in the throat.

"Found the cabbie," Runcorn said, blowing on a hot chestnut before putting it into his mouth. "Took the man as far as Piccadilly. Remembers him quite well because he did an odd thing. He got out of his cab and crossed the Circus, which was pretty quiet at that time in the morning, all the theaters on Haymarket and Shaftesbury Avenue being out long since. Then he got straight into another cab and disappeared east along Coventry Street, towards Leicester Square." He looked up from his chestnut, watching for Monk's reaction. "Why would a man change cabs when there's nothing wrong with the one he's in?"

"Because he wants to disappear," Monk replied. "I expect he changed again, maybe twice, before he got where he wanted to be."

"Exactly," Runcorn agreed, taking another chestnut and smiling. "He wasn't drunk, he wasn't a beggar, he certainly wasn't anyone's groom..."

"He could have been," Monk started.

Runcorn's eyebrows rose. "With the price of a cab fare from Westminster Bridge Road to the East End?"

Monk could have bitten his tongue. He looked away from Runcorn. "No, of course not. Whoever he was, he had money."

"Exactly!" Runcorn repeated. "I think Mrs. Ewart saw the man who shot James Havilland. She gave us quite a good description of him, and the cab driver added a bit. Seems he has black hair, rather long onto his collar, and at least at that time he was clean-shaven. The cabbie had the impression of a hollow sort of face and long nose, thin between the eyes."

"A very observant cab driver," Monk remarked, a little skeptically. "You sure he wasn't just trying to get on the good side of the police?"

"No, that's accurate," Runcorn replied, looking down and concentrating on the few pieces of chestnut he had left in his hand. "What we have to do is find out who hired him. It'll be the same person who wrote to Havilland to get him out of the house and into the stables in the middle of the night."

Havilland had not been afraid of whomever he expected to meet. And whoever it was had not taken advantage of his opportunity to rob the house. Either he had panicked-which did not seem to be the case-or he was compensated for what he did in some other way. Monk said as much to Runcorn.

"Money," Runcorn replied bitterly. "Someone paid him to kill Havilland."

"That sort of arrangement's usually handed over in two halves," Monk pointed out. "First before the deed, second after. We might be able to trace the money. It's a risk to commit murder in an area like this. It can't have come cheap."

"Who sent that letter, that's what I want to know. That's who's guilty, who really betrayed him." Runcorn looked at Monk, searching his face for agreement. "That's whom he was expecting to meet!"

Neither of them said it aloud, but Monk knew Runcorn was thinking of Alan Argyll, just as he was himself. Alan was married to one of Havilland's daughters, and Toby was betrothed to the other. Havilland might disagree with them, distrust their engineering skills or business practices, but he would not fear personal violence from them.

"Why midnight? And why the stables?" he asked.

Runcorn's eyebrows rose. "Could hardly shoot him much earlier! And obviously he wouldn't want to do it in the house!"

"I mean what reason would Argyll give for meeting in the stables at midnight? And why did Havilland agree?"

Runcorn took the point immediately. "We need to find that letter! Or learn at the very least who sent it."

Monk took one of the chestnuts and ate it. It was sweet and hot. "The maid said Havilland burnt it."

"Maybe he didn't burn the envelope." Runcorn was still hopeful.

Monk ate the last chestnut. "Come on." He turned and started to walk.

Cardman was surprised to see them again, but he invited them in. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

The hall had a bare look. The black crepe had been taken down along with the wreaths, but the clock was still stopped and there was no heating.

It was Monk who spoke first this time. "I know the maid said that Mr. Havilland destroyed the note that took him to the stables the night he was killed, but it is extremely important that we learn everything about it that we can-even the envelope, if it still exists."

Cardman's eyes widened. He had heard the one word that had mattered to him. His voice trembled a little. "You said he was killed, sir. Did you mean that someone else was responsible after all? Miss Mary was right?"

"Yes, Mr. Cardman, it looks very like it," Monk replied.

Cardman's face tightened. "And if you can't find the envelope, sir, does that mean you won't be able to prove who did it?"

"Somebody lured him to the stable," Monk told him gravely. "We are certain it was someone else who actually killed him. Whether we can catch the second person I don't know, but it's the first we want most."

"I'm afraid we've long ago disposed of all the rubbish in the study," Cardman said. "There are only Mr. Havilland's papers there now, and of course household bills and receipts. Miss Mary took care of everything like that. No one has been here yet to... to see to..." He trailed off, swamped by the small realities of loss again.

"I'm sure Mr. Argyll will appoint someone," Monk said. Then the moment the words were spoken he realized the appalling urgency of searching the study.

"Which is the study?" Runcorn asked.

Cardman showed them. "Would you like a pot of tea, sir?" he offered. "I'm afraid the room is extremely cold."

They both accepted, speaking together.

Two hours later they knew a great deal about both Havilland's domestic arrangements and how efficiently Mary had continued with them. Everything had been precisely and carefully dealt with. The bills had been checked and paid on time. There were also no unnecessary papers kept, no unanswered letters, no notes made on envelopes or scraps of paper.

"Perhaps it was always going to be a waste of time," Runcorn said wearily. "Damn!" He swore with sudden fury. "I'd stake my life it was Argyll! How the hell do we catch him? Come on, Monk! You're so clever you could tie an eel in knots. How do we get the bastard?"

Monk's mind was racing. "There'd have been a lot of blood on his clothes," he began, thinking aloud.

Runcorn did not see the point. The irritation flickered across his face. "So there would. What does it matter now?"

"Probably too much to clean off. Anyway, who'd want the clothes a man was wearing when he committed suicide?"

"No one- Oh! You mean they're still somewhere! There might be something in the pockets!" Runcorn stood up as if suddenly regaining energy. He walked towards the door, then remembered that there was a bell in the room for summoning servants. Avoiding Monk's eyes, he turned back, reached for it, and pulled.

Cardman answered, and five minutes later they were in James Havilland's dressing room. The clothes he had been wearing at his death were piled neatly on one of the shelves in the tallboy. It was obvious that Mary had never had the stomach to come into the room since that night, and had not permitted the servants to either. Perhaps she would have done so after she had proved that he was not a suicide. Everything seemed to be waiting.

The trousers were marked only by dust and a few pieces of hay. The jacket was quite heavy-a natural enough choice for a man going out to the stables in the middle of a winter night, possibly to wait a little while until someone arrived.

The question rose again: Why the stables? If Havilland wished to be private, it was easy enough to send the servants to bed and open the front door for the guest himself. Monk had a crowding sense that there was some major fact that had escaped him completely.

Runcorn was waiting, watching him.

He unrolled the jacket and laid it on the dresser. There was blood thick and dark on the left lapel and over the shoulder. It was completely dried now and stiff. A few spots had fallen on the sleeve, though not a great deal. After all, it had been a shot to the head, and Havilland must have died almost instantly.

"Look," Runcorn instructed.

Without hope of finding anything, Monk pushed his hands into the inside pocket. His fingers closed on paper, and he pulled it out. It was folded up but unmarked. An envelope. On the back a word-Tyburn-was scrawled, and some figures, and then no name and some more figures in the same grouping. He turned it over. On the front was his name, Mr. James Havilland. There was no address. It had been hand-delivered. He looked up at Runcorn.

Runcorn's eyes were bright. "That's it!" he said, excitement making his voice tremble. "That's the envelope from the note he got!" He held out his hand.

Monk passed it to him.

"Woman's writing," Runcorn said after only a second or two, disappointment so keen he could not mask it. He looked up at Monk, pain and confusion naked. "Was it an assignation after all? Who the devil shot him? A husband? Did the man in the two cabs have nothing to do with it?"

Monk was unhappy, too, but for an entirely different reason. "Jenny Argyll," he said. "If it was she who wrote, he would go out there to meet her. Don't forget Mary was in the house. Maybe he wanted to speak with Jenny without Mary knowing, or Jenny with him."

Runcorn looked around for the bell. He found it and rang it, and Cardman answered a few moments later.

Runcorn held out the envelope. "Do you know whose handwriting that is?" he asked.

Cardman looked stiff and miserable, his eyes haunted, but he did not hesitate. "Yes, sir. That is Miss Jennifer's handwriting-Mrs. Argyll, that is."

"Thank you," Monk acknowledged. Then he realized what Cardman might think. Possibly Runcorn would disapprove, but he intended to tell Cardman anyway. "There was a man seen leaving the mews at about the time Mr. Havilland was shot. He passed two people returning from the theater who say he smelled of gunsmoke. We traced his movements. He took a cab as far as Piccadilly, then changed cabs and went east. It seems very possible it was he who actually killed Mr. Havilland."

Cardman's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Thank you, sir." He blinked, gratitude showing in his eyes.

Jenny Argyll greeted them far more coolly. At this time of the day her husband was either at his office or at one of the sites.

"The matter is closed," she said bluntly. She had received them in the withdrawing room because the morning room fire was not lit. After such a double bereavement they were still not receiving callers. Everything was draped in black. There were wreaths on the doors leading into the hall, the mirrors were covered, and the clocks were stopped. Presumably in this house the state of mourning was more for Toby Argyll than for Mary, although Jenny might well grieve privately for her sister. Monk had not forgotten Argyll's rage on hearing the news of their deaths, and his instant blaming of Mary. If Toby had killed her, had it been at his brother's command?

This time Runcorn allowed Monk to take the lead.

"I am afraid the matter is not closed, Mrs. Argyll," Monk said firmly. She was wearing black. It was completely unrelieved, and it drained from her what little color she might have had. He judged that she would normally be an attractive woman, but she had not the strength or the passion he had seen in Mary's face, even when it had been lifeless and wet from the river. There had been something in the bones, the curve of her mouth, that had been unique.

"I cannot help you," she said flatly. She was standing, staring away from them out of the window into the flat winter light. "And I cannot see what good turning our pain over and over can do. Please allow us to grieve in peace-and alone."

"We are not at the moment concerned with the deaths of Miss Havilland and Mr. Argyll," Monk replied. "It is the events on the night your father died that we are investigating."

"There is nothing more to say." Her voice was quiet, but the hurt and the anger were plain in her face. Her shoulders were stiff, straining the shiny black fabric. "It is our family's tragedy. For pity's sake, leave us alone! Haven't we suffered enough?"

Monk hated having to continue. He was aware of the same distress in Runcorn, standing near him. But he could not let it go.

"You wrote a letter to your father and had it hand-delivered the night of his death, Mrs. Argyll." He saw her start and draw in her breath with a little gasp. "Please don't embarrass us all with a denial. The letter was seen, and your father kept the envelope. I have it."

She was ashen, and she turned to face him angrily. "Then what do you want from me?" Her voice was so stifled in her throat that it was barely audible. Her eyes burned hot with hatred of them for the shame they were inflicting on her.

"I want to know what was in the letter, Mrs. Argyll. You arranged for your father to go to the stables-alone-after the middle of the night. He did so, and was killed."

"He killed himself!" she burst out, her tone rising dangerously. "For the love of heaven, why can't you leave it alone? He was mad! He had delusions! He was terrified of closed spaces, and at last he couldn't face it anymore. What else do you need to know? Do you hate us so much that you gain some kind of pleasure from seeing us suffer? Do you have to open the wounds again, and again, and again?" She was almost out of control, her voice shrill and loud.

"Sit down, Mrs.-" Monk started.

"I will not sit down!" she snapped back. "Do not patronize me in my own home, you..." She gasped in a breath again, lost for a word she might dare use.

There was nothing for Monk to do but tell her the truth before she became hysterical and either fainted or left the room and refused to see them again. He had little enough authority to be here. Farnham would not back him up.

"A man was seen leaving the mews just after your father was shot, Mrs. Argyll. He smelled of gunsmoke. He was a stranger in the area and left immediately, traveling in several cabs back to the East End. Do you know who that man was?"

She stared at him incredulously. "Of course I don't! What are you saying-that he shot my father?"

"I believe so."

She put her hands up to her mouth and sank rather too quickly into the chair, as if she had lost her power to remain standing. She stared at Monk as if he had risen out of the carpet in a cloud of sulfur.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it more than he had thought he could. "What did you write in your letter that sent your father out into the stable at midnight, Mrs. Argyll?"

"I... I..."

He waited.

She mastered herself with intense difficulty. The struggle was naked and painful in her face. "I asked him to meet my husband to allow a proper discussion of the tunnels they were building, without Mary knowing and interrupting. She was very excitable."

"At midnight?" Monk said with surprise. "Why not in the offices in the morning?"

"Because Papa was concerned there was going to be an accident, and he would not come into the offices to discuss it anymore," she said immediately. "He was going to speak to the authorities. They would have had to close down the works until they had investigated, and of course discovered that it was completely untrue. But they could not afford to take my husband's word for it, when men's lives are at risk. My father was mad, Mr. Monk! He had lost all sense of proportion."

"So you arranged this meeting?"

"Yes."

"But your husband didn't go!" Monk pointed out. "He was at a party until long after midnight. You told the police that you attended it with him. Was that not true?"

"Yes, it was true. I... I thought my father must have refused to meet Alan. He was... stubborn." Her gaze did not waver from his.

"Is that what Mr. Argyll said?" he asked.

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes."

"I see." He did see. He had never supposed that Alan Argyll intended to shoot Havilland himself. He had paid the assassin with the black hair and the narrow-bridged nose to do that. "Thank you, Mrs. Argyll."

"Do you suppose he paid the money himself, or had someone else whom he trusted do it?" Monk asked when they were outside, matching his step to Runcorn's on the icy pavement.

"Toby?"

"Probably, but not necessarily. Who would even know where to find an assassin for money?"

Runcorn thought for a while, walking in silence. "Whom else would he trust?" he said at last.

"Can you trace the funds?" Monk asked him.

"Unless he's been saving it up penny by penny over the years, certainly I can. Havilland found something and Alan Argyll couldn't wait. He had to have got the money out of the bank, or wherever he kept it, and paid the assassin within a day or two of the actual murder. It's my case, Monk. I've got the men to put on it, and the authority to look at bank accounts or whatever it takes. I'll find out where Argyll was every minute of the week before Havilland was shot. And after. Unless he's a fool, he won't have paid all of it until the deed was done."

"What do you want me to do?" The words were not easy for Monk to say, but Runcorn's plan made sense. He could deploy his men to search, to question, to force out answers that Monk could not. And Monk needed to return to Wapping and start earning some of the loyalty he was going to need from his own men. Havilland's death was nothing to do with them.

Runcorn smiled. "Go back to your river," he replied. "I'll send you a message."

After two days the letter came, written in Runcorn's careful, overly neat hand. It was brought by a messenger and given to Monk personally.

Dear Monk,

Traced the money. Came from Alan Argyll's bank, but be gave it to Six-smith for expenses. Argyll can account for all his time, both before and after the event. Clever devil. No second sum paid. Could be lots of reasons for that-but if Sixsmith cheated him, then he's a fool!

I am sure Argyll is the man behind it, but it was Sixsmith who actually handed it over, whatever he believed he was paying for. Followed his movements, found where he did it. I have no choice but to arrest him straightaway. I am not happy. We have the servant, not the master, but I have to charge him. We still have work to do.

Runcorn

Monk thanked the messenger and scribbled a note of acknowledgment back.

Dear Runcorn,

I understand, but we damned well do have work to do! Everything I can do, I will. Count on me.

Monk

He gave it to the messenger. Then when the door was closed, he swore with a pent-up fury that shocked him.

Argyll had cheated them. They had followed the trail, and ended by being forced to arrest a man they knew was innocent, while Argyll watched them and laughed. Damn him!