The Dark Assassin

chapter Nine
It was well into February when Aston Sixsmith came to trial. He had been free on bail since shortly after his arrest, having been charged only with bribery.

"But you are going to be able to prove Argyll's complicity, aren't you?" Monk said to Rathbone the evening before testimony began. Monk's wound was healing well, and they were comfortable before a brisk fire in Rathbone's house. Rain was beating against the windows, and the gutters were awash. They still had not found the actual assassin, in spite of every effort, and River Police duties had consumed most of Monk's time since the death of the Fat Man. It had been a hideous job catching grapples into the corpse and hauling it up through the jagged hole in the pier. But the carving had been retrieved-to Monk's intense relief, and to mixed emotions in Farnham's case. If it had been lost, Farnham would have blamed Monk, not himself.

As it was, Monk was now more firmly entrenched in his new position than was entirely comfortable for him, and Clacton was inexplicably subdued. He obviously loathed Monk, but something compelled him to treat his new commander with respect. Monk had yet to learn what this new element was.

"Argyll's guilty of murder," Monk insisted to Rathbone. "And more important than that, there is still the danger of the disaster in the tunnels that Havilland feared."

"But you can't tell me what it is!" Rathbone pointed out. "They are using the same engines as before, and nothing has happened."

"I know," Monk admitted. "I've searched everything I can find, but no one will talk to me. All the navvies are afraid for their jobs. They'd rather face a possible cave-in sometime in the future than certain starvation now."

"I'll do what I can," Rathbone promised. "But I have no idea yet how to disentangle the guilty Argyll from the relatively innocent Sixsmith. Not to mention Argyll's wife, who is no doubt afraid to face the truth about him, not to mention public disgrace and the loss of her home. Plus there's the M.P., Applegate, who gave Argyll the contract, and the totally innocent navvies who operate the machines. And there's also Superintendent Runcorn who conducted the original enquiry into Havilland's death. He will be blamed for having called it suicide and closing the case. Are you prepared for all of them to go down as well, tarred with the same brush? Guilty by association!"

"No," Monk said flatly. "No, I'm not." The thought was so ugly it twisted inside him.

"Well, it might be a choice between having them all, to be sure of getting the guilty one, or letting them all go, to be sure of saving the innocent," Rathbone told him.

"If it comes to that, then I'll let them go," Monk said harshly. "But not without damn well trying!"

Rathbone looked at him sadly. "Accusation without proof will damn the innocent and let the guilty go free."

Monk had no argument. What Rathbone said was true, and he understood it. "We're too late to back out now."

"I could drop the charge against Sixsmith."

Driven by something more than anger at Argyll or the need to win, Monk said aloud, "We have to do everything we can to find out if Havilland was afraid of a real disaster, or just of tunneling in the dark. And if Mary learned it, too, and was killed for it, then we can't walk away." He knew as he said it that that was not entirely what was impelling him. It was Mary Havilland's white face smeared with river water that haunted his mind. Even if all those other elements were solved, it would never be enough until her name was cleared and she and her father were buried as they would have wished. But Rathbone did not need to know that. It was a private wound, deep inside him, inextricably wound into his love for Hester.

Rathbone was looking at him. "I've investigated the Argylls' engines. They're pretty much the same as everyone else's. Better, because they've been modified with great skill and considerable invention, but no more dangerous."

"There's something!" Monk insisted.

"Then bring it to me," Rathbone said simply.

In the Old Bailey the next morning, after the jury was appointed and the opening addresses were delivered, Oliver Rathbone began the case for the prosecution. His first witness was Runcorn.

Monk sat in the public gallery, with Hester beside him. Neither of them was a witness, so it was permissible for them to attend. He glanced at her grave face. It was pale, and he knew she was thinking of Mary Havilland. He imagined what she must be remembering of her own grief, and the sense of helplessness and guilt because she had not been there for her father and mother. With such events, Monk knew, there was always the belief, however foolish, that there was something one could have said or done that would have made a difference. But he had not seen anger in her, or heard her blame her brother, James, for not somehow preventing it. She had never lashed out at him that Monk knew of. How did she keep at bay the bitterness and the sense of futility?

Then a sudden thought struck him. How incredibly stupid he was not to have seen it before! Was her need to throw herself into fighting pain, injustice, and helplessness her way of making the past bearable? Was her readiness to forgive born of her own understanding of what it was to fail? She worked with all her strength at Portpool Lane not only to meet a fraction of the women's needs but to answer her own as well. Anything short of her whole heart in the battle could never be enough for her. He was guarding her from the danger without because he was afraid for himself-afraid of what losing her would mean. He was thinking of his own sleepless nights, his imagination of her danger. All the time he was increasing the danger within.

Impulsively he reached across and put his hand over hers, holding her softly. After a moment her fingers responded. He knew what that moment meant. It was the loss of something inside her, which he had taken away. He would have to put it back as soon as he could, however afraid he was for her or for himself without her.

Right now Runcorn was climbing the twisting steps to the high, exposed witness stand. He looked uncomfortable, in spite of the fact that he must have testified in court countless times over the years. He was neatly dressed, even excessively soberly, as if for church, his collar starched and too tight. He answered all Rathbone's questions precisely, adding nothing. His voice was uncharacteristically touched with grief, as if he too was thinking not of James Havilland but of Mary.

Rathbone thanked him and sat down.

Runcorn turned a bleak face towards Mr. Dobie, counsel for the defense, who rose to his feet, straightened his robes, and walked forward into the well of the court. He looked up at the high witness stand with its steps and squinted a little at Runcorn, as if uncertain exactly what he saw. He was a young man with a soft face and a cloud of curly dark hair.

"Superintendent Runcorn-that is your rank, isn't it?" he asked. His expression was bland, almost timid.

"Yes, sir," Runcorn replied.

"Just so. That implies that you are considerably experienced in investigating violent deaths-accidental, suicidal, and murderous?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are good at it?"

Runcorn was startled.

"I apologize." Dobie shook his head. "That was an unfair question. Modesty forbids that you reply honestly. I will accept that you are." He glanced momentarily at Rathbone, as if half expecting an objection.

Rathbone would not object, and they both knew it. "I have no quarrel with Mr. Dobie s conclusion, my lord, even if it seems a little premature."

The judge s face tightened in appreciation of his predicament.

In the dock, high above the proceedings and where those in the gallery had to crane their necks sideways to see him, Aston Sixsmith sat gripping the rails with his hands. His knuckles were white, his eyes un-moving from Dobie s figure.

Dobie looked at Runcorn. "May we assume that you took the death of James Havilland very seriously?"

"Of course." Runcorn could see where this question was leading, but still he could not avoid the trap. He had long since learned not to add anything he did not need to.

"And you concluded that he had taken his own life?"

"Yes, sir-the first time." Runcorn was forcing himself not to fidget. He stood as if frozen.

Dobie smiled. "I will ask you in due course why you judged it necessary to consider it a second time. You did judge it necessary, didn't you? It was not some other sort of reason that drove you to go back again to a closed case-a favor owed, or a sense of pity, for example?"

"No, sir." But Runcorn's face betrayed that the answer was less than the whole truth.

Monk moved uncomfortably in his seat. He ached to be able to help Runcorn, but there was nothing at all he could do.

"What made you conclude that Havilland had killed himself? The first time, that is?" Dobie asked with gentle interest.

"The gun beside him, the fact that nothing was stolen, and no sign of a break-in," Runcorn said miserably.

"Was there anything of value a thief could have taken?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you find any evidence that Mr. Havilland had been anxious or distressed recently?"

"No one expected him to take his own life," Runcorn insisted.

"People seldom do." Dobie gave a slight shrug. "It is always difficult to imagine. Whose gun was it that he used-I'm sorry, that was used, Superintendent?"

Runcorn's face was tight, his jaw clenched. His large hands gripped the rail of the stand. "His own."

"And of course you verified that?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court what on earth made you go back two months later and question your first decision. That initial decision seems eminently sensible-in fact, the only decision you could have reached."

Runcorn's face was deep red, but his gaze back at Dobie did not waver. "His daughter also died in tragic and questionable circumstances," he replied.

"Questionable?" Dobie's eyebrows rose, and his tone was one of disbelief. "I thought she also took her own life. Have I misunderstood? Is she not also buried in a suicide's grave?"

It was Dobie's first tactical error. Beside Monk, Hester closed her eyes, and the delicate corners of her mouth tightened. She sat motionless, old memories clearly raw inside her. In the rest of the gallery there was a slight sigh. Monk turned to see the jurors' faces and found pity and distaste. They might not disagree, but they found the reference cruel.

Dobie had not realized it yet. He was waiting for Runcorn to answer.

Runcorn's face was bleak, his voice soft and startlingly full of emotion. "It was the haste and possible injustice of that decision that made me look at Mr. Havilland's death again," he replied. "I knew Mary Havilland because of her father's death. She was always certain he was murdered. I didn't believe her then, but her own death drew me to go back and look at her father's once more."

There was a flush of anger on Dobie's lineless face. "Are you being strictly honest with us, Superintendent? Was it not actually a visit from a certain Mr. Monk that caused you to look at it again? He is a friend of yours, is he not? And please do not be disingenuous."

Runcorn was tight-lipped. "Monk and I served together some years ago," he answered. "He's now with the River Police, and since he was investigating Mary Havilland's death and heard about her father, yes, of course he came to me to find out in more detail what had happened."

"And you told him what you had originally concluded, that Havilland shot himself?"

"I told him the details of our investigation. In light of the daughter's death as well, we looked into it again," Runcorn said doggedly.

"In case you were mistaken, Superintendent?"

"I hope not. But if I am, I'm man enough to own it!"

A second tactical error. There was a rumble of applause in the gallery.

Hester smiled, her eyes bright with approval.

Dobie ridiculed Runcorn a little further, then realized he was doing his case more harm than good and let him go.

The police surgeon gave a very wide range for the time of Havillands death, in answer to Rathbone's questions. Dobie picked it out but did not argue.

Rathbone called Cardman, who stood in the witness box ramrod stiff, like a soldier facing a firing squad; his lips were tight and his skin almost bloodless. Monk could only imagine how he must loathe this. In as few words as possible he answered Rathbone's questions about the letter that had been delivered and given to Havilland. He described Havillands response dismissing the servants to retire, and expressing the intention to stay up late and secure the house for the night himself. He identified the handwriting on the envelope as that of Havillands elder daughter, Mrs. Argyll. Rathbone thanked him.

Dobie rose to his feet, a slight smile on his face. "This must be very unpleasant for you."

Cardman did not answer.

"Did you see the contents of the envelope?"

Cardman was startled. "No, sir, of course not!" The suggestion that he would read his master's mail was clearly repugnant to him.

"Did Mr. Havilland tell you what was in it, perhaps?"

"No, sir."

"So you have no idea as to its contents?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know where this letter is now?"

"Mr. Havilland destroyed it, I believe."

"You believe?"

"That is what the maid said who took it to him!"

"Destroyed it? I see." Dobie smiled. "Perhaps that accounts for why Sir Oliver has not given us the privilege of reading it. Mr. Cardman, have you any reason whatever to believe that this... letter... had anything whatever to do with Mr. Havilland's death?"

Cardman took a deep breath and let it out soundlessly. "No, sir."

"Neither have I," Dobie agreed. He gave a little shrug and turned out his hands, palms upwards. "Neither has anyone!"

The first witness of the afternoon was Melisande Ewart. Runcorn, having given his own evidence, was free to remain in the courtroom. He sat on the other side of the aisle in the gallery. Monk was acutely conscious of his stiff shoulders, clenched hands, eyes never moving from Melisande's face.

She stood in the witness box, calm but for two spots of color high in her cheeks.

Rathbone was gentle with her, drawing from her bit by bit the account of Runcorn and Monk's visit to her and exactly what she had told them. Finally he had her describe the man who had emerged from the mews and bumped into her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Ewart," he concluded. "Please remain where you are in case Mr. Dobie wishes to speak to you."

Monk looked again at the jury and saw sharp interest in their faces, and approval also. She was a woman of gentleness and considerable beauty, and she had conducted herself with quiet grace. Dobie would be a fool to attack her. Nevertheless he did.

"You were returning from the theater, you said, ma'am?" he began.

"Yes," she agreed.

"At about midnight?"

"Yes."

"A little late. Did you attend a party after the final curtain?"

"No. The traffic was very heavy."

"It must have been! What play did you see?" Obviously he already knew the answer.

"Hamlet," she answered.

"A great tragedy, perhaps the greatest, but full of violence and unnatural death," he observed. "Murder after murder. Including Hamlet's own father, as he finally succeeded in proving."

"I am familiar with the plot," she said a little coldly.

Runcorn's knuckles were white, and his big hands clenched and unclenched slowly.

"And just as you arrived home," Dobie went on, "late and emotionally drained by one of the most powerful plays in the English language, you see a man emerge from the mews near your home." He sounded reasonable, even soothing. "It is dusk, he almost bumps into you. He apologizes for being clumsy and a little drunk, and goes on his way. Have I summarized correctly what actually happened, Mrs. Ewart?"

She hesitated, her eyes going to Rathbone as if for help.

Runcorn half rose in his seat and then subsided, his face tight with anger.

Hester grasped Monk's arm, her fingers digging into him.

"You are not incorrect, sir, so much as incomplete," Melisande replied to Dobie. "The man was a stranger in the area and he had no legitimate business in the mews. There was a large, dark stain on the shoulder of his jacket. I did not ask about it, but he saw that I had noticed it, and he told me that it was manure. He had tripped and fallen in the mews. But it was a lie. I was close enough to him to have smelled manure. It smelled more like blood."

"Even if it was blood, that does not mean he was guilty of murder," Dobie argued.

Melisande's eyes widened. "You mean he might have been in Mr. Havilland's stable and fallen over his dead body innocently, without thinking he should mention it?"

Dobie's face flamed, and there was a titter of embarrassed laughter around the courtroom.

"Bravo," Hester whispered to Monk.

Runcorn was smiling, his eyes bright, his cheeks red.

Dobie returned to the attack, but he was losing and he knew it. Moments later he retreated. Rathbone thanked Melisande again and then called the first of his nervous, uninteresting, but very necessary witnesses who were going to prove the trail of the money Aston Sixsmith had paid to the assassin. They detailed every move from Argyll's bank to its final destination. This line of enquiry was tedious but essential. It would continue for the rest of the day-and if Dobie wanted to contest any of it, it would go on probably longer than that.

When the court adjourned, there was no time for private conversation. Monk excused himself from Hester and caught up with Rathbone in the corridor outside. "I need to speak with Sixsmith," he said urgently. "Can you manage it? Persuade him to see me."

"How?" Rathbone looked tired, in spite of the victory with Melisande Ewart, such as it was. "I've already gone over every argument I can think of with Sixsmith. The man is desperate and numb with what has happened to him. He has worked for Argyll for years and feels totally betrayed."

"So he should," Monk answered, matching his stride with Rathbone's. "And if we prove it was murder, but not that Argyll's the one who hired the assassin, then Sixsmith will pay for it on the end of a rope!"

"All right," Rathbone said quickly. "You don't need to labor the point. But don't give him false hope, Monk." There was warning in his eyes, even fear.

"I don't intend to," Monk replied, hoping he could keep his promise. "Exactly the opposite."

It took Rathbone half an hour to arrange the meeting in a room off the corridor leading away from the court itself. Sixsmith looked somehow smaller than he had in the tunnel when Monk had seen him before.

Dressed in an ordinary suit, he was broad-shouldered and solid, but not so tall. His hair was neatly barbered, his shirt white, his hands clean. His nails were unbroken-remarkably so, considering the surroundings in which he usually worked.

He sat in the chair opposite Monk, putting his hands on the table between them. His skin was pale, and he had cut himself shaving. A tiny muscle twitched in his temple on the left side. "What is it?" he said bluntly. "Haven't you done enough?"

There was no time for Monk to soften any of what he must say, however harsh it sounded. "Sir Oliver Rathbone can tie every detail of the money all the way from Argyll's bank to you passing it to the man who murdered Havilland."

"If you think I'm going to plead guilty, you are wasting your time," Sixsmith said angrily. "And more to the point, you're wasting mine as well. I never denied that I paid the money! I thought it was to bribe a bunch of ruffians to see off some of the toshers who were giving us a hard time and spreading rumors about uncharted underground rivers and scaring the hell out of some of the navvies."

"Then say so!" Monk challenged him.

Sixsmith's heavy lip curled. "Admit to bribing thugs to knock around a few men who are no more than a nuisance? They'll have me in jail so fast, I'll barely see the ground. Are you a fool?"

"No, but you are!" Monk responded. "Rathbone will prove it anyway. If you want to come out of this alive, you'll admit to the attempt to bribe. It didn't work, so there was no crime actually committed-"

"There was murder!" Sixsmith said savagely, his face dark with emotion. "If that's not a crime, what in God's name is?"

"Did you know it was going to be murder?"

"No, of course I didn't!" Sixsmith's voice was harsh, desperate. "I know beating the toshers was illegal, though. But what the hell do the men in Parliament know about the real world? Would they bend their backs to a day's labor hacking and piling earth and rocks, winching them up to the surface? Or living all the daylight hours in some stinking, dripping, rat-infested hole, burrowing like a damn rat yourself, so the sewers can run clean?" He took a deep breath, his chest heaving. "We've got to get rid of the toshers who are spreading fear just to keep their old beats in the sewers that are left. Do you know what a toshers beat is worth?"

"Yes," Monk said tartly. "And I know they hate change. So tell the court that! Tell them that Argyll knew it, too, and couldn't afford to let it go on."

Sixsmith looked exhausted, as if he had been battling the same arguments in his head for weeks.

Monk felt an intense pity for him. "I'm sorry," he said gently. "To be betrayed by someone you trusted is one of the worst pains a man can know. But you have no time now to dwell on it. You must save yourself by telling not just the truth, but all of it."

Sixsmith raised his head and gave him a smile that was more a baring of the teeth. "Argyll will simply say that he gave me the money to buy off the toshers so they would leave the navvies alone, and I am the one who used it to have Havilland killed."

"Why would you do that?"

Sixsmith hesitated a moment.

"Why?" Monk repeated. "It's Argyll's company, not yours. Your reputation is excellent. If he went under, you could find a new position in days."

"You know my reputation?" Sixsmith sounded surprised.

"Of course. Argyll couldn't afford to have Havilland sabotage his tunnel. He must have contacted the assassin, but got you to hand the money to him. Why would he do that, except to incriminate you if anyone ever discovered Havilland's death was murder? It was deliberate!"

Sixsmith blinked rapidly, his face a mask of pain, still fighting not to believe it.

"Were you the first to speak to the assassin?" Monk pressed. He hated forcing Sixsmith to see it, but his life could depend on it. "Or did Argyll set up the meeting, give you the money, and tell you to pass it over?"

"Of course he did," Sixsmith said in a whisper.

"Do you know who the assassin was? Do you know where to find him now? Or anything about him at all?" Monk asked.

"No." Sixsmith stared at him. "No... I don't."

"Who asked Mrs. Argyll to write to her father and have him go out and wait in the stables at midnight?"

"You believe there really was a letter?" Sixsmith's eyes widened. "Did anyone see it?"

"Yes, I believe there was," Monk answered. "She admitted it, but we can't force her to testify against her husband."

Sixsmith dropped his head in his hands, as if someone had offered him hope, then dashed it from his lips.

"We can try to persuade her." Monk wanted passionately to help him, to give him the strength to go on. "For your own sake," he said urgently, "tell the truth about the money! Tell Dobie everything."

"He can't help," Sixsmith whispered. "He thinks he can, but he's young and imagines he'll always win. He won't this time. Argyll's surrounded himself with too many people who are innocent. There's Jenny, poor Mary Havilland, the navvies who carried out his orders to fight the toshers now and then. The poor devils don't have a choice! It's work or starve. And we have to meet the deadline in the contract or we won't get another."

He looked at Monk as if trying to discern if he understood. "And there's the M.P., Morgan Applegate, who gave us the contracts for those sites. He could be implicated in bribes and profit. Argyll knows all that; he arranged it that way. I haven't a chance, Mr. Monk. I'd best go down for bribing someone to murder a man, and not take all those others with me. I'll go anyway; he's seen to that." He faced Monk with haunted eyes, still clinging to a hope beyond reason, and on the edge of losing it.

Monk did something he had sworn he would not do. "Rathbone doesn't want to convict you," he said quietly. "It's Argyll he's after. He knows as well as you do that he's the man behind it. Tell the truth, fight for your life, and he'll help you."

Sixsmith stared at him, aching to believe him. The struggle was naked in his eyes, in the bruised planes of his face and the twist of his mouth. At last, very slowly, he nodded.

Hester had been to see Rose Applegate more than once since developing their mutual plan to do what they could to clear Mary Havilland's name from the stigma of suicide. Two days before the trial they had gone together to a charity afternoon reception organized to raise money for orphans to give them a decent education so that they might be of use both to themselves and to society. It was the sort of obviously worthy cause that even a woman in mourning, such as Jenny Argyll, might still feel free to attend.

"Are you sure she will be there?" Hester had asked anxiously.

"Certainly she will," Rose had assured her. "Lady Dalrymple specifically invited the Argylls, and she is at just the level of society one dare not disappoint. She is sufficiently nouveau riche to notice and take offense if one declined, unless you positively had a contagious disease. Anyway, Mrs. Argyll has spent the entire winter season in mourning, so she is desperate to get out before she dies of boredom and everyone who is anyone has forgotten who she is!"

So Hester and Rose had set out to join the worthy women attending the event, and had contrived to spend quite a good amount of time in Jenny Argyll's company. They had managed to fall with apparent ease into the subject of bereavement and the whole ghastliness of the upcoming trial of Aston Sixsmith.

"She knows something," Rose said to Hester when they met the following day, on the eve of the trial.

They were alone in Rose's withdrawing room, sitting beside the fire. Outside, the February rain lashed the windows, streaming down the glass until it was impossible to even see the traffic passing in the street beyond.

"I am quite sure she will refuse to see us again unless she has absolutely no alternative," Rose said miserably. "And how would we possibly run into her? With Sixsmith on trial for arranging the murder of her father, and she herself in mourning for both her father and her sister, she is hardly going to attend any public functions! Lady Dalrymple's ghastly affair for the betterment of orphans isn't going to happen again for years."

"Isn't there any sort of other function she might go to?" Hester asked. "Even if just to show a certain bravado. There must be something suitably somber, and-"

"Of course!" Rose said, her face alight with glee. "The perfect thing! They are holding a memorial service for Sir Edwin Roscastle the day after tomorrow."

Hester was at a loss. "Who was he? And would she go?"

Rose's expression was comical with distaste.

"A frightful old humbug, but very influential because he made such a parade of being good. Could flatter all the right people, and it got him no end of appreciation," she replied. "Everybody likes to be seen praising the virtuous dead. Makes them feel good by association." She sniffed. "Morgan doesn't have anything to do with it because he couldn't stand Roscastle and didn't pretend his feelings were otherwise. But I know Lord Montague, who will be arranging it, and I can persuade him to ask Argyll for a donation, and to become a patron of the memorial fund. He'd never refuse that-it's far too useful in business."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am! It's at eight o'clock tomorrow evening, and we can both go."

Hester was alarmed. It was a superb idea, far too good to miss, but it was years since she had been to such a function, and she most certainly had nothing suitable to wear. "Rose, I..." It was embarrassing to admit, and it might even look as if she had lost her nerve and were making excuses.

Rose looked at her, then suddenly understood. "Short notice to get a gown," she said tactfully. "Borrow one of mine. I'm taller than you are, but my maid can take it up this afternoon. We must make a plan of action."

Thus it was that Hester accompanied Rose Applegate to the memorial service for the late Sir Edwin Roscastle. It was an extremely formal affair with a large number of people attending, including the cream of society. They arrived at the church and alighted from their carriages in magnificent blacks, purples, grays, and lavenders, according to the degree of mourning they wished to display and the color they believed most became them. Some were deeply mistaken as to the latter, as Rose observed to Hester in a whisper as she pointed out who they were. Rose herself was wearing lavender and dark gray. With her fair hair and pale skin, she cut an extremely elegant figure.

"There she is!" Hester interrupted as she saw Jenny Argyll walking up the steps, clothed in highly fashionable black. She moved with grace and a complete disregard for the biting easterly wind, although she did take care to keep to the leeward of her husband.

Rose shivered convulsively. "We can go in now. Why on earth do they always seem to hold these things at the bitterest time of the year? Why can't people die with some consideration, in the summer?"

"It will be warmer at the reception afterwards," Hester replied. "I hope to heaven the Argylls stay for it!"

"Of course they will!" Rose assured her. "That is where one can curry favor, make useful acquaintances, and generally show off. Which, of course, is what everyone is here for."

"Isn't anyone here to remember Sir Edwin?"

Rose gave her a startled glance. "Certainly not!" she retorted. "He was awful! The sooner he can be forgotten, the better. Dying was the best thing he did, and he did that far too slowly."

Hester thought the judgment rather harsh, but she liked Rose too much to say so. And by the time they had sat through the eulogies and she heard what kind of people admired the deceased and why, she was inclined to take a similar view.

The reception afterwards was a different matter. Everyone else seemed to be just as physically cold and emotionally bored as she and Rose were. They walked rapidly up the hundred yards or so of dark and windy street to the hall where sausages, pies, and delicate hot pastries awaited them, along with various wines. Hester accepted a mulled claret with gratitude. She was surprised when Rose took a lemonade instead, but she made no comment.

They began to move among the other guests, intent upon approaching Jenny Argyll as soon as it could be done without appearing too obvious, and of course when Argyll himself wasn't too close to her.

"I'm so pleased you came," Rose said warmly to Jenny as an opening gambit. "There are few things one can do while in mourning without someone making a cutting remark. One feels dreadfully isolated. At least I did! Perhaps I am imagining mistakenly?"

Jenny could hardly fail to reply without being discourteous-added to which Rose was the wife of the member of Parliament most important to her husband. She gathered her wits with an apparent effort. "Not at all. You are most sympathetic," she responded.

Hester remained standing back a few steps, as if Rose was alone. Jenny Argyll looked composed, but Hester could see that the veneer was thin. Her movements were stiff, and her skin looked bruised around the eyes, as if from too many nights awake and too much tightly held emotion she dared not let go of, in case she never grasped it again. Hester would have been sorry for her if she had not been convinced Jenny had placed her own safety and continued well-being ahead of that of her sister.

Suddenly Alan Argyll was at Hester's elbow, a plate of savory pastries in his hand.

"Excuse me." He brushed past her, his attention focused on his wife, his face tight and angry. It was almost as if he was frightened that she would in some way betray him. He spoke to Rose, but his words were lost to Hester in the general babble of conversation. He put his hand on Jenny's arm protectively. She moved sideways, away from him. Was it because there was a large woman in black wishing to pass, or because his touch displeased her? Her head was high, her face half averted. The movement was discreet, a shrinking away more than an actual step.

Rose spoke again, her eyes wide and tense.

Hester moved closer. She wanted to catch the words, the inflection of the voices. Was Jenny Argyll protecting her husband because she wanted to or because she needed to? Had she any idea of what he had done? Was that why instinctively she found his touch repellent?

Rose turned and saw Hester and introduced them. She hesitated a moment over Hester's name, knowing that Monk would produce powerful and conflicting emotions in both Jenny and Argyll.

"How do you do," Hester said as calmly as she could, looking first at Jenny, then at her husband. He did not attract her, but neither did she find him ugly. She did not see the cruelty in him that she had expected. Even the power in him seemed blunted. Was he at last afraid, not of the police but of his wife's ability to testify against him in court? It was her father and her sister whose deaths he had caused. What monumental arrogance in him had ever made him imagine she would endure that and do nothing? And was she still so terrified that even now she would shield him?

Was evil really masked by so ordinary a face? Or was Hester simply blind to it?

Rose was making some trivial conversation. They were waiting for Hester to play her part.

"Yes, of course," she said, hoping it was a reasonably appropriate response.

Argyll was looking at her, his eyes cold and guarded.

Jenny's voice sounded strained, too sharp and too high. The conversation was all trivial: a remembrance of the dead man and the causes he had supported. A footman passed by with a tray of glasses filled with mulled wine and lemonade.

They were a little crowded. There was no room for the footman to pass between them. Argyll took the tray from him and offered it to Hester. Considering the potency of the mulled wine she had drunk on entering, she decided that lemonade might be wiser this time.

"Thank you," she said, accepting a glass.

Because of the way they were standing, Jenny next to her husband, it was natural to pass the tray to her next. Jenny hesitated a moment over the lemonade, then chose the wine.

Rose took the lemonade, as before. She lifted her glass. "To the brave men who pioneer social reform.'" she said, and drank deeply.

The rest of them echoed the sentiment. More food was offered. This time it was sweet pastries filled with crushed dried fruit, or delicate custards with unusual flavors.

A portly man with heavy side whiskers took Argyll's attention.

A three-piece musical ensemble began playing a slow, solemn tune.

Rose turned to Jenny. "Isn't it awful?" she said confidentially, pulling her mouth down at the corners.

Jenny appeared startled. So far they had shared the artificial conversation of acquaintances who did not care for each other but were civil in their mutual interest.

Suddenly Rose giggled. It was a rich, absurdly happy sound. "Not the food! The music, if you can call it that. Why on earth can't we be honest? Nobody feels like playing a dirge because the old fool is dead. Most of them couldn't wait for him to go. Death is about the only thing that finally made him hold his tongue."

Jenny pretended she was not taken aback. She took a deep breath and answered with a slightly shaky voice. "That may be true, but we would be wiser not to say so, Mrs. Applegate."

Hester realized she had been holding her breath, almost till it hurt. What on earth was the matter with Rose? This was not part of their plan.

"To be wise all the time is the utmost foolishness!" Rose said rather loudly. "We are so careful being wise, we never commit any indiscretions, unless they are colossal and catastrophic!" She swung her arms wide to show how very huge the indiscretions were, nearly knocking Jenny's glass out of her hand. "Look what you're doing!" she reproached her. "Bad wine stains, you know."

Jenny looked embarrassed. Several other people turned to look at Rose, then away again quickly.

A waiter passed, and Rose took another glass from his tray, but this time she took the wine. She drank it down in one long draught, then tossed the glass over her shoulder. It fell on the floor with a tinkle as it broke. She ignored it entirely and strode over towards the musicians. She made a magnificent figure, head high, skirts swaying, her handsome face bristling with life. She stood in front of the dais.

"For heaven's sake, stop that awful screeching!" she commanded fiercely. "You on the violin, you sound like a cat wailing for a fish head. Unless you think the poor old sod went to dismal torment, which I admit is likely, try to sound as if you believed in the forgiveness of God, and some chance of heaven for him!"

The violinist clasped her hands to her bosom and let the violin slither down her dress and fall onto the floor.

Rose stooped and picked it up. She put it under her chin, seized the bow, and began to play astonishingly well. She began with the same music they had been playing, but she altered the tempo to that of the music hall, and then slid into one of the concert songs, swift and bawdy.

The pianist gave a little squawk of horror and sat stark still with her mouth open. The cellist burst into tears.

"Oh, stop it!" Rose commanded her. "Pull yourself together! And hold that thing properly!" She pointed to the cello. "Like a lover, not as if it just made you an indecent proposal!"

The cellist flung the instrument on the ground and fled, the bow trailing behind her.

Someone in the audience fainted, or pretended to. Another began to laugh hysterically. A man started to sing the words to the song. He had a rich baritone voice and-most unfortunately-knew all the words.

Hester stood frozen, aware of Jenny beside her and Alan Argyll a few feet away, paralyzed.

Rose did not hesitate a stroke but kept on playing in perfect time, swaying and tapping her feet.

Suddenly the pianist abandoned all propriety and joined in. Her face was fixed in a terrified smile, showing all her teeth.

Alan Argyll jerked to life, moving to stand at Hester's elbow. "For heaven's sake," he hissed. "Can't you do anything to stop her? This is appalling! Morgan Applegate will never live it down!"

Hester realized she was probably the only person who could do anything. She was Rose's friend. Therefore it was an act of the utmost compassion and necessity that she intervene. She walked forward to the dais, picked up her borrowed and rather long skirts and stepped up. Rose was still playing very elegantly. She was on to a different song now, but no better.

"Rose!" Hester said quietly, but with as much authority as she could manage. "That's enough now. Let the violinist have her instrument back. It's time we went home."

"Home, sweet home!" Rose said cheerfully, and loudly. "That's a terrible song, Hester. Positively maudlin! We're celebrating Sir what's-his-name's death. At least-I mean we're remembering his life with... with regrets... I shouldn't have said that!" She started to laugh. "Far too close to the truth. Should never speak the truth at funerals. If a man was a crashing bore like Lord Kinsdale, you say he was fearfully well-bred."

There was a gasp of horror from the maid. "If a woman had a face like a burst boot, such as Lady Alcott," she went on, "you say what a kind heart she had." She laughed again, stepping back out of Hester's reach and speaking even more loudly. "If he was a liar and a cheat, like Mr. Worthington, you praise his wit. If he betrayed his wife with half the neighborhood, you talk all about his generosity. Everyone keeps a straight face, and weeps a lot into their handkerchiefs to hide their laughter." She hiccupped and ignored it. "You don't understand," she went on, looking a little dizzily at Hester. "You've spent too much time in the army."

"Oh, God!" someone groaned.

Someone else began to giggle and couldn't stop. It was wild, hilarious, hysterical laughter, soaring higher and higher.

Rose was hopelessly drunk. She must have had far more than Hester had seen or realized. Was this the terrible weakness that Morgan Apple-gate had been trying to guard her against? Had he the faintest idea what she was like? What she was saying so devastatingly loudly was awful! The worse for being perfectly true, and what everyone was secretly thinking.

Rose was about to start playing the violin again. The pianist was waiting, half in agony, half in ecstasy. It was probably a night she would remember for the rest of her life. She kept her eyes straight ahead and took a deep breath, then plunged in with a resounding bass chord, and then a trill on the top notes.

Hester was desperate. It was all completely out of control, and part of her was on the edge of laughter. It was only the knowledge of ruin that stopped her joining in. She snatched the violin bow from Rose, gripping it around the middle in a fashion that probably did it little good. She flung it behind her, towards the back of the dais, where at least no one would tread on it. The original violinist was still collapsed in a heap, and someone was waving a fan at her quite uselessly. The cellist had disappeared completely.

"You are going home because you are no longer welcome here," Hester told Rose as sternly as she could. "Put that violin down and take my arm! Do as you are told!"

"I thought we could play a game," Rose protested. "Charades, don't you think? Or perhaps not-we're playing it all the time, really, aren't we? Or blindman's buff? We could all grope around, bumping into each other and grabbing hold of the prettiest, or the richest... no, that's being done too. All the time. What do you suggest?" She looked at Hester expectantly.

Hester could feel her face burning. "Come home," she said between her teeth, suddenly overtaken with fury at the senseless destruction of a reputation. "Now!"

Rose was startled by the tone rather than the words. Reluctantly she obeyed.

Hester put an arm around her and grasped her wrist with her other hand. Awkwardly but efficiently she marched her to the edge of the dais. Rose, however, misjudged the step, tripped over her skirt, and pitched forwards, only just saving herself from serious hurt by dragging Hester with her, and at the last moment by putting out her hands to break her fall.

Hester landed hard, knocking the breath out of her lungs. This saved her from using a word that had not passed her lips since the days in the army that Rose had referred to. Struggling to disentangle herself from her skirts and stand up without treading on Rose and falling flat again, she rose with great difficulty to her feet. "Get up!" she commanded furiously.

Rose rolled over slowly and sat up, looking stunned, then began to laugh again.

Hester leaned forward, caught Rose's hand, and jerked hard. Rose slid forward but remained on the floor.

It was Alan Argyll who came out of the crowd. Everyone else was milling around, trying to pretend nothing had happened, and either surreptitiously looking at the spectacle or studiously avoiding looking.

"For God's sake get her out of here!" he snarled at Hester. "Don't just stand there! Lift!" He bent and hauled Rose to her feet, balancing her with some skill so that she would not buckle at the knees. Then, as she began to subside again, he picked her up, put her over his shoulder, and marched her towards the door. Hester could do nothing but follow behind.

Outside it was not a difficult matter to send for Rose's coachman. Ten minutes later Argyll assisted her, with considerable strength, into the coach.

"I assume you will go with her?" he said, looking at Hester with disdain. "You seem to have arrived with her. Somebody needs to explain this to her husband. She can't make a habit of it, or she'll be locked up."

"I shall manage very well," Hester assured him tartly. "I think she has gone to sleep. Her servants will help as soon as we get that far. Thank you for your assistance. Good night." She was angry, embarrassed, and, now that it was over, a little frightened. What on earth was she going to say to Morgan Applegate? As Argyll had pointed out, his political career would never recover from this. It would be spoken of for years, even decades.

The ride was terrible, not for anything Rose did but for what Hester feared she would do. They sped through the lamplit streets in the rain, the cobbles glistening, the gutters spilling over, the constant sound of drumming on the roof, splashing beneath, and the clatter of hooves and hiss of wheels. They lurched from side to side because they were going too fast, as the coachman was afraid Rose was ill and needed help.

Hester was dreading what Applegate would say. No words had been exchanged, but she felt he had trusted her to care for Rose. From the first time they had met, Hester had seen a protectiveness in him, as if he was aware of a peculiar vulnerability in his wife, one he could not share with others. Now it seemed that Hester had quite extraordinarily let them both down.

Except that she had had no idea how it had happened.

The carriage came to an abrupt halt, but Rose did not seem to wake up. There was shouting outside and more lights, then the carriage door opened and a footman appeared. He leaned in without even glancing at Hester, lifted Rose with great care, and carried her across the mews and in through the back door of the house.

The coachman handed Hester out and accompanied her across the yard and through the scullery. Her skirts were sodden around her ankles; her shoulders and hair were wet. Nothing had been further from her mind on leaving the memorial reception than sending someone to fetch her cloak-or to be more exact, Rose s cloak.

Inside the warmth of the kitchen, she realized how very cold she was. Her body was shuddering, her feet numb. Her head was beginning to pound as if it were she who had drunk far too much.

The cook took pity on her and made her a hot cup of tea, but gave her nothing to go with it, no biscuit or slice of bread, as if Hester were to blame for Rose's condition.

It was half an hour before Morgan Applegate came to the kitchen door. He was in his shirtsleeves, his face flushed but white about the lips, his hair tangled.

"Mrs. Monk," he said with barely suppressed rage. "Will you be so good as to come with me?" It was a command rather than a question.

Hester rose and followed him. She was deeply sorry for his distress, but she had no intention of being spoken to like a naughty child.

He walked into the library, where there was a brisk fire burning. He held the door for her, then slammed it shut. "Explain yourself!" he said simply.

She looked at him with as much dignity as she could manage, being sodden wet, wearing borrowed clothes, and having endured one of the most embarrassing evenings of her life. She reminded herself that she had survived and been useful in fever hospitals and on battlefields. This was a minor tragedy. She refused even to be formal.

"I believe Rose has had too much to drink, Mr. Applegate. And although it cannot have been more than one or two glasses, she seems to be unusually susceptible to alcohol. Unless, of course, it was remarkably strong."

He was breathing deeply, as if he could not immediately find words to retaliate.

"I am extremely sorry it happened," Hester continued. "I'm afraid you know only the simplest part of it yet." Better to get it over now rather than leave it for him to discover in the most acutely embarrassing way. "There was a dismal musical trio playing, and Rose took the violin from the fiddler and played it herself, extremely well. Unfortunately, she soon changed to a funny but rather vulgar song from the music halls. The whole scene is something you would probably prefer not to know about, but it was... memorable."

"Oh, God!" He went ash white. "How?"

She hesitated.

"How?" he repeated.

"She was very forthright over what people say about each other, and what they really mean. With names. I'm sorry." She meant it deeply.

He stared at her, the anger draining out of him. "I should have told you. She... she used to..." He spread his hands helplessly. "She hasn't done it for years! Why now?" His eyes pleaded with her for a reason for the devastation that had descended on him with no warning.

Then suddenly she knew the answer. It was as obvious as a slap across the face. "Alan Argyll!" she said aloud. "He must have put something in her drink! He knew we were there to try to persuade Jenny to testify! It was after he joined us that Rose started to behave differently. Could he have known about her... weakness?" She would not insult either of them by mincing words. It was far too late now.

"If he had cared to find out," Applegate admitted. He sat down slowly in the large leather seat just behind him, leaving her to do as she wished. He looked crumpled, like a rag doll someone had torn the stuffing from. "Was it awful?" he asked, without raising his eyes.

To lie would only leave him more vulnerable. "Yes," she said simply. "It was also very funny and perfectly true, and it is the truth of it I fear people will neither forget nor forgive."

He sat silently.

The fire was beginning to warm her through. The hem of her gown was steaming gently. She knelt down in front of him. "I'm sorry. We believed it was a good cause, and that we could win."

"It is a good cause," he said quietly. He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind.

"Will she be all right?" Hester asked. "Tomorrow? The next day?" Then she thought with a chill how clumsy that was. It would never be all right for Applegate himself. His position would become untenable. He would never be able to take Rose to any social event after this. Possibly he would find it unbearable to go himself.

He lifted his head suddenly. His eyes were blurred with fear and exhaustion, but there was a light of decision in them. "I'll give up my seat in Parliament. We'll go back to the country. We have a house in Dorset. We can do a lot of good there, without ever coming to London again. It's quiet and beautiful, and we can be more than happy. We'll have each other, and that will be enough."

Ridiculously, Hester felt her eyes fill with tears. He must love her so deeply and unquestioningly that all his happiness lay in being with her. His anger had been on her behalf, not against her. Perhaps it was even against himself, because he knew her weakness and had not protected her from it. Would Monk have been as gentle with Hester, as forgiving, as willing to sacrifice? She would probably never know.

"I'm sorry," Applegate apologized. "Would you like something to eat? You must be frozen. It's... I shouldn't have blamed you. You couldn't guard against something you knew nothing of. Or would you rather simply go home?"

She made herself smile at him. "I think actually I would like to go home and put on some dry clothes. It's been a rotten night." "I'll have my coachman take you," he answered.

Monk flung the front door open almost before the carriage had stopped. When Hester alighted he strode out into the street, disregarding the rain.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. "You're soaked and you look terrible. You were supposed to..." Then he saw the expression on her face and stopped. "What is it?"

Hester thanked the coachman and went inside. She was shivering again, so she sat down in the chair nearest the fire and huddled into herself. Now that she was no longer faced with Morgan Applegate's grief or Rose's urgent need, a profound sense of defeat settled over her. She wondered how she could ever have been so stupid as to think they could beat such vested interests. Her hubris had created her own downfall, and in her unthinking ignorance she had taken Rose with her.

"What happened?" Monk said again.

She described it as accurately as she could remember, although she left out a good deal of what Rose had said and summarized the rest. "Argyll must have put alcohol in her lemonade," she finished. "I don't know how-I didn't see anything more than his hand over it for a moment. After tonight's performance she'll have to disappear, and neither she nor her husband will be able to give evidence of anything. And we won't force anything out of Jenny Argyll, either. I won't have any way of getting back into society without Rose. In fact..."The heat rose in her face. "In fact, I may be remembered rather unkindly for my part in this. I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry."

He was startled. "You're... why are you apologizing? What else is there that you haven't told me, Hester?"

She stared at him. "Nothing! But they knew who I was, that I'm your wife. Aren't policemen's wives supposed to behave rather better than that?"

He gazed at her, wide-eyed, then he started to laugh. It was a deep, full-throated howl of incredulous hilarity.

"It's not that funny!" she said indignantly.

But he laughed even more, and there was nothing she could do but lose her temper or join him. She chose the latter. They stood together in front of the fire, the tears running down their cheeks.

"I think you had better forget politics," he said at last. "You aren't any good at it."

"I'm not usually as bad as this!" she defended herself, but without conviction. There was still defeat in her eyes.

"Yes, you are," he replied, suddenly gentle again. "I think you should go back to nursing. At that you are superb."

"No one will have me," she told him ruefully.

"Yes, they will. In Portpool Lane, every one of them loves you-even Squeaky Robinson, in his own way."

There was disbelief in her face, hesitation, then hope. "But you said-"

"I know. I was wrong." He did not add anything because she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him, kissing him long and hard.