Dark Assassin

FOUR

Monk was in the stern of the ferry next morning as it made its way across the choppy waters. Waves were slapping the sides of the small boat, and the damp, raw wind stung the skin, freezing the cheeks and arms. The boatman needed not only his strength but his skill to keep from "catching crabs" with the oar blades and drenching them both.

At least the wind had driven the fog away and the long strings of barges were going downriver on the tide, carrying goods from the Pool of London to everyplace on earth.

He had spoken to Hester last night as if he was afraid for her safety, and indeed that was his concern. He did not want to prevent her from doing what she believed was right, but when she became involved in a cause she lost all sense of proportion. More than once it had endangered her.

He looked at the choppy water, dark, turgid, and filthy. Perhaps if he could remember all his youth, his other experiences of women, of love, he would be more realistic. But he remembered nothing, and he wanted Hester as she was: naive, rash, stubborn, vulnerable, passionate, opinionated, loyal, sometimes foolish, always honest-too honest-never mean of spirit, and never, ever a coward. But he wanted her alive, and if she did not have the sense to protect herself, then he must do it for her.

He would find out what happened to Mary Havilland, and to her father, because Hester would despise him if he did not.

How had she felt seven years ago over her own father's suicide? He had only just met her then, and they had scraped each other raw to begin with. She had found him cold and arrogant. Perhaps he had been, but he had also been bewildered by the unknown world around him because of his memory loss, increasingly aware he was disliked. It was Hester's strength and courage that had constantly buoyed him.

Had she felt guilty that she was not in England and at home when her parents both so desperately needed her? Was that at least in part why she was determined now to fight for Mary Havilland and, through her, for her father?

He had not even thought of that before.

They were at the Wapping shore. He paid the ferryman, climbed the steps up into the harsher wind, and strode over to the door. It was warm inside, but it took several minutes before the heat thawed his numb flesh. It made his hands tingle as the blood circulated again, and he was aware of the men putting on heavy overcoats and then caps as they went out to begin the next patrol.

He spoke to them briefly, listening to the report of the night's events: a couple of robberies and several fights, one ending in a knifing. The victim had died, but they had the man who had done it, and apparently it was the culmination of a long feud.

"Anyone else involved?" he asked.

Clacton gave him a sideways look eloquent of contempt, and Monk realized his mistake. He was treating Clacton as an equal, as he would Orme. Clacton was spoiling for a fight, inching around and around to find a weakness to jab. Monk held his temper with an effort. A man who loses his temper at a subordinate's rudeness isn't fit to command. No one must manipulate him. Nor must he be seen to need Orme's help. He was alone. Orme wanted him to succeed. Clacton wanted him to fail. For none of them would he ever take Durban 's place. He did not mind that. He must make his own place, and none of them could admire Durban more than he did, for it was Monk who understood what he had done better than they, and who carried a far greater burden of guilt for it.

He would not correct himself and rephrase the question. He must retrieve the station another way. He turned to Butterworth. "Mr. Clacton seems unwilling to reveal their names. Friends of his, perhaps. Or informants. Perhaps you can be more enlightening?"

Clacton moved his mouth to protest, then looked at Monk's face and decided better of it.

"Yes, sir!" Butterworth said, barely concealing his smile. "No one else injured, sir, far as we know. No witnesses admittin', but we know 'oo they worked for. It was more likely personal. Been grumblin' on for a couple o' months since a scrap downriver a bit. Drink an' bad temper, most like."

"Do you expect any revenge?" Monk asked.

"No, sir, but we'll keep an eye."

"Good. Anything else?"

He dealt with a few other details and then the men went out- Butterworth with a grin, Clacton scowling, the other two noncommittal.

Monk found Orme in one of the small offices. He closed the door as Orme looked up from the ledger he was writing in. "Mornin', sir," he said, regarding Monk solemnly. "Got the doctors reports on Miss 'Avilland and Mr. Argyll. Nothin' we din't know about, 'ceptin' for sure she couldn't've bin with child. She was just like she should've bin. No man 'ad touched 'or." There was a deep sadness in his eyes. "They're gonna bury 'er this mornin'. 'Er sister din't even ask the church to 'elp, let alone give 'er a place. I s'pose she knows it din't do no good for 'er pa, poor soul."

Monk sat down at the other side of the small wooden table. Suddenly he felt sick. It was no use raging against the blindness, the arrogance to judge, or the lack of human pity that had ruled Mary unfit for a decent burial. None of it would do any good.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Where?"

"On the land outside St. Mary's Church on Princes Road. It's just opposite the Lambeth work'ouse." He added nothing, but his voice was thick and he lowered his eyes.

"Thank you," Monk repeated.

"Eleven o'clock," Orme added. "You'll 'ave time ter see Mr. Farnham an' then go."

"No, I won't-not if I go tell the butler and Superintendent Runcorn."

Orme looked at him gravely.

"Please tell Mr. Farnham I'll see him when I return."

"Yes, sir. Would that be Superintendent Runcorn o' the Metropolitan Police?"

"Yes. He was the one who investigated James Havilland's death." He told him what Runcorn had said, and about the superintendent's clear sadness over Mary's death as well, including his reluctance to believe it was suicide.

"But there weren't no doubt 'er father killed 'isself," Orme said quietly. His round blue eyes held no hope that Monk could be wrong, but he did not hide his disappointment.

"Couldn't find any," Monk admitted. "Except that she didn't believe it. She was certain that he was a fighter and would never have given up."

Orme's mouth tightened. "Well, she wouldn't easy think 'er own pa were the kind ter shoot 'isself, would she!" It was not a question. "Mebbe she 'eld out as long as she could, and when somethin' turned it fer 'er so she couldn't kid 'erself any longer, that was what broke 'er. Poor creature. Poor little soul."

"At the time, did you think she jumped?" Monk asked.

Orme blinked. "Funny way ter go over, backwards, like. But she was strugglin' wi' young Argyll. You mean was 'e tryin' to stop 'er, or ter make sure as she went? Why? 'Cos she turned 'im down? That's a bit…" He spread his hands, not able to find the right word.

"No," Monk said. "Because she was looking for the proof of danger that she thought her father was on the brink of finding."

"Why'd they do that? Seems daft. Nob'dy wants a cave-in," Orme pointed out. "Costs a fortune to repair. An' Argyll stands out as a man 'oo likes his pennies, every one of 'em."

"You think so?"

"Yes, Mr. Monk, I do. I done a bit of askin' about 'im. Just 'cos o' that poor girl. Does very well fer 'isself, Mr. Argyll, but all proper and careful."

"You found nothing ugly?"

"No. An I looked." He did not need to explain why. "Yer gonna go on a bit longer, sir?"

"A bit." Monk forced himself to trust Orme, hoping he was not going to regret it later. Orme might even prefer not to know the reason Monk was going to continue; keeping the distance between them might be more comfortable. But Monk disregarded it. "My wife was approached by someone concerned about the chances of a really bad cave-in." Orme did not need to know about Hester's involvement with the clinic at Port-pool Lane, or that the friend was a ratcatcher. "He took her to see one of the big tunnels, very deep. The man knew all the underground rivers and wells, and he's afraid the tunnelers are going too fast."

Orme was watching him with anxiety now, his attention complete.

"She promised to help if she could," Monk went on. "She found the member of Parliament chiefly concerned, and went to see him." He ignored Orme's amazement. "It seems Mary Havilland had been there already and had impressed both him and his wife most favorably. They were distressed about her death and keen to do all they can to assist in reform, if anyone can find proof that there is a real danger."

"Well, well." Orme sat back in his chair. "So she was really doin' summink." His face filled with a sudden pity so sharp he became conscious of it. He blinked and turned away, as if needing to shelter himself from Monk's eyes.

"I'm going to pursue it at least another day or two," Monk said tersely. "See if I can find out exactly what Havilland was looking at, and what he found. I need to know if it was real, or just his own fear of being closed in."

Orme nodded. "Mr. Farnham isn't going to like it," he warned. " 'E likes ter be tellin' us what ter do, an' there's plenty o' theft, same as always. All this diggin' o' new sewers an' tunnels is makin' folks restive. So many navvies around's makin' it 'arder ter move stolen goods, too. The Fat Man's one o' the biggest fencers o' the good stuff-jewelry, gold, ivory, silks, an' the like. 'E's un'appy with so much comin' an' goin'."

"I know."

"Jus' sayin'," Orme replied.

"Thank you. Theft is important, but murder, if it is murder, is more so."

Orme gave a little downward smile. " 'E won't say it's murder. An it's the people 'oo're stole from 'oo run the river. That's where the money is."

"You're a wise man," Monk conceded. "Remind me of that again in a day or two. Meantime, it's dead women like Mary Havilland to whom we owe justice as well."

Monk took a hansom to the burial and picked up both Runcorn and Cardman. They rode in silence to the church. They were early, but it seemed appropriate to stand on the short strip of withered grass and wait, three men united in anger and grief for a woman one had known all her life, one only the last two months of it, and the third not at all.

They stood stiff in the icy wind, each in his thoughts, oblivious of the traffic or the bulk of the workhouse black against a leaden sky.

The gravediggers had done their job; the earth gaped open. The small cortege was led by the minister, whose unsmiling countenance was like the face of doom, followed by Jenny Argyll in unrelieved black and so heavily veiled her face was invisible. Monk knew her only because it could be no one else with Alan Argyll, although she took no notice of him at all, nor he of her. They looked as isolated as if the other were not there.

Was Argyll thinking only of his dead brother? The bitterness in his face suggested it.

There was no service, nothing said of the hope of resurrection. It was without mercy. The wind whipped the mens' coattails, and the ice it carried stung the bare skin of their cheeks, making them red in contrast with white lips and hollow eyes. Monk looked once each at Runcorn and Cardman, then did not intrude further on their bereavement.

Monk turned to the minister and wondered what manner of God he believed in, whether he did this willingly or under protest because he had a wire and children to feed. Monk was overwhelmingly grateful that his own faith was not hostage to financial need, his own or anyone else's. He should pity the man his bondage, and yet there were no questions in the ministers face.

It was over almost before Monk realized it. Without a word, the cortege departed. In silence, Runcorn, Cardman, and Monk left, in opposite directions.

"Suicide," Monk's superior said brusquely when Monk went into his office early in the afternoon. "For God's sake, man! She jumped right in front of you, and took with her the poor devil who was trying to save her! Don't make it even worse for the family by drawing it out!" Farnham was a big man, broad-shouldered and heavy-bellied. His long-nosed face could break into a sudden smile, and there were those who spoke of certain acts of kindness, but Monk felt uneasy in his presence, as if never certain he would be true to the best in himself. Farnham had sought authority and won it, and now he wore it with intense pleasure.

Arguments of belief or intuition would only be mocked. Anything Monk put forward would be seen as enlightened self-interest for the River Police. "It probably is suicide, sir," he agreed aloud. "But I think we should make certain."

Farnham's eyebrows rose. He had trusted Durban and known where he was with him, or at least he had assumed he did. He resented the fact that now he had to learn the strengths and weaknesses of a new man. He was sufficiently aware of what had really happened not to hold Monk accountable for Durban 's death. But Monk had survived, and Farnham blamed him for that.

"Not much is ever sure in police work, Monk," he said sourly. "Thought you would have known that!" The criticism was implicit.

Monk swallowed his impatience. "Not about what happened on the bridge, sir. I'm thinking of what she was investigating to do with the sewer tunnels and their construction."

"Not our concern!" Farnham snapped. "That's the Metropolitan Police." The distaste with which he said that was exactly what Monk had expected, had already seen in him in the few weeks he had been here. It was part of what Farnham disliked in Monk himself, and the fact that he had been dismissed from the Metropolitan Police was conversely a point in his favor.

"Yes, sir," Monk agreed with difficulty. "But if there is something, and it causes a real disaster and we knew about it, or at least had a chance to find out, do you think they'll see it that way?"

Farnham's eyes narrowed. "You can have a couple of days," he warned. "If you find something worth pursuing, then give it to them, on paper, and keep a record of it here! Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Monk thanked him and left before Farnham could change his mind or add any further restrictions.

He began by learning as much as he could about the vast network of new and old sewers and how they interconnected. It was an immense complex, intended to take the ocean of waste from London 's three million people eastwards away from the city and its present egress into the river, and instead process it through large purification works closer to the sea. Then the surplus water could be released, comparatively clean, and the solid waste otherwise disposed of. It was a brilliant feat of engineering, costing a king's ransom of money, but for the capital of the Empire and the seat of government for a quarter of the world, it was absolutely necessary.

It took more time to find the exact place of the Argyll company in it, and he was surprised how large it was. It must have cost a considerable effort and influence to obtain it, and no doubt would not be easily forfeited. They had three sites close to one another. Two were cut-and-cover, like the crevasse that Hester had described, but one was too deep for that method. They were actually tunneling, burrowing like rabbits under the ground, scraping out the earth and rock and carrying it back to the entrance to get rid of it. The necessity for this was created not only by the depth but also by the fact that other rivers and gas lines crossed above it in several places and could have collapsed had they been exposed by the more open method.

He searched but could find no adequate map that charted all of London 's old wells, springs, and submerged rivers or the old gutters, drains, and waterways that had altered over the course of the centuries. Clay slipped. Some earth absorbed water; some rejected it. Some old drains, dating back to the Roman occupation, had survived. Some had been broken or had caved in, and the land had subsided, diverting them deeper or sideways. The earth was a living thing, changing with time and usage. No wonder Sutton, whose father had been a tosher and knew all the waterways large and small, was now frightened by the vast steam engines that shook the ground, and by the knowledge that men were digging, shoveling, and moving earth, disturbing what was settled.

Monk was circumspect about mentioning the Havillands' name, but he would not learn anything further of use if he did not. It gave him a wry, half-sour pleasure that it was far easier now than in his independent days because he could use the power of the River Police to ask for what he wanted. He was cramped by rules, hemmed in and robbed of freedom by the necessity of answering both upwards to Farnham and in a sense downwards to Orme and the other men. He could not lead if he could not inspire men to follow him. The mere holding of office could force obedience for a while, but it could not earn the respect or the loyalty that were what mattered. He would not replace Durban anywhere except in the records on paper.

He made detailed enquiries of clerks at the construction offices regarding old maps, earlier excavations, waterways, the nature of soil, graveyards, and plague pits-anything that might affect new tunneling. He was told of James Havillands investigations.

"And Miss Mary Havilland?" he insisted. "Did she explain her involvement? Weren't you curious that a young woman should know anything about such matters, or care?"

"Yes, I was," the clerk agreed. "That's 'ow come I remember. As 'e were 'er father, she told me, an' 'e were dead, she were doin' what she could ter finish 'is work. 'E worked fer one o' the big companies, Argyll Company."

"She told you that?"

"No. I know that meself. Not that I knew 'im, like, but I seed 'im on the works once or twice. Din't look well. Sort o' pale an' sweatin'. Mind, I seen men like that when they 'as ter go down deep. Scared o' bein' closed in. An' o' the rats an' the water." He shuddered. ''Don't like 'em much me-self."

Monk pressed it a little further, noting down the details, then thanked the clerk and left.

The rest of the day yielded nothing new. Mary Havilland had followed in the footsteps of her father in half a dozen places. Obviously Havilland had believed that the steam engines were dangerous, but had he learned anything that proved it?

Monk turned it over in his mind as he walked back along the dock-side towards the station. It was dark and there was a fine rain. The smell of the tide was harsh, but he was becoming used to it. Even the constant slurping of the water against the embankment and on the steps down to the ferryboats and barges assumed a kind of familiar rhythm. The foghorns were booming again because the rain blinded vision; lights loomed out of the darkness before there was time to change course.

He wondered about Scuff. Where was he on a night like this? Had he eaten? He had shelter, Monk knew that, but had he any warmth? Then he remembered that the chief booty of mudlarks was coal. Very often the lightermen would deliberately knock pieces off their barges into the shallow water for the small boys to get. Perhaps he had a fire. The riverside was full of children scraping by the best they could-like the rest of the city. It was irrational to worry about one.

He forced his mind back to the case.

Had Havilland found anything to make it necessary for someone to kill him? It seemed unlikely. What could it be? Argyll's had had no serious accidents. But Havilland had been an engineer himself, and he knew exactly what their huge machines were capable of, what safeguards were taken, and that Alan Argyll, of all people, would not want injuries or time lost. An unforeseen incident might kill dozens of men, but it would ruin the company.

So what had Havilland imagined?

Had he really learned something so dangerous he had been murdered to hide it? And then Mary had followed in his footsteps and found it also, and in turn been murdered?

Or was Havilland simply a man who had lost his mental balance, become obsessed, and imagined danger where there was none? Were the diverted streams and the threat of slippage an excuse rather than a reason, in order to close that tunnel and avoid ever going down there again? Was it even possible he had some kind of a grudge against the Argylls personally? Mary, devoted to him, had believed his view, and then when she had finally been forced by the evidence to face the truth, had she been unable to bear it? Only for her it was worse! First her father s error, his suicide, her own broken betrothal to Toby Argyll, then an estrangement from her sister, the shame of her false accusations, and nothing to look forward to in the future, not even financial security.

Had Toby told her some truth so bitter it had broken her at last? Could she even have lashed out at him because of it?

Hester would be hurt to know that. He winced and shuddered in the cold as he thought of having to tell her, perhaps tomorrow or the day after.

The next day he decided to go directly to the deepest tunnel, again using his authority to oblige them to allow him in.

It was a vast hive of labor-men wheeling, digging, hacking, and shoring up the entrance where load after load of earth, clay, stones, and shale came out in wagons. Each cart was hauled up the forty-foot cliff face to the level above. The tunnel itself was like the entrance to a mine, high enough for a man to walk in. But it would be far less when the brickwork was laid. It would become a hollow tube with occasional holes for storm drains to empty. Iron-ringed ladders would lead up to the street and daylight, so sewer men could go down and clean out any blockages that would impede the flow.

A huge steam engine pounded, shuddering the ground, drawing the chain that pulled up the loads of debris and carried them away to a pile where they were emptied. It hissed and belched steam, and the noise of it caused the men to shout to each other within twenty or thirty yards of it. The stokers shoveled more coal into the furnace, then returned to hauling and tipping.

Monk showed his police identification. Grudgingly they gave him access to the bottom down a steep cutting, but no one went with him. He found himself slipping and losing his balance several times, only just avoiding falling into the wet clay beneath him. Several times he banged against the loosely timbered sides.

Once at the bottom he could walk more easily on the boards laid on the rubble and clay. The swill of dirty water seeped from the sides and gathered in puddles, trickling slightly down towards the tunnel mouth. He looked upwards quickly. How deep was he? He felt a flutter of panic. The walls towered up to a narrow strip of sky, and the movement of clouds across it made him reel.

He was sharply aware of the smell of it all around him-wet, earthy, moldy, as if nothing was ever dry and the wind never cleansed it.

He faced the dark hole ahead of him with a reluctance that startled him. He had never before felt such a crowding sense of being enclosed. He had to force himself to keep walking and try to dull his imagination.

The shadow closed over him. The winter daylight did not penetrate far. Beyond a few yards it was lit by covered gaslight. A naked flame could ignite the fumes in the air. He had heard of mine explosions and men buried forever in collapsed shafts. Could that possibly happen here? No, of course not! This was one straight tunnel, which was going to be bricked around, held with steel. Sewers did not collapse.

The noise of hammering and shoveling was ahead of him. He kept on walking, the water slopping underneath the boards. Where were the nearest rivers? Did anybody even know for certain? How much did the rivers secretly change course because of subsidence, the great engines above the ground shaking the earth, compressing it down, or rattling it loose? He was sweating and his heart was pounding in his chest.

He was still walking at exactly the same speed along the boards. The steadiness of his pace gave him an illusion of being in control, at least of himself. Dripping water seemed to be everywhere, a sheen on the walls in the gaslight. A rat appeared from nowhere, making him start. It ran along beside him for a dozen yards, then the shadows swallowed it up.

Ahead there were brighter lights, shouts, and the noise of pick blades striking with a sharp clang against rock and a dull thud against clay. He saw it, a machine like a huge drum, almost the size of the tunnel itself, the power of it thrumming as if it were the heartbeat of the earth.

There were at least twenty men laboring at one task or another, and not one of them looked up or took the slightest notice of Monk. The air was stale and cold and had a strange taste to it.

A man trundled past him with a barrow load of debris. Another rat shot out of the shadows, and then back in again. The sides of the tunnel beyond the last of the boards gleamed wet, and here and there were dribbles of water running down to the sodden earth.

If the diggers broke into a small underground stream it would gush in here like an open tap, except there would be no way of turning it off. He must not allow himself to think of that, or he might panic. He could feel the sweat on his body now.

He strode forward and deliberately drew the attention of the best-dressed man present, one of the only two wearing jackets-presumably they supervised rather than performed the labor themselves.

The man was broad-shouldered and already spreading a little at the waist, although he looked no more than in his middle forties. His features were regular, even handsome, except that his mouth was a trifle large. His hair was dark with a heavy wave and he had a thick, dark mustache. When he turned to face Monk, his eyes were blue.

"Yes?" he said with surprise. He spoke loudly, but that was necessary to be heard above the din of the machine and the crushing and grinding of earth and falling stones.

"Monk, River Police," Monk replied. "I need to talk to the man in charge here."

"That's me! Aston Sixsmith," the man told him. "What is it, Mr. Monk?"

Monk waved his arm to indicate that they should go back towards the entrance, away from the noise, and he had to concentrate deliberately in order not to turn immediately and walk ahead. He began to feel far more sympathy for James Havilland than he had even an hour ago. He could understand any man who felt oppressed by these walls, the darkness, and above all the close, stale air on his face and in his lungs.

Sixsmith walked in front of him and stopped a hundred feet away from the digging. "Well, Mr. Monk, what can I do for you?" He looked curious. "You said River Police? We haven't any trouble here, and I haven't taken on any new men in the last month or so. Are you looking for someone? I'd try the Thames Tunnel if I were you. There's a whole world down there. Some people live pretty well all their lives underground. This time of the year it's drier than up above. But I imagine you know that."

"Yes, I do," Monk replied, although the world of the Thames Tunnel was one he had not yet had time to explore. The river itself kept him constantly alert, always learning, finding the vast gaps in his knowledge and little, stupid mistakes made out of ignorance. His face was hot with the memory of the times Orme had rescued him, albeit always discreetly. He could not go on like that. "I'm not looking for a man." He faced Sixsmith squarely, meeting the clear blue eyes. "I believe you used to work with James Havilland?"

Sixsmith's expression darkened with a sudden sadness. His face was more mobile, more easily marked with emotion than Monk had expected. He looked not unlike the navvies himself and blended with them easily, but his voice, both in tone and in diction, placed him as far different, a man of more gentleness and considerable education, whether formally acquired or not.

"Yes. Poor man," he replied. "In the end the tunnels got to him." His eyes searched Monk's, and Monk had the distinct feeling that his own fear was sensed, if not seen.

"What can you tell me about him?" Monk asked. "Was he a good engineer?"

"Excellent, if a little old-fashioned," Sixsmith answered. "He wanted new ideas tested more thoroughly than I think was necessary. But he was a sound man, and I know no one who didn't both like and respect him. I certainly did!"

"You said the tunnels got to him," Monk continued. "What did you mean?" He was glad when they started to move towards the entrance again, even if it was to a crevasse rather than the level ground.

Sixsmith sighed and moved his hands in a slight gesture of regret. Despite the dirt on them, both the power and the grace were visible. "Some men can't stand closed-in places," he explained. "You've got to have a special kind of nerve to work underground. He hadn't. Oh, he tried his best, but you could see him losing control." He sighed and pulled his wide mouth tight. "I attempted to persuade him to stay up top, but he wouldn't listen. Pride, I suppose."

"Was there anything in particular he was afraid of?" Monk asked as innocently as he could.

Sixsmith looked at him carefully. His gaze was very direct, and it was impossible to miss the intelligence in his eyes. "I suppose there's no point in trying to conceal it now," he said resignedly. "The poor man's dead, and the world knows his weaknesses. Yes, he was afraid of a stream bursting through and sending the whole side caving in. If that happened, of course, men would be buried alive or drowned. He became obsessed with the idea of lost underground navvies just waiting to find a way in, almost like an evil presence." He looked at Monk defensively. "It's not insane, Mr. Monk, not entirely. It's just the exaggeration of something real-fear taken beyond reason, so to speak. Tunnel engineering is a dangerous business. Men died in building the Thames Tunnel, you know? Crushed, gassed, all sorts of things. It's a hard profession, and it's not for everyone."

"But you liked him personally?" Monk was shivering in spite of his heavy coat. He clenched his teeth, trying to hide it.

"Yes, I did," Sixsmith said without hesitation. "He was a good man." He pushed his hands in his pockets. He walked easily, even casually.

"Did you know Miss Mary Havilland?" Monk pursued.

A shadow of exasperation crossed Sixsmith's expressive face. "Yes, I did. Not well. She took her father's death very hard. I'm afraid she was a bit less… well-balanced than he was, or her sister, Mrs. Argyll. Very emotional."

Monk found himself resenting Sixsmith, which was unreasonable. He had never known Mary Havilland in life and Sixsmith had. He must remember that her likenesses to Hester were superficial-matters of circumstance, not nature. And yet her face had looked so gentle and so sane. Emotional, certainly, but her passions were those of a strong woman, not the fancies and indulgences of a weak one.

It was difficult for him to speak of her death to this man who saw her so differently. He hesitated, looking for the words he wanted, even, for an instant, forgetting how far ahead the light still lay.

Sixsmith was there before him. "Is that why you are here? You said River Police. She died in the river, didn't she?" He pursed his lips. "I'm deeply sorry about that. And young Toby, too. What a terrible tragedy." He was looking at Monk intently now. "Are you assuming that she killed herself because of her father? You are almost certainly right. She couldn't accept the truth. Fought against it all the way, poor soul." He shrugged slightly. "Maybe I would have if it had been my father. It's hard to face something like that about your own family."

Monk swung to face him, but there was nothing but a crumpled pity in Sixsmith's face.

"Everyone was very sorry for her," Sixsmith went on. "Turned a deaf ear to her questions and accusations, hoped she'd grow out of it, but it doesn't seem to have helped. Perhaps she finally saw the truth, and it was too much for her."

Monk looked into his powerful, sad face and felt the weight of his conviction and pity. "Thank you. I'll come back if there seems anything further." He held out his hand.

Sixsmith grasped it with a sudden smile so warm it entirely changed him. They could have been friends met again after a long separation. "Do come back," he said, letting Monk's hand go. "Any help I can be."

In spite of what Sixsmith had said, Monk still went to check one more time on James Havilland's suicide. Even as he rode in a hansom along the Embankment he was aware that Farnham would have expected him to attend to the urgent crime on the river, which was his job, but he knew Orme would deal with all the regular accidents and the crimes. He realized ruefully that Orme did that much of the time anyway. He was teaching Monk more than he was learning from him.

Mary Havilland and Toby Argyll had died in the river. Had she really believed that he and his brother were responsible for her father's death? If so, then perhaps she had taken Toby with her over the edge intentionally, as Alan Argyll had implied in the shock of his loss. If that was so, then it was murder.

Monk decided to spend one more day seeking to lay to rest the doubts that swirled around in his mind. Then he would have to tell Hester the truth, however sad or brutal it was.

Last time at the Havilland house he had spoken only to Cardman, who was intensely loyal. Perhaps if he spoke to a different servant, someone who had been there less time and would very shortly be seeking another place anyway, he would hear a different story.

It was a gray day with sleet on the wind. He was glad to reach the house again and be permitted into the kitchen, where he was offered a hot cup of tea and some Madeira cake. The reason for such hospitality was quickly revealed.

"Yer police, the law?" the cook asked him, offering a second piece of cake.

He accepted, as it was excellent. "Yes," he agreed with his mouth full, an upwards lift in his voice to encourage her to continue.

"Can yer tell us what's goin' to 'appen ter us, Mr. Monk? Mr. Argyll's too upset o'er the death of 'is brother ter take up any business matters, an' Mrs. Argyll must be broke to pieces about poor Miss Mary. It's just that we don't know our position, like. Me and Mr. Cardman'll stay as long as we're needed. But we 'ave ter tell some o' the maids an' the footmen. It in't always that easy ter find a good place, an' comin' from a tragedy like this don't 'elp."

He looked at her plump, anxious face. Her fair hair was graying, pulled back into a loose knot. She was trying hard not to sound callous, but one suicide in the house was damaging enough; two could make domestic reemployment far harder than held any justice. The fear was in her eyes.

"I don't know, Mrs. Plimpton, but I will find out, and see that you are informed as soon as possible. We are not sure yet how Miss Havilland came to fall into the river." He stopped, seeing the wordless emotion in her face. It would take great delicacy to draw from her what she really believed. She might not even have put it into words herself. "Or Mr. Toby Argyll," he added, watching her.

He saw the flicker of anger-a flash-and then she hid it again. She was a woman whose position in life had never allowed her to leave her feelings uncontrolled. He read the dislike of Toby that she dared not tell him.

"Thank yer, sir," she replied.

He needed more. "I imagine you knew Miss Havilland a long time?"

"Since she was born," Mrs. Plimpton replied, her voice thick with grief.

Monk tried a different approach. "Was she extremely fond of Mr. Argyll?"

"No," she said abruptly, then realized she had been too forthright. "I mean… I mean o' course she liked 'im, but it were she as broke it orff, not 'im." She gulped. "Mr. Monk, she would never 'ave taken 'er own life! If yer'd 'ave known 'er, yer wouldn't even think on it. She were that determined to prove as poor Mr. 'Avilland were killed, not took 'isself, an' she were on the edge o' doin' it! 'At excited, she were…" She stopped, sniffing and turning away.

"If she didn't take her own life, Mrs. Plimpton, what do you think happened?" he asked. He said it gently, letting her know he took her opinion seriously.

She looked back. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her nose pink.

"I think she found out 'oo sent that letter to 'er father lurin' 'im inter the stable ter be shot," she said defiantly. "The master'd never 'ave shot 'isself, any more'n she'd go jumpin' off bridges." She took a deep breath. "An' don't yer go sittin' there eatin' my cake an' tellin' me as they would."

He was startled. No one else had spoken of a letter.

"What letter, Mrs. Plimpton?" he said quietly, controlling the urgency in his voice with an effort.

"Letter as come ter 'im the night 'e died," she answered.

"Mr. Cardman didn't mention it."

" 'Cos 'e didn't know," she replied reasonably, automatically refilling his cup from the big brown teapot. "It came ter the back door an' Lettie took it to 'im. We didn't find it after, so I s'pose 'e didn't keep it. But it was right after that that 'e told Mr. Cardman as 'e'd decided ter sit up, an' no one was ter bother waitin' fer 'im. 'E'd lock up 'isself. It were somebody as was goin' ter meet 'im, I'd set me life on it!" She drew in her breath in a little gasp, as if realizing suddenly that she was right: Havilland had done just that, and lost his life.

"You are quite sure?"

"Course I am!" She was shaking now, but her eyes did not waver.

"May I speak to Lettie?" Monk asked.

"Yer think I'm makin' it up!" she accused him, her face pinched, her breathing heavy.

"No, I don't," he assured her. "If I did, there would be no point in my speaking to Lettie, would there? I want to see what she remembers of it: paper, ink, handwriting. I'd like to know if she saw Mr. Havilland open it, and how he reacted. Was he surprised, afraid, alarmed, or excited, even pleased? Was he expecting it or not?"

"Oh… yes. Well!" She could not bring herself to apologize, but she pushed the cake plate across the table to him. "Well, I'll send for Lettie." She walked to the door and called the kitchen maid to fetch the housemaid.

Lettie appeared and answered his questions. She was about fifteen and stood in front of him twisting her fingers in her apron. She could not read, and had no idea about the paper or the writing, but she remembered quite clearly that Mr. Havilland was both surprised and disturbed by the letter. After reading it he had put it straight into the fire and then told her to send Cardman to him. He had written no reply.

"Have you any idea whom the letter was from?" he asked.

"No, sir, I ain't."

"What did he say, as clearly as you can remember?"

"Ter send Mr. Cardman straightaway, sir."

"That's all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you ever seen the handwriting before?"

"I dunno, sir. I din't never look."

Monk thanked her and Mrs. Plimpton. He left the house through the scullery door and the tradesman's yard, heading past the coal and coke sheds and up the area steps into the bitter wind slicing down the street. Who had written to Havilland, disturbing him so much? Was it to arrange a meeting in the stables that evening, or something completely different? Certainly Havilland had dismissed the servants immediately after receiving it, and apparently decided not to retire as normal. It would even explain his presence in the stables. But whom would he meet in such a place on a winter night, rather than in his house, where it was warm and dry, but presumably less private?

Why would he need such extraordinary privacy? Was his own study not sufficiently discreet, with the servants in bed, and presumably Mary also? Had he taken the gun in order to protect himself, expecting an attack? Why? From whom? Perhaps Mary Havilland had been right. If so, then certainly she also would have been killed deliberately, and it could have been only by Toby Argyll.

It was now impossible to turn his back on the chance that Mr. Havilland had found some real danger in the tunnels and been murdered to silence him before he could ruin the Argylls' business by making it public.

But the visitor had then taken the gun from him and shot him with it. A man younger and stronger, more ruthless, and with the element of surprise? Havilland was frightened, but he had come essentially to talk. The other man had come intending to kill.

Alan Argyll?

And was that what Mary learned, and why Toby Argyll had killed her, too?

He bent forward into the wind, feeling the ice in it sting his face. He began to walk a little faster.