The Dark Assassin (16 page)

"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.

FIVE

When Monk
arrived home that evening Hester could see that he was in some mental turmoil.
He was shivering from the river crossing, and he concentrated on warming at
least his hands and feet before he even attempted to say anything beyond a
greeting. He ate the bowl of soup she brought him, and gradually he stopped
shaking.

She wondered yet
again if they would have been wiser to have found a house on the northern bank
of the Thames, even if the area was less to their liking.

When she had
gone to Portpool Lane she had taken the omnibus westwards and over whichever of
the bridges was appropriate, but since they were directly opposite Wapping, it
made sense for Monk to cross by ferry and be at the police station in fifteen
minutes or so. Sometimes the patrol boat picked him up directly from the steps.

But the cold was
intense, and on a night like this, with its drifting sleet, she wished
profoundly he did not have to be on the open water.

She sat opposite
him, looking at the red glow of the fire on his face, the soup bowl in his
hands, and wondered if it had been a good idea for him to join a regular force
again. She had offered to apply for a regular nursing job at one of the big
hospitals, even though nursing in those circumstances was actually almost
nothing to do with the care of patients.

One was rather
more like a domestic servant in circumstances where a usual household maid
would refuse to go.

She had tried
it, before their marriage, and it had made her full of zeal to reform the
practice of hospital nursing after her experience in the Crimea. She had failed
spectacularly, very nearly incurring legal action against herself for
insubordination, and worse. But still she would have swallowed her pride and
applied again if it would have helped. Monk had refused outright.

Now she looked
at him relaxing at last in the chair opposite her, and worried that he was
finding the obedience to authority harder than he had expected, and the
restrictions and demands of leadership too cramping to both his nature and his
abilities. She was trying to think of the words to ask him when he spoke.