The Dark Assassin (23 page)

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

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

"Mews,"
Runcorn said.

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go
often?" Runcorn asked.

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

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

"Not
ternight." The man shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir,
I do."

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

"Good
morning, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And
murders," Monk agreed.

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

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

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

"Argyll?"
Orme said with surprise.

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

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