The Dark Assassin (29 page)

Monk stood up.
"I'll find it! How long have I?"

"Till it
comes to trial? Three weeks."

"Then I'd
better start." He moved towards the door.

"Monk!"

He turned back.
"Yes?"

"If you're
right and it is Argyll, be careful. He's a very powerful man and you work in a
dangerous job."

Monk stared at
Rathbone with sudden surprise. There was a gentleness in his face he had not
expected to see. "I will," he promised. "I have good men around
me."

Monk began by
going back to speak with Runcorn. The superintendent was probably as aware as
Rathbone of the thinness of the case; nevertheless, Monk outlined it in legal
terms while Runcorn sat behind his desk and listened grimly.

"Need to
know more about this man in the mews," he said when Monk had finished.
"Might get a better description of him if we ask the cabbie again. And
we'll have to ask Mrs. Ewart to see if she can say anything more."

She was
surprised to see them again, but it was apparent that she was not displeased.
She was wearing a woollen dress of a dark, rich wine color, and she looked less
tense than she had the previous time. Monk wondered if that was in any part
related to the fact that her brother was not at home at this hour.

She received
them in the withdrawing room, where there was a bright fire sending its heat
into the air. The room was not what Monk would have expected. There was a
pretentiousness about it that took away something of the comfort. The paintings
on the walls were big and heavily framed, the kind of art one chooses to
impress rather than because one likes it. There was an impersonal feel to them,
as there was to the carved ivory ornaments on the mantelpiece and the few
leather-bound books in a case against the wall. The volumes sat together
uniform in size and color, immaculate, as though no one ever read them. Then he
remembered that Mrs. Ewart was a widow and this was Barclay's house, not hers.
He wondered for a moment what her own choice would have been.

She was looking
at Runcorn. Her face in the morning light was less tired than the first time
they had seen her, but it still held the same sadness at the edge of her smile
and behind the intelligence in her eyes.

"I'm sorry
to bother you again, ma'am," Runcorn apologized, looking back at her
steadily. "But we've looked into the matter further, and it seems very
much like the man you saw could have shot Mr. Havilland. There's a man arrested
for hiring him coming to trial soon, but if we don't find a good deal more
information, he might get off."

"Of
course," she said quickly. "You must catch the man who did it, for
every reason. I have no idea where he went, except towards the main road. I
imagine he would find a hansom and leave the area as fast as he could."

"Oh, he
did, ma'am. We traced him as far as Piccadilly, and the East End after
that," Runcorn agreed. Not once did he glance at Monk. "It's just
that the cabbie didn't look at him except for an instant, and he isn't all that
good at description. If you could remember anything else at all about him, it
could help."

She thought for
several moments, withdrawing into herself. She gave a little shiver, as if
thinking not only of the cold of that night but now also of what had taken
place less than a hundred yards from where she had stood. Runcorn's admiration
of her was clear in his eyes, but it was the vulnerability in her, the sadness,
that held him. Monk knew that because he had seen a flash of it before, and
knew Runcorn better than he realized. There was a softness in Runcorn he had
never before allowed, a capacity for pity he was only now daring to
acknowledge.

Or was it Monk
who had only just developed the generosity of spirit to see it?

Mrs. Ewart was
answering the question as carefully and with as much detail as she could.
"He had a long face," she began. "A narrow bridge to his nose,
but his eyes were not small, and they were heavy-lidded." Suddenly she
opened her own eyes very wide, as if startled. "They were light! His skin
was sallow and his hair was black, at least it looked black in the
streetlights. And his brows, too. But his eyes were light-blue, or gray. Blue,
I think. And . . . his teeth . . ." Then she shivered, and there was a
look of apology in her face, as if what she was going to say was foolish.
"His eyeteeth were unusually pointed. He smiled when he explained the...
the stain. I . . ." She gulped. "I suppose that was poor Mr.
Havilland's blood?" She looked at Runcorn, waiting for his reaction,
although it was inconceivable that it should matter to her. Yet Monk could not
help but believe that it did. Had she seen that gentleness in Runcorn? Or was
it just that she needed someone to understand the horror she felt?

Runcorn
continued to probe. What about the man's clothes? Had he worn gloves? No. Had
she noticed his hands? Strong and thin. Boots? She had no idea.

If she thought
of anything else, he told her, she should send for him, and he gave her his
card. Then they thanked her and left. Monk had barely spoken a word.

Even outside in
the bright air, wind ice-edged off the river, Runcorn kept his face forward,
refusing to meet Monk's eyes. There was no purpose in forcing communication
where none was needed. Later they could discuss what each would do next. They
walked side by side, heads down a little, collars high against the cold.

The only place
Monk could begin was with the nature and opportunities of the man who had paid
the assassin.

Was it Alan
Argyll who had found him, or Toby? Or perhaps Six-smith had actually contacted
him first, for the task he had claimed?

That was an
obvious place to start. He could speak to toshers, who combed the sewers for
lost valuables, or to gangers, who led the men who cleared the worst buildups
of detritus and silt that blocked the narrower channels. They were all
displaced. It would take a while before their services were needed, and there
was no trade in which to earn their way in the meantime.

He was walking
from the Wapping station towards one of the cut-and-cover excavations when
Scuff caught up with him. The boy still had his new odd boots on and the coat
that came to his shins, but now he also had a brimmed cloth cap that sat
uncomfortably on his ears. The hat needed something inside the band to make it a
little smaller. Monk wondered how he could tell Scuff this without hurting his
feelings.

"Good
morning," Monk said.

Scuff looked at
him. "Yer doin' all right?"

Monk smiled.
"Improving, thank you." He knew the enquiry was nothing to do with
his health; it was his competence in the job that Scuff was concerned about.
"Mr. Orme is a good man."

Scuff appeared
unsure whether he would go so far as to call any policeman good, but he did not
argue. "Clacton's a bad 'un," he said instead. "You watch 'im,
or 'e'll 'ave yer."

"I
know," Monk agreed, but was startled that Scuff knew so much.

Scuff was not
impressed. "Do yer? Yer don' look ter me like yer know much at all. Yer
in't got them thieves yet, 'ave yer!" That was a challenge, not a
question. "An don' let 'em talk yer inter takin' on the Fat Man. Nob'dy
never done that an' come out of it." He looked anxious, his thin face
pinched with anxiety.

Perhaps it was
enlightened self-interest, given all the hot pies they had shared, but Monk
still felt a twist of pleasure inside him, and guilt. "Actually I've been
busy on something else," he answered, to divert Scuffs attention. He and
Orme had agreed on some preliminary plans, which Orme had been carrying out,
but there was no point in frightening Scuff needlessly. "Right now I'm
busy trying to find out about a man who was killed just over a couple of months
ago."

"In't yer a
bit late?" Scuff was concerned, his young face puckered. Monk's
incompetence clearly puzzled and worried him. For some reason or other he
seemed to feel responsible.

Monk was both
touched and stung. He found himself defending his position, trying to regain
respect. "The police thought at the time that it was suicide," he
explained. "Then his daughter fell off the bridge, and that was my case.
In looking back at that, I found out about the father, and it began to look as
if it wasn't suicide after all."

"Wotcher
mean, fell orff the bridge?" Scuff demanded. "Nobody falls orff
bridges. Yer can't. There's rails an' things. Someb'dy kill 'er too, or she
jump?"

"I'm not
sure about that, either." Monk smiled ruefully. "And I saw it happen.
But when two people are struggling a distance away, in the half-light just
before the lamps go on, it's difficult to tell."

"But 'er pa
were killed by someone else?" Scuff persisted.

"Yes. The
man was seen leaving. I know pretty well what he looks like, and that he went
east beyond Piccadilly."

Scuff let out a
sigh of despair. "That all yer got? I dunno wot ter do wi' yer.'" He
sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Monk hid his
smile with difficulty. Scuff had apparently adopted him, and felt every
parent's exasperation with an impossible child. Monk found himself ridiculously
caught in an emotion that all but choked him. "Well, you might give me a
little advice," he suggested tactfully.

"Forget
about it," Scuff replied.

"You won't
give me any advice?" Monk was surprised.

Scuff gave him a
widening look. "That's me advice! Yer in't gonna find 'im."

"Maybe not,
but I'm going to try," Monk said firmly. "He murdered a man and made
it look like suicide, so the man was buried outside Christian ground, and all
his family believed he was a coward and a sinner. It nearly broke his younger
daughters heart, so she spent all her time trying to prove that it wasn't so.
And now it looks as if she might have been killed for it too. Only they buried
her outside Christian ground as well, and marked her as a suicide."

Scuff skipped a
step or two to keep up with Monk. "Yer daft, you are." But there was
admiration in his voice. "Well, if you won't be told, I s'pose I'd better
'elp yer. Wots 'e like, this man wot killed the girl's pa?"

Monk thought for
a moment. What risk was there in telling Scuff? If he kept it vague, none at
all. "Thin, dark hair," he replied.

Scuff looked at
him, his eyes hurt, his mouth pinched. "Yer don' trust me," he
accused.

Monk felt a
twist of guilt knot inside him. How could he undo the insult, the rejection?
"I don't want you to get involved," he admitted. "If he kills
people for money, he won't think twice about getting rid of you if you get
anywhere near him."

"Me?"
Scuff was indignant. "I'm not 'alf as green as you are! I can look arter
meself! Yer don' think I got no brains!"

"I think
you've got plenty of brains-quite enough to get close to him and get
hurt!" Monk retorted. "Leave it alone, Scuff! It's police business.
And you're right," he added. "I'll probably never find him. But it's
the man who paid him I want most."

Scuff walked in
silence for fifty yards or so. They crossed the road and started along the next
stretch.

"Will they
bury that girl proper then?" he asked finally.

"I'll see
that they do," Monk answered, pleased that Scuff had seen the heart of the
matter so quickly. "I'm cold. Do you want a hot drink?"

"Don mind
if I do," Scuff said, but grudgingly. He was still hurt. "If this man
weren't killed on the river, why in't the reg'lar rozzers doin' it?"

"They are,
as well." They turned the corner, away from the river and out of the worst
of the wind. The pavements were slick with ice. A coal cart rattled sharply
over the stones, the horse's breath steam in the air.

"S'pose yer
don' trust 'em neither," Scuff said dourly.

"It isn't a
matter of trust," Monk told him. "We need all the help we can find.
We're searching for one man in all London, who makes a living killing people! I
know what he looks like, but that's all. He shot one man and caused the death
of the man's daughter. An innocent man may go to prison for the murder, and the
one who paid him is going to get away with it. Worse than that, we'll never
prove the real reason for it, and there could be a cave-in in one of the new
sewer tunnels that would kill scores of men. So no matter how difficult it is,
I've got to try. Now, let's get a hot cup of tea and a hot pie each, and stop
sulking!"

Scuff digested
that in silence for a few minutes as they walked.

"Don' yer
know nothin' 'cept 'e's thin an' got black 'air?" he asked finally, giving
Monk a sunny smile. "Someb'dy saw 'im, so yer gotta know more'n
that!"

"He had a
narrow nose and quite big eyes," Monk replied. "Blue or gray. And his
teeth were unusually pointed."