The Dark Assassin (33 page)

"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."