The Dark Assassin (37 page)

"I imagine
not," Jenny agreed. At last she was on more familiar ground. "Society
could hardly forget or overlook what she did. I ... I hope you are not
considering asking my help." Jenny swallowed. "I have no influence in
such matters."

"I wouldn't
think of it!" Hester said quickly. "I have no idea what anyone could
do that would help, or the faintest reason why you should compromise your own
standing by attempting it."

Jenny relaxed
visibly, something of the natural color returning to her cheeks. She unbent far
enough to invite Hester to sit down, and did so herself. "I think her best
course would be to retire from society," she added.

"I agree
entirely," Hester concurred. "I knew you would have the compassion
and the delicacy to understand."

Jenny looked
pleased but confused.

"I am so
sorry," Hester added.

"Sorry?"

"Rose did
not drink alcohol intentionally," Hester explained. "Or even
knowingly. It was given to her by someone who wished to discredit her to a
degree where she would not be able to appear in public in the foreseeable
future." She had already decided that to blame Argyll immediately would be
very bad strategy. She must adopt the line taken by the prosecution, the
newspapers, and public opinion in general.

Jenny paled.
"Why on earth do you think that? Surely ... surely if she has such a ...
weakness ..." She left the rest unsaid.

Hester frowned,
as if concentrating. "She must have been aware of her trouble," she
replied. "It can hardly have happened in public recently, or we would all
know of it; therefore it took her by surprise also. Someone else caused it. She
drank only lemonade."

Jenny stared at
her. She took several long breaths, steadying herself. "There is always
the pastries," she suggested, her voice a little husky. "Some cooks
mix the dried fruits with brandy, or the creams with liqueur."

Hester had not
eaten them, but she should have thought of that. So should have Rose!
"Would... would it be enough?" she said, to fill the growing silence.
She was playing a game of wits, and she had no time to spin it out. The trial
was drawing closer to its verdict, which would be issued any day. Rathbone's
time was short, and once the defense started he might not be able to introduce
new evidence. She hated having to be so brutal.

Jenny shook her
head. "I have no idea. It would seem so. What we saw was . . .
irrefutable. I'm afraid the poor woman was very intoxicated indeed." She
thought for a moment. "I'm so sorry."

Hester's mind
raced. She must be able to use Jenny's pity, turn it into a feeling of guilt.
She had no doubt it was Alan Argyll who had killed Havilland, morally if not
physically, and with great skill caused Sixsmith to be blamed.

"Of
course," she agreed aloud. "Sometimes the results of our actions are
not even remotely as we have imagined they would be." She was moving
towards the subject of Jenny's letter to her father, approaching it softly.

Jenny paled. Her
hands moved on the black fabric of her skirt, not quite clutching it, then
deliberately relaxing again. There was effort in it, control. "I am sure
she can have no idea that a few pastries would do such a thing."

"It was
after her lemonade, before the pastry," Hester corrected her, not certain
if that was true.

"How could
anyone ... ?" Jenny started. Her face was very white.

Hester shrugged.
"A little bottle, such as one uses for medicines. A distraction of
attention, not so very difficult."

Jenny was forced
to fill the silence. "Who on earth would do that?"

"Someone
who wished to discredit her," Hester repeated. "Rose had been looking
into the matters your late father was investigating, just to make certain that
there was no danger of serious accident, and-"

"My father
was disturbed in his mind!" Jenny said abruptly. "There was no danger
at all. The machines my husband's company uses are the best there are. It is
skill that has improved them, which is why they are faster, not that they are
taking less care." The color was high in her face, her eyes brilliant.
"This whole terrible charge has arisen only because of my fathers ... I
don't like to use the word, but it was hysteria."

Hester could
almost believe her, but for the man Melisande Ewart had seen leaving the mews.
"And that is why you wrote to your father asking him to meet your husband
in the stables?" she said, allowing doubt into her voice. "And poor
Mr. Sixsmith is facing a charge of murder?"

Jenny's voice
was half strangled in her throat. "It isn't murder! It's ... it's just
bribery. And even that is nonsense. My husband will see that he is cleared of
that. Mr. Dobie is a marvelous lawyer." Her hands were now clenched hard
in her lap, knuckles shining.

"Will
he?" Hester asked. "Do you believe that, Mrs. Argyll? Why on earth
would he? Who else could have hired the man who shot your father?"

A succession of
wild emotions crossed Jenny's face: confusion, terror, hatred.

Hester leaned
towards her, hating the fact that she had to be the one to do this.
"Someone hired that man to kill your father, and so in a way your sister,
too. Can you live with not telling the court that your husband made you write a
letter asking your father to be in his stables that night? Can you go forward
into the future looking at your husband across the dinner table every evening,
across the bed, knowing that both of you allowed Aston Sixsmith to hang, when
you of all people could have proved his innocence?"

The tears were
running down Jenny's face. "You have no idea what you're asking!" she
gasped. "No idea!"

"Perhaps
not," Hester admitted. "But you do. And if you are honest, you know
what it will cost-not only yourself and your children but Mr. Sixsmith as well-if
you do not. Do you wish to explain that to your children, or live with it
yourself?"

"You are
ruthless!" Jenny choked on the words.

"I'm
honest," Hester replied. "Sometimes they seem like the same thing.
But I take no pleasure in it. You can still see at least that your father is
buried with honor and his name cleared."

Jenny sat
motionless, her hands locked together. The lamplight, necessary even at midday,
bleached her skin of all color.

"The truth
can be very sharp," Hester added. "But it makes a cleaner wound than
lies. It will not fester."

Jenny nodded
very slowly. "Please do not come back," she whispered. "I will
do as you say, but I cannot bear to see you again. You have forced me to look
at a horror I believed I could avoid. Allow me to do it alone."

"Of
course." Hester rose to her feet and walked slowly to the door. She knew
that the servants would let her out into the street, where Morgan Applegate's
carriage would be waiting to take her home.

That same
morning Monk went across the river as the light was dawning in the drifting
rain. He went first to Wapping station simply to ascertain that no crisis had
arisen demanding his attention, then he took a hansom westwards to the Old
Bailey to see Rathbone.

"Drunk!"
Rathbone said incredulously. "Rose Applegate?"

"And
unforgivably frank," Monk added.

Rathbone swore,
which was an extremely rare occurrence. "We are losing this case,
Monk," he said miserably. "If I'm not extremely careful, I shall end
up convicting Sixsmith whether I wish to or not, and Argyll will walk away
free. The thought makes me seethe, but even if I destroy half the decent men
around Argyll-the navvies, the foremen, and the bankers, as well as Sixsmith
himself-I still can't be sure of getting him. If Rose Applegate could have persuaded
Argyll's wife to testify to anything that would have made her father's story
more believable, we might shake him."

He sighed and
looked at Monk, the dread of failure burning visibly inside him. It was in the
nature of his profession to gamble on his own skill, and he could not always
win. But when it was another man who was going to pay, it clearly cut to the
bone of his self-belief. It was a pain he was evidently not used to, and his
confusion was naked for a moment in his eyes.

Monk wished he
could help Rathbone, and knew it could not be done. There are places each man
walks alone, where even friendship cannot reach. All he could do was wait, and
be there before and after.

"I'll go
back to looking for the assassin," he said, turning to go.

"If you don't
find him in the next couple of days, it won't matter," Rathbone told him.
"I'd rather let Sixsmith go and drop the case altogether than convict an
innocent man." He smiled thinly. "My foray into prosecution is not
conspicuously successful, it seems!"

Monk could think
of nothing to say that was not a lie. He gave a very slight smile and went out,
closing the door softly.

He was within
half a mile of the Wapping station when Scuff appeared out of the gloom. The
boy was soaking wet and looking inordinately pleased with himself. He ran a
couple of steps to keep up with Monk. "I done it.'" he said without
the usual preamble of greeting.

Monk looked at
him. His small face was glowing with triumph under its outsize cap. Monk had
still not managed to tell him it needed a lining. "What did you do?"
he asked.

Scuffs
expression filled with disgust. "I found where the killer lives, o'
course! In't that wot we gotter do?"

Monk stopped,
facing Scuff on the footpath. "You found out where the man who shot Mr.
Havilland lives?" The thought was overwhelming. Then he was furious.
"I told you not even to think about it!" His voice cut across the
air, harsh with fear. A man who would shoot Havilland in his own stables would
not think twice about strangling an urchin like Scuff. "Don't you ever
listen?" he demanded. "Or think?"

Scuff looked
confused and deeply hurt. This was seemingly the last thing he had expected.
Monk suddenly realized that the boy must have clutched his achievement to
himself all the way there, expecting Monk's praise and happiness, only to find
the prize dashed out of his hand.

Scuff took a
deep breath and looked at Monk, blinking to keep back the tears. "Don yer
wanna know, then?"

Monk felt a
guilt so deep that for a moment he could not find the words to express it even
to himself, far less to try to mend anything in the child staring at him,
waiting.

"Yes, I do
want it," he said at last. He must not intrude on Scuffs precious dignity,
for the boy had little else. He must never allow him to know he had seen the
tears. "But I don't risk my men's lives, even for that. That's something
you have to learn."

"Oh."
Scuff swallowed. He thought about it for a moment or two while they both stood
in the rain getting steadily wetter. "Not nob'dy's?"

"Nobody's
at all," Monk assured him. "Even those I don't like much, such as
Clacton, never mind those I do."

"Oh,"
Scuff said again.

"So don't
do it," Monk added. "Or you'll be in trouble. I'll let you off this
one time."

Scuff grunted.
"So yer wanna know w'ere 'e lives, then?"

"Yes, I do
... please."

" 'E lives
down the Blind Man's Cuttin', wot leads inter the old sewer an' tunnel. There's
lots o' folk live down there, but I can find 'im. I'll take yer. 'E's a bad
'un, mind. An' 'e knows them sewers like a tosher, exspecial the old ones down
near the Fleet."

"Thank you.
I think we had better take some men with us. We'll go to the station and find
them." Monk started to walk.

Scuff remained
where he was.

Monk stopped and
turned, waiting.

"I in't
goin' there," Scuff said stubbornly. "It's all rozzers."

"You're
with me," Monk said quietly. "Nobody will hurt you."

Scuff looked at
him gravely, his eyes shadowed with doubt.

"Would you
rather wait outside?" Monk asked. "It's wet, and it's cold. But it'll
be warm in there, and we'll get a drink of hot tea. There might even be a piece
of cake."

"Cake?"
Temptation ached in Scuffs eyes.

"And hot
tea, for sure."

"An'
rozzers ..."

"Yes. Do
you want me to send them all out into the rain?"

Scuff smiled so
widely it showed his lost teeth. "Yeah!"

"Imagine
it!" Monk replied. "That's as good as you'll get. Come on!"

Hesitantly Scuff
obeyed, walking beside Monk until they reached the steps, then hanging back.
Monk held the door for him and waited while he took smaller and smaller steps,
then stopped altogether just inside, staring around with enormous eyes.

Orme looked up
from the table where he was writing a report. Clacton drew in his breath,
caught Monk's eye, and changed his mind.

"Mr. Scuff
has information for us which may be of great value," Monk told Orme.
"He will give it to us, of course, but it would be pleasanter over a cup
of tea, and cake, if there is any left."