The Dark Assassin (46 page)

"Don't put
him in the past." Runcorn looked at them each in turn. "He's still
very much here! We've got to hurry, before he covers his tracks-or us!"

Monk found
himself shivering. Rathbone's face was bleak and angry. No one argued. Briefly they
conferred on the next step, then set out again, cold, tired, and determined.

Hester slept
poorly after Monk had gone. The shock of defeat, just as they were savoring
what she imagined to be one of their sweetest victories, had left her
momentarily numb. She cleared away the supper dishes and tidied the house
automatically, then went upstairs to see if there was anything more she could
do for Scuff. She might have stayed up were it not for him, but she knew he
could not rest if she did not do so as well.

She was lying
awake at about five o'clock, wondering how they could have been so bitterly
wrong, when Scuff spoke to her in a whisper.

"Yer in't
asleep, are yer." It was not a question. He must have known from her
breathing.

"No,"
she replied. "But why aren't you?"

" 'Cos I
can't." He inched a fraction closer to her. "Is Mr. Monk gonna put it
right?"

Should she lie
to comfort him? If he found out, it would break the frail trust he was
building. She might never mend the damage. Wasn't truth better than the
loneliness of that, no matter how harsh? That's what she would do if he were a
man. But was a child different? How much should she protect him, and from what?

"Is
'e?" Scuff repeated.

He was not
touching her, and yet she knew his body was stiff.

"He'll
try," she answered. "Nobody wins all the time. This could be a
mistake we can't mend. I don't know."

He let out his
breath in a sigh and relaxed, inching another tiny fraction closer to her.

"Mr.
'Avilland were right about their machines, weren't 'e?"

"I'm afraid
he was," she agreed. "At least partly. He was also right about going
ahead too quickly without making sure where all the streams were.

"Mr.
Sixsmith were the boss down there. Yer'd think as 'e'd 'a told Mr. Argyll,
wouldn't yer?" he whispered.

"He must
have," she agreed.

As she said it
she realized with a chill, in spite of the blankets over her, that it was not
necessarily true. But it made no sense.

"Wot's the
matter?" Scuff demanded.

"At least,
I suppose he'd have told Mr. Argyll," she answered.

He put his hand
on her shoulder, so lightly she barely felt it, only its warmth. "There's
summink as don't make no sense, in't there? Is Mr. Monk gonna be all right? I
should 'a bin there to look arter 'im. I think mebbe that Sixsmith s real
bad."

"But what
does Sixsmith want?" she said as much to herself as to him. "Money?
Power? Love? Escape from something?" She turned a little towards him.
"Do you suppose it was because of Mrs. Argyll? She's in love with him, I
think. And her husband is a cold man. She must feel terribly alone."

"Weren't
Mr. 'Avilland 'er pa, too?" he asked.

"Yes. I
don't believe she knew the assassin was going to kill her father. And
afterwards she thought it was her husband who had done it. Maybe she still doesn't
know it was Sixsmith, and we can't prove it!"

"But 'e
knows," Scuff pointed out. "So 'e din't do it for 'er! If yer love
someone, yer din't kill 'er pa."

"No."
She stared up at the ceiling, the faintest of lights coming through the
curtains from the streetlamps outside. "Maybe he doesn't love her so much
as just want her. It isn't the same."

"Mebbe 'e
just 'ates Mr. Argyll," Scuff said thoughtfully. "Yer gotta 'member
'e made it look like it were Mr. Argyll wot paid the assassin. An' it were Mr.
Argyll's company wot caused the cave-in, and Mr. Argyll wots goin' ter prisin,
or mebbe the rope, eh?"

"That's an
awful lot of hate," she said quietly, shivering again in spite of herself.
"Why would anyone hate that much?"

"I
dunno," he answered. "Must 'a bin summink bad."

"It must
have been," she agreed, but her mind was beginning to wonder what Jenny
had felt. Did she believe that when her husband was imprisoned, or even hanged,
she would be rescued from her boredom and emotional desert by Sixsmith? Was she
so in love with him that she had thought no further than that?

What would
happen when Argyll was shown to be innocent and Sixsmith guilty? Jenny had lied
about who told her to write the letter; that was what had turned the tide
against Argyll. Sixsmith knew that! What sort of future awaited her, then? Had
she used Sixsmith to get rid of Argyll, so that her children would inherit the
company, since Toby was also dead? And they would get whatever James Havilland
had possessed also, since Mary was gone as well. Did she imagine that this
would hold Sixsmith to her, and was that what she wanted? Surely if she had any
sense she would fear for her own life.

Or did she
believe he truly loved her?

"Yer've
thought of summink, 'aven't yer?" Scuff whispered beside her.

"Yes,"
she answered honestly. "I need to go and see Mrs. Argyll. She lied in
court, and she needs to know what that could cost her. I'll send a letter first
thing to ask Margaret Ballinger to come to sit with you until I get back."

"I don'
need no one," he said instantly. "I'm almost better."

"No, you
aren't," she retorted. "And whether you need anyone or not, I need
there to be someone here, so I can stop worrying about you and keep my mind on
what I'm doing. Don't argue with me! I've made up my mind. And you'll like
Margaret, I expect."

"Mr. Monk
said yer as stubborn as an army mule."

"Did he
indeed! Well, Mr. Monk wouldn't know an army mule if it kicked him!"

Scuff giggled.
Obviously the idea entertained him.

"But I would!"
she added, before he got any ideas of insubordination.

"Yer'd kick
it back," he said with immense satisfaction, and moved the last couple of
inches until he was next to her. She put an arm around him, very lightly. In
five minutes he was asleep.

In the morning
she sent one of the local boys to take a message to Margaret, wait for her
answer, and return with it. She gave him fare for a hansom both ways, and
something for himself. It was extravagant, but she judged it necessary, not
only for her own peace of mind but for Monk's also. She had not misread the
affection in his face for Scuff, no matter how carefully he tried to mask it.

She arrived at
the Argyll house a little after ten o'clock. It was strange to realize that the
rest of the world still believed Argyll guilty and Sixsmith innocent. For a
moment terror overtook her as she walked across the pavement to the steps up to
the front door. What if Sixsmith was there already? If he and Jenny were
lovers, they might have celebrated their victory together.

No, that would
be foolish, even if Argyll had already been arrested. It might arouse
suspicions. In order to preserve any dignity or belief in her, Jenny Argyll
would have to play the shocked and grieving wife rescued in time by the
innocent man. They would be two victims together of Argyll's wickedness.

Hester
straightened her shoulders and mounted the steps to the front door, head high.

The bell was
answered by a red-eyed parlor maid, and Hester told her that she was here to
see Mrs. Argyll on a matter of great importance and urgency. Hester guessed
from the girl's appearance that Argyll had already been arrested.

"I'm sorry,
madam, but Mrs. Argyll is unwell," the maid began. "She isn't
receiving today."

"I was in
court yesterday," Hester replied. "What I have to say will prove Mr.
Argyll's innocence." She did not add that it would also prove Mrs.
Argyll's guilt.

The parlor
maid's eyes opened wide, then she stepped back and invited Hester in. She was
flustered, happy, and still frightened. She left Hester in the withdrawing
room, the only place even remotely warm from the embers of the previous nights
fire. Such domestic duties had been utterly neglected that day.

Ten minutes
later Jenny Argyll came in. Her black gown was very well cut and flattered her slenderness.
Her hair was styled less severely than earlier, but her face was almost
bloodlessly pale, and there were bruised shadows around her eyes. She looked
feminine and vulnerable. Hester's last doubts that Jenny was in love with
Sixsmith were swept away. Jenny could have helped her actions, but her emotions
were beyond her mastery.

"Good
morning, Mrs. Monk," Jenny said with faint surprise. Her voice trembled a
little. Was it tension, exhaustion, or fear? "My maid tells me you know
something of urgent importance about my husband's arrest. Is that true?"

Hester had to
force herself to remember Rose Applegate's humiliation in order to say what she
must. She was certain now that it had been Jenny who had poisoned Rose's food
or drink with alcohol, not Argyll. It was she who had the motive, and surely it
could only have been she who had known of Rose's weakness. Had Rose's resolve
slipped before, or had she confided in someone in a moment of weakness, perhaps
as her reason for not joining them in wine, or a champagne toast to some event?
One might require such an excuse to avoid giving offense, for example at a
wedding.

Jenny was
waiting.

"Yes, it is
true," Hester replied. "I went into court believing, as did my
husband, that Mr. Sixsmith was innocent of everything except the very
understandable offense of trying to bribe certain troublemakers to stop
sabotaging the construction. The only reason he was charged at all was in order
to bring the whole subject of James Havilland's death to court, and during the
proceedings to prove that it was actually your husband who was guilty."

"Then you
succeeded," Jenny said with almost no expression. "Why have you
bothered to come and tell me this? Do you imagine I care? What possible
difference do your reasons or your beliefs make to me?"

Hester looked at
her. Was any of that hurt or outrage real? Or was she showing that emotion to
mask the sense of victory she must feel now the prize was almost in her hands?

"None at
all," Hester admitted calmly. "It is the fact that we were mistaken
that is of importance. Your husband was not guilty, and I am almost certain
that we can prove that."

Jenny stood
motionless, her eyes wide, unfocused. For a moment Hester was afraid she might
faint. "Not . . . guilty?" she said hoarsely. "How can that be?
He has been arrested.'" That was a denial, almost a defiance.

Hester hoped
fervently that Sixsmith was not in the house. Was she taking a stupid risk? It
was too late to retreat now.

"But you
don't believe him guilty, surely?"

"How ...
how can I not?"

"Because
you know without any doubt who it was that asked you to write the letter to
your father, and since it was Sixsmith who paid to have him killed, it is
impossible to believe that it was not also Sixsmith who arranged to have him be
in the stables," Hester replied.

Jenny drew in
her breath, raising her hands as if to push Hester away physically. "Oh,
no! I-"

"You are in
love with him," Hester continued. "Yes, I know. So much is apparent.
But however infatuated you are, it does not excuse the deaths of your father
and your sister, and the shame of a suicide's grave for both." The anger
and all her own old pain poured into her voice until it shook. She had to gulp
for breath and try to steady herself. "You may not have known at first,
but don't tell me you don't know now.'"

"I
don't!" Jenny denied furiously. "You're lying. My husband is guilty!
The court knows that! You have no right to come here saying such terrible
things!"

"Terrible?"
Hester challenged her. "It is terrible that Sixsmith could be guilty of
killing your father, but not that your husband is? I think that judgment
betrays your loyalties rather clearly, Mrs. Argyll!"

"You accuse
me!" Jenny shot back.

"Of course
I do. It was you who swore on oath that it was your husband who made you write
the letter that lured your father to his death. You could not mistake such a
thing. It had to be a deliberate betrayal of both your husband and your father!
What does Sixsmith offer you that is worth that?"

Jenny gasped.
"Get out of my house . . . you . . ." She could not find words to
protect herself.

"Is he such
a lover?" Hester went on, allowing her own past helplessness to drive her
anger.

"How dare
you!" Jenny shouted. "You ignorant, complacent, stupid woman with
your good works and your petty little ideas! What on earth do you know of
passion?"