The Dark Assassin (5 page)

"I don't
know." He went on to tell her about Mary's proposed engagement to Toby
Argyll, and that she had broken it off, but no reason had been given, except
her distress over her father's death and that she refused to believe that he
had caused it himself. She could not let the matter go.

"What was
it, then?" Hester asked. "Accident? Or murder?" She was being
severely practical, but he saw the stiffness in her, the deliberate control,
and the effort.

"I don't
know. But the police investigated it. It was Runcorn's patch." He looked
at her steadily with a bleak smile.

She understood
why that added irony and pain to the case. More than he wished, she had seen
his ambition for authority, the way he had fought with, crushed, and infuriated
Runcorn in the past. She did not know the flashes of memory and shame that Monk
had had since then, the realization of how he had used Runcorn in his own climb
to success, before the accident that had taken his memory. There were things
that it was kind for forgetfulness to cleanse from the mind.

"But you're
going to find out," she said, watching him.

"Yes, I
have to. She'll be buried in unhallowed ground if she meant to do it."

"I
know." Tears filled Hester's eyes.

Instantly he
wished he had not uttered this bit of truth. He should have lied if necessary.

Hester saw that
too. "There's no such thing as unhallowed ground, really." She
swallowed. "All the earth is hallowed, isn't it? It's just what people
think. But some people care very much about being buried with their own,
belonging even in death. See what you can find. Her sister may need to know the
truth, poor woman."

TWO

The tide was
high the next morning and the river, with its smells of mud and salt, dead fish
and rotting wood, seemed to be lapping right at the door as Monk walked across
the dockside. The wind had fallen and it was calm, the surface of the water
barely rippled as it seeped higher around the pier stakes and up the stone
steps that led to the quaysides and embankments. The rime of ice overnight had
melted in places, but there were still patches as slippery as oiled glass.

"Morning,
sir," Orme said briskly as Monk came into the station. The stove had been
burning all night and the room was warm.

"Good
morning, Orme," Monk replied, closing the door behind him. There were
three other men there: Jones and Kelly, busily sorting through papers of one
kind or another, and Clacton, standing by the stove, his clothes steaming
gently.

Monk greeted
them and received dutiful acknowledgment, but no more. He was still a stranger,
a usurper of Durban's place. They all knew that it was in helping Monk that
Durban had contracted the terrible disease that had brought about his death,
and they blamed Monk for it. That Durban had gone on the mission both because
he wished to, understanding the enormity of the danger, and because he
considered it his duty, was irrelevant to their anger and the sense of
unfairness that lay behind it.

Monk had gone on
the same mission, and he was alive. They could not excuse that. They would have
chosen Monk to die, every man of them.

Kelly, a
soft-spoken Irishman, small-boned and neat, handed him the reports of crime
overnight. "Nothin out o' the usual, sorr," he said, meeting Monk's
eyes, then looking away. "Barge ran aground at low tide, but they got it
off."

"Run
aground intentionally?" Monk asked.

"Yes, sorr,
I'd say so. No doubt the owners'll be reportin' some o' their cargo
missin'." Kelly gave a bleak smile.

"Dragging
it up through the mud, at low tide?" Monk questioned. "If they worked
as hard at something honest, they'd probably make more."

"Clever an'
wise was never the same thing, sorr," Kelly said dryly, turning back to
his work.

Monk took
reports from Jones and Clacton as well, and spoke briefly to Butterworth as he
came in. Kelly made tea, hot and as dark as mahogany. It would take Monk a long
time to drink it with pleasure, but it would set him apart to refuse.
Additionally, tea had the virtue of warming the inside and lifting the spirits,
even when it was not laced with the frequently added rum.

When the last
patrols had landed and reported, and the next were gone out, Monk told them of
his decision.

"The two
people off Waterloo Bridge yesterday," he began.

"Suicides,"
Clacton said with a pinched expression. "Lovers' quarrel, I expect. Seems
stupid for both of 'em to jump." He was a slender, strong young man of
more than average height, who took himself very seriously and was prone to take
offense where it was not intended. He could be helpful or obstructive, depending
upon his opinion, which he rarely changed, whatever the circumstances. Monk
found him irritating and was aware of his own temper rising. He had caught the
other men watching him to see how he would handle Clacton. It was another test.

"Yes, it
does," he agreed aloud. "Which makes me wonder if that was what
happened."

"Thought
you saw it," Clacton challenged, moving his weight a little to stand more
aggressively. "Sir," he added as an afterthought.

"From the
river," Monk replied. "It could have been accidental during a
quarrel, or she jumped and he tried to stop her. Or even that he pushed
her."

Clacton stared
at him. "Why would 'e do that? No one else said so!"

"I thought
it could be," Orme contradicted him. He was visibly irritated by Clactons
attitude as well. His blunt, weathered face showed a quiet anger.

"If 'e was
goin' to push 'er in, why wouldn't 'e wait 'alf an 'our, until dark?"
Clacton demanded, his expression tightening. He moved a little closer to the
stove, blocking it from Orme. "Don make sense. An' with a police boat
right in front of 'im! No, she jumped, and 'e tried to stop 'er and lost 'is
own balance. Clear as day."

"Don
suppose 'e saw us," Jones answered him. " 'E'd a' bin lookin' at 'er,
not at us was on the water below."

"Still make
more sense ter wait until dark," Clacton retorted.

"Wot if she
weren't goin' ter stand there on the bridge waitin' until it were dark?"
Jones countered. "Mebbe she weren't that obligin'." He helped himself
to more tea, deliberately taking the last of it.

"If 'e
planned to push 'er over, 'e'd 'ave planned to get there at the right
time!" Clacton said angrily, looking at the teapot, then moving to block
the fire from Jones rather than from Orme.

"And o'
course plans always go exactly right," Jones added sarcastically. "I
seen 'at!"

There was a
guffaw of laughter, probably occasioned by some failure of Clactons in the
past. Monk was still trying to learn not only the job it-self but, at times
even more important, the relationships between the men, their strengths, and
their weaknesses. Lives could depend on it. The river was a more dangerous
place than the city. Even the worst slums-with their creaking, dripping
tenement houses, blind alleys, and occasional trapdoors-gave you ground to
stand on and air to breathe. It had no tides to rise, to slime the steps, to
carry things up- or downstream. It was not full of currents to pull you under
and drifting wreckage just beneath the surface to catch you.

"We don't
know," Monk said to all of them. "Mary Havilland's father died
recently, and according to her sister, Mary was convinced that he was murdered.
I have to investigate that possibility. If he was, then perhaps she was
murdered also. Or her death and Toby Argyll's may have been a quarrel that
ended in a tragic accident, not suicide by either one of them."

Kelly put down
the final pieces of paper. "And then we could have them buried properly.
Their families'd want that."

"Very
much," Monk agreed.

"But if she
wasn't murdered, it's not our job." Clacton looked at Kelly, then at Monk.

Monk felt his
temper rising. One day he was going to have to deal with Clacton.

"It's my
job now," he replied, an edge to his voice that should have been a warning
to Clacton, and anyone else listening. "When I've done it, I'll give the
results to whomever needs them-family, church, or magistrate. In the meantime,
attend to the theft on Horseferry Stairs, and then see if you can trace the
lost barge from Watson and Sons."

"Yes,
sir," Clacton said unhesitatingly.

With that, Monk
departed on the long cab journey from Wapping to Mary Havilland's address in
Charles Street, just off Lambeth Walk.

The house was
not ostentatious, but it was handsome enough, and had an appearance of
considerable comfort. There was a mews behind for the keeping of carriages and
horses, so presumably the residents were accustomed to such luxuries. As he
expected, the curtains were drawn and there was a wreath on the door. Someone
had even laid sawdust in the street to muffle the sound of horses' hooves.

The door was
opened by a footman of probably no more than eighteen years. His face was so
white his freckles stood out, and his eyes were pink-rimmed. It took him a
moment or two to collect his wits when he saw a stranger on the step.
"Yes, sir?"

Monk introduced
himself and asked if he might speak to the butler. He already knew there was no
other family resident. Jenny Argyll had said that Mary had been her only
relative.

Inside, the
house was in traditional mourning. The mirrors were covered, the clocks
stopped, lilies in vases giving off a faint hothouse perfume. Their very
unnaturalness in January was a reminder that familiar life had ended.

The butler came
to Monk in the formal morning room. It was bitterly cold, no fire having been
lit, and the glass fronts of the bookcases reflected the cold daylight that
came under the half-drawn curtains like ice on a deep pond.

The butler,
Cardman, was a tall, spare man with thick iron-gray hair and a bony face that
might have been handsome in his youth but was now too strong in the planes of
his cheek and nose. His light blue eyes were intelligent, and-unlike the
footman-he had mastered his emotions, so they barely showed.

"Yes,
sir?" he said, closing the door behind him. "How may I help
you?"

Monk began by expressing
his sympathy. Not only did it seem appropriate, even to a butler, but it was
natural.

"Thank you,
sir," Cardman acknowledged. He seemed about to add something, then changed
his mind.

"We are not
certain what happened," Monk began. "For many reasons, we need to
know a great deal more."

A shadow of pain
crossed Cardman's impassive face. "Mr. Argyll told us that Miss Havilland
took her own life, sir. Is it necessary to intrude further into her
unhappiness?"

His delicacy was
admirable, but this was an enquiry that could either define guilt or pronounce
innocence, and even to the dead, that was important. Monk could not afford to
leave anything unprobed or go about his questions in the least offensive way if
it was also the least efficient.

"You were aware
of her unhappiness?" he asked as gently as he could.

"Mr.
Havilland died less than two months ago," Cardman said stiffly.
"Grief does not heal so soon."

It was a
socially correct answer, giving away nothing and delivered with as much
disapproval as a butler dared show.

Monk was brutal.
"Is your father still alive, Mr. Cardman?"

Cardman's face
tightened, the light of understanding flaming in his eyes, bright and angry.
"No, sir."

Monk smiled.
"I'm sure you grieved for him, but you did not despair." He thought
briefly that part of the loss of his memory from the accident included complete
obliteration of anything about his own father, or mother, for that matter. He
knew only his sister, Beth, and that only because she had tried to keep in
touch. He wrote seldom. The shame of that bit into him without warning, and he
felt the heat in his face.

"No,
sir," Cardman said stiffly.

Monk sat down in
one of the big leather armchairs and crossed his legs. "Mr. Cardman, I
mean to find out whether this was suicide or something else," he said
levelly. "I have investigated deaths of many kinds, and I do not give up
until I have what I seek. You will assist me, willingly or not. You can remain
standing if you wish, but I prefer that you sit. I don't like staring up at you."

Cardman obeyed.
Monk noticed a rigidity in his movement, as if he were unused to sitting in the
presence of a guest, and certainly not in this room. He had probably been a
servant all his life, perhaps starting as a boot boy forty years ago, or more.
Yet he could have spent time in the army. There was a ramrod stiffness to him,
a sense of dignity as well as self-discipline.

"Were you
surprised?" Monk asked suddenly.

Cardman's eyes
widened. "Surprised?"

"That Miss
Havilland should throw herself off Waterloo Bridge?"

"Yes, sir.
We all were."