Authors: Anne Perry
"And the
thefts from the passenger boats?" Monk asked. "Our reputation
matters, too. It's part of our ability to do the job. If people don't trust us,
we're crippled."
"We got to
do wots right, an' trust it'll be seen as right," Orme said stubbornly.
"I can't find out 'oo killed 'er. I 'aven't got the skill fer that. Never
done it with people o' that class. Give me a river fight, dockers, thieves,
lightermen, sailors even, an' I can sort it out. But not ladies like that. You
done that fer years, Mr. Monk. You know murders wot are quiet. I know a punch
in the face; you know a knife in the back. We'll get it all, between us."
"What about
a hand in the pocket, a slit in the purse, and your money gone?" Monk
asked.
Orme's mouth
tightened. "I'll take care o' that. An' o' people with big mouths an'
small minds. I know a lot o' people 'oo've got secrets. You can't help gettin'
enemies in this job, but if yer careful, an' keep yer promises, you get friends
as well."
"I don't
know where the enemies are yet," Monk admitted.
Orme smiled
mirthlessly. "Not yet you don't-but I do. There's a few I can use, an' I
will. Believe me, sir, 'em boat thieves'll wish they 'adn't started. You find
'oo killed that poor girl. I'll be be'ind you, an' I'll watch yer back against
Mr. Farnham."
"Thank you,"
Monk said with utmost sincerity.
Later in the
afternoon Monk and Runcorn were in Charles Street again. They were about to
begin the task of knocking on the doors of those who had been to the theater
the night before, and might possibly have returned at about that same hour the
night when James Havilland had died. The day's rain had turned the snow to
slush, but now it was freezing again and the pavements were slippery underfoot.
The pall over the city from so many domestic fires and factory chimneys blocked
out the stars. The streetlamps glowed yellowish white with a halo of mist
around each one, and the cold of the night caught in the throat. The noise of
hooves was sharp and loud and carriage wheels crunched on the frozen slush.
Monk and Runcorn
walked as swiftly as it was safe to do without losing one's footing. They kept
their heads down out of the wind, their hats low, coat collars turned up.
Runcorn glanced
at Monk as if about to speak, then seemed to change his mind. Monk smiled,
partly to himself. He knew that Runcorn was thinking-just as he was
himself--that they were almost certainly wasting their time. But having come
this far, they might just as well try every house whose front door, servants'
entrance, or mews might possibly have allowed one of the occupants to see
someone come or go to Havilland's mews that night.
Monk had earlier
checked with the library of past newspapers exactly which theaters had been
open and the hours when the curtains had come down.
"Better get
on with it," Runcorn said grimly, approaching the first door and climbing
the steps.
That attempt was
abortive, as was the second. The third took a little longer, but also yielded
nothing. The man who came to speak to them was polite, but quickly made it
apparent that he did not wish to become involved in anything that had happened
in the street, or anyone else's home. They left feeling more despondent than if
he had simply denied being out.
Runcorn pulled
his coat collar up higher and glanced at Monk, but he did not say anything.
They were now four doors away from Havilland's house, and on the opposite side
of the street. Monk continued the investigation from habit, in the perverse
refusal to surrender rather than any hope of achieving anything.
He and Runcorn
walked up to the step side by side, but it was Runcorn who knocked on the door.
The footman who
answered was young and somewhat flustered. He had very clearly not been
expecting a caller at this hour of the night. "Yes, gentlemen?" he
said with some alarm.
"Nothing
wrong," Runcorn soothed him. "Is your master at home?"
"Yes!"
The young man blinked. He should have been more circumspect, even at this hour
of the night, and he realized it the moment the words were out of his mouth.
The color washed over his face. "At least..."
"That would
be Mr. Barclay, and Mrs. Ewart?" The lift of puzzlement was barely
discernible in Runcorn's voice.
"Yes,
sir." The footman's face was pink. He was plainly embarrassed and trying
very hard to find a way out of his predicament. He was still struggling when a
man in his middle thirties came across the hall behind him and into the
vestibule. He was tall and rather elegant, and dressed in evening clothes as if
he had only lately returned from some formal event.
"What is
it, Alfred?" he asked with a frown. "Who are these gentlemen?"
"I don't
know, sir. I was-"
"John
Barclay," the man said brusquely. "Who are you and how may we be of
assistance? Are you lost?"
"Superintendent
Runcorn, Mr. Barclay," Runcorn introduced himself. "And Inspector
Monk, of the Thames River Police. Sorry to disturb you so late, sir, but since
you've been out at this hour, we wondered if you might do so quite often."
Barclay's
eyebrows rose. "What of it? And what on earth can it have to do with the
River Police? I haven't been anywhere near the river. Except across the bridge,
of course. Did something happen?"
"Not
tonight, sir." Runcorn was shivering, so his words were a trifle blurred.
Monk sneezed.
"I haven't
seen anything to interest the police at any time," Barclay said a little
impatiently. "I'm sorry, I can't help you." He glanced at Monk.
"For heaven's sake, man, go home and get a hot toddy or something. It's
nearly one in the morning!"
Something in the
man's attitude irritated Runcorn. Monk saw it in the tightening of the muscles
of his jaw and a slight alteration to the angle of his head. "Were you
acquainted with Mr. James Havilland, four doors up, across the road, sir?"
he asked.
Barclay
stiffened. "I was, but not more than to be civil to. We had little in
common."
"But you
knew him?" Runcorn was determined either to keep Barclay on the step or to
be invited inside. The night was bitter and the wind was coming from the
northeast and blowing right into the house.
"I've told
you, Inspector, or whatever your rank is-" Barclay began.
"Superintendent,
sir," Runcorn corrected him.
"Yes,
Superintendent. I knew him as one casually knows neighbors! One is civil, but
one does not mix with them socially if they are not of the same ...
interests."
There was a
light tap of heels across the parquet floor of the hall behind him, and the
door opened, showing a woman of about his own age. She too was slender, with
brown hair, blue eyes, and winged brows that gave her face a highly individual
look.
"It's
nothing, Melisande," he said hastily. "Go back into the warmth. It's
a filthy night."
"Then don't
keep the gentleman on the step, John," she said reasonably. She looked
beyond him at Runcorn, and then at Monk. "Please come in and speak in
comfort. Perhaps you would like something hot to drink? As my brother says,
it's a rotten night. Your feet must be frozen at least. I know mine are."
"For
heaven's sake, Mel, they're police!" Barclay hissed in what might have
been intended as an aside but was perfectly audible, probably as far as the
street.
"Oh, dear!
Has something happened?" She came closer. Monk could see in the vestibule
light that her face was lovely, but there was a patience and even a sadness in
it that suggested that life was not as easy for her, or as rich, as superficial
judgment might assume.
"Nothing
that needs to concern you, my dear," Barclay said pointedly. "They
are merely looking for witnesses."
She did not move
away. "It must be urgent to bring you out at this time of night." She
looked to Runcorn, who was standing more in the light than Monk was. "What
is it you need to know, Mr.... ?"
"Runcorn,
ma'am," he replied, suddenly sounding a trifle self-conscious. There was
something in the elegance of her gown, the flawless curve of her throat, that
seemed to make him more than normally aware of her, not only professionally but
personally.
She smiled.
"What is it that we might have seen, Mr. Runcorn?"
Runcorn coughed
as if his throat was tight. "There's not much chance, ma'am, but we're
pursuing everything we can. It's about Mr. James Havilland."
"I'm afraid
I didn't know him well," she began.
"You didn't
know him at all," Barclay exclaimed, then turned to Runcorn again.
"We really have no idea what happened or why, except that the poor man
shot himself. Frankly I can't imagine why you're wasting your time delving into
it. Is there not enough crime to keep you busy? If you don't know where it is,
I can certainly tell you!"
"John!"
she remonstrated, then looked at Runcorn as if in apology. "What is it you
think we may have seen?"
There was a
sudden gentleness in Runcorn's face. Monk was beginning to realize how much he
had changed in the last two years. Some kind of confidence within him had
enabled him to look outwards with less need to defend himself, more awareness
of the hurt of others.
"Anyone
else in the street, or coming out of the mews," he answered her.
"Apart from your own immediate friends and servants, any stranger at all,
or person you wouldn't expect to see. Actually anyone else at all, because they
might have seen something and be able to help."
"Help
what?" Barclay asked scathingly. "Let the dead rest in peace! At
least grant them that much decency. His poor daughter took her own life as
well. I presume you know that?"
Monk spoke for
the first time, with an edge to his voice. "I was there, on patrol on the
river. She went over the bridge. I am not certain that she intended to."
Barclay looked
surprised. "No one else seems to have any doubt. But even if she fell by
accident, that has nothing to do with us. It was miles from here, and we can't
help you. I'm sorry. Good night." He stepped back.
Melisande's gown
was light and she was obviously cold, but she refused to step out of his way.
She looked at Monk. "Is there some chance she did not take her life?"
Her face was soft, her eyes lit with hope. "I didn't know her very well,
but I would so much like to think that she was not so filled with despair that
she would do such a thing, and of course also that she could have a proper
burial. The other is so ... brutal."
"Yes, there
is a chance, ma'am," Monk replied. "That is part of what we are still
investigating."
"And if we
saw anyone in the street the night of her father's death, that might
help?"
Yes.
Runcorn was
staring at her with a steady, unwavering gentleness. Had he too seen the
sadness in her, the vulnerability?
As if aware of
it, she turned and answered as though it were Runcorn who had elaborated rather
than Monk. "We were at the theater that night," she told him. "I
can't remember what we saw, and it doesn't matter now. It went right out of my
head when I heard the next day what had happened. But we did return about half
past midnight, and we saw a man coming out of the mews opposite."
"He wasn't
coming out," Barclay contradicted her with a wince. "He was on the
footpath, staggering around. He had clearly been overindulging. I've no idea
who he was, so I couldn't tell you where to find him. But even if I could, he
would be useless to you. He couldn't even see where he was going, let alone be
a credible witness to anything." His brow furrowed, his expression
sharper. "But even if he'd seen Havilland put the gun to his head and pull
the trigger, how would that help anyone? You know what happened. Let it be
mercifully forgotten. It's no one's fault, and nothing whatever to do with
us."
Monk was
freezing. His body and Runcorn's were to some extent sheltering Barclay and his
sister, but even so he felt a stiffening of anger, a heat of resentment rise
inside him. "It is possible, sir, that Mr. Havilland did not kill
himself!" he said sharply.
"Don't be
absurd!" Barclay was angry now, rattled. "Are you suggesting there's
some maniac going around shooting people in their own homes, in the middle of
the night? Here?" He put his arm out as if to protect his sister.
She moved
fractionally away from him, just out of his reach, her eyes still on Runcorn.
It was Runcorn
who answered, not to contradict Barclay so much as to reassure Melisande.
"No, sir. If it was someone else, then it was deliberately planned and
arranged, and it was to do with his work. There is no need at all for anyone
else to be alarmed. If we are right, then the man concerned is miles away from
here, and the last thing he'd be likely to do is draw attention to himself by
coming back."