Authors: Anne Perry
At half past
eight, with the wind howling outside and the woodstove smelling of smoke, Monk
was sitting in his office and finishing the last of his report when there was a
knock on the door. He answered, and Clacton walked in, closing the door behind
him. He came over to stand in front of the desk, looking casual and more
elegant than perhaps he was aware.
"What is
it?" Monk asked.
"Worked
pretty 'ard the last couple o' days," Clacton observed.
"We all
did," Monk replied. If Clacton was expecting any leave, he would be
disappointed.
"Yeah,"
Clacton agreed. "You most of all... sir."
Monk was
uncomfortable. He saw the gleam of anticipation in Clacton's eyes. "You
didn't come in here to tell me that."
"Oh, but I
did, sir," Clacton responded. "I know 'ow 'ard it must 'a bin for
you, wot with your own business on the side an' all. Can't 'ave 'ad much time
for that."
"What the
hell are you talking about?" Monk demanded.
Clacton blinked
and smiled. "Yer bit o' private work. For Mr. Argyll, is it? Findin' out
'oo killed 'is pa-in-law, and get 'em off the 'ook? Worth a bit, I shouldn't
wonder." He left the added suggestion hanging in the air.
Monk's mind
raced. He had envisioned all kinds of attack from Clacton, even the remote
possibility of physical violence. He had not foreseen this insinuation. How
should he deal with it? Laughter, anger, honesty? What would Clacton's next
move be?
"Din't
think I knew, did yer?" Clacton said with satisfaction. "Look down on
the rest of us like we're beneath you. Not as clever as the great Mr. Monk! 'Oo
don't know a damn thing when it comes ter the river. Come to 'ave Orme 'old yer
'and or yer'd fall in! Well, the rest of 'em might be stupid, but I'm not. I
know wot yer doin, an' if yer don't want Farnham ter know as well, yer'd be
wise ter let me 'ave a bit o' the price."
There was no
time to weigh the consequences.
"I doubt
Mr. Argyll will pay me for anything I've found out so far," Monk said
dryly. "It looks like he's responsible for Havilland's death."
"Yeah?"
Clacton's fair eyebrows rose. "But it's Sixsmith they've arrested. Now why
would that be, d'yer think? A bit o' shiftin' around of evidence, mebbe?"
Monk was cold
and tired, and his bones ached, but now he was assailed by fear also. He
recognized both cunning and hatred in the young man in front of him. There was
no loyalty to Durban or anyone else, just pure self-interest. Monk had no time
to care why. Clacton was dangerous.
"Do you
think you can find this supposed evidence?" he asked bluntly.
Clacton's eyes
were bright and narrow. "Yer bettin' I can't?"
"I'll be
happy if you can," Monk replied. "It's Argyll I want!"
For the first
time Clacton was thrown off balance. "That's stupid! 'Oo'll pay yer?"
"Her
Majesty," Monk replied. "There's a conspiracy behind Havilland's
death. Thousands of pounds in the construction business, and a lot of power to
be gained. Go and tell Mr. Farnham what you think, by all means. But you'd be
better to go and get on with your job, and be glad you still have one."
Clacton was
confused. Now he was the one needing to weigh his chances, and it angered him.
The tables had turned, and he had barely even seen it happen.
"I still
know yer crooked!" he said between his teeth. "An' I'll catch yer one
day!"
"No,"
Monk told him, "you won't. You'll fall over yourself. Now get out!"
Slowly, as if
still unsure whether he had another weapon left, Clacton turned and walked out,
leaving the door open behind him. Monk could see that as soon as he was in the
main room his swagger returned.
Monk's tea was
cold, but he did not want to go and get more. His hand was trembling, and the
breath caught in his throat. Clacton's accusation had been worse than he
expected.
The following
morning he went to Sir Oliver Rathbone's office. Monk was prepared to wait as
long as necessary, but it proved to be no more than an hour. Rathbone came in
elegantly dressed in a wool overcoat against the biting east wind. He looked
surprised to see Monk, but pleased. Since he had realized how much he loved
Margaret Ballinger his rivalry with Monk had softened considerably. It was as
if he had reached a kind of inner safety at last, and was now open to a gentler
range of emotions.
"Monk! How
are you?" Rathbone was very different from Monk, a man of excellent
education, comfortable with himself. His elegance was entirely natural.
Monk smiled. In
the beginning Rathbone had discomfited him, but time and experience had shown
Monk the humanity beneath the veneer. "I need your help in a case."
"Of
course-why else would you be here in the middle of the morning?" Rathbone
made no attempt to conceal his amusement or his interest. If Monk was out of
his depth legally, then it offered an interesting problem, which was exactly
what he craved. "Sit down and tell me."
Monk obeyed.
Very briefly he described Mary Havilland's fall from the bridge with Toby
Argyll, then his discovery of James Havilland's earlier death and the course of
the investigation that had led to the arrest of Aston Sixsmith.
"Surely you
don't want me to defend Sixsmith," Rathbone said incredulously.
"No ... at
least not to act as defense for him," Monk replied. He was beginning to
wonder if what he was intending to ask was impossible. Again, fury at Argyll
washed over him, and a sense of helplessness in the face of the skill with
which Argyll had manipulated both Sixsmith and the police into the position he
wanted them in. Monk could picture Argyll's angry, slightly arrogant face
marred by grief as if he had seen him only moments ago. "I want you to
prosecute Sixsmith, but in such a way that we get the man behind him," he
answered Rathbone. "I don't think Sixsmith had any idea what the money was
for. Argyll told him what to do and he did it, either blindly or out of loyalty
to the Argylls, believing it was for some legitimate purpose."
Rathbone's fair
eyebrows rose. "Such as what, for example?"
"Tunneling
is a hard trade. I don't say he wouldn't cut corners or pay bribes to some of
the more violent of those who know the sewers and the underground rivers and
wells. I don't know."
Rathbone thought
for a moment or two. Clearly his interest was caught. He looked at Monk.
"You believe the elder Argyll brother used Sixsmith to pay an assassin to
kill Havilland, because Havilland was a threat to him. Who found this assassin,
if not Sixsmith?"
Monk felt as if
he were on the witness stand. It was more uncomfortable than he had
anticipated. It would be impossible to escape with inaccurate or incomplete
answers. "Alan Argyll himself, or perhaps Toby," he answered.
"Alan has taken great care to account for all his own time before and
after Havilland's death, but Toby was several years younger and spent more time
on the sites and knew some of the tougher navvies."
"According
to whom?" Rathbone said quickly.
Monk smiled, but
without pleasure. "According to Sixsmith. But it can be easily
verified."
"You'll
need to do it," Rathbone warned. "The money came from Argyll, you
say?"
"Yes."
"If he says
it was for wages, or a new machine, and that Sixsmith misappropriated it, can
you prove he's lying?"
Monk felt his
muscles tighten defensively. "No, not beyond a doubt."
"Reasonable
doubt?"
"I don't
know what doubt is reasonable. I'm certain myself."
"Not
exactly relevant," Rathbone said dryly. "Why would Argyll want
Havilland dead so much that he would be prepared to use Sixsmith to hire an
assassin?"
"Knowledge
that the tunnels were dangerous and work should be stopped," Monk replied.
"Isn't all
such work dangerous? The Fleet sewer collapse was appalling."
"That's
cut-and-cover," Monk told him. "Imagine that underground, possibly
collapsing at both ends, with water, or worse-gas."
"Is gas
worse? I would have thought water would be pretty dreadful."
"The gas
would be methane. That's flammable. It would only need one spark and the whole
thing would be ablaze. If it came up through the sewers, it could start another
Great Fire of London."
Rathbone paled.
"Yes, I have the idea, Monk. Why do you think that is anything more than a
madman's nightmare? Surely Argyll wouldn't want that any more than Havilland or
anyone else. If it were a real danger, he'd stop the work himself. What was he
afraid of-that Havilland would frighten the workforce and they'd strike? Why
not just bar him from the site? Isn't murder excessive, not to mention
dangerous and expensive?"
"If it
wasn't the navvies Havilland was going to, but the authorities, that would be
different. He couldn't stop that so easily. And even an unfounded fear could
close the excavations for enough time to delay the work seriously and cost a
great deal of money. To a ruthless man, one perhaps running rather close to the
edge of profit and loss, or with an over-large investment, that could be motive
for murder."
Rathbone
frowned. "But motive is not enough, Monk, which you know as well as I. Why
not suppose it was Sixsmith, exactly as it appears to be?"
"Because it
was Argyll's wife who sent the letter to her father asking him to be in the
stable after midnight," Monk answered decisively. "At Argyll's
request."
"And if
Argyll says he did not ask her to write it?" Rathbone asked. "You
cannot force her to incriminate him. It would be profoundly against her
interest."
"Others
will swear it is her handwriting."
"You have
the letter?"
"I don't. I
have the envelope."
"The
envelope! For God's sake, Monk! Anything could have been in it! Did anyone see
the letter? Is the envelope postmarked?"
Monk felt the
argument slipping out of his grasp. "The envelope was hand
delivered," he replied levelly. "But it is beyond reasonable doubt
that it was the one he received that evening, because he made notes on it in
his own hand, and it was in the pocket of the jacket he was wearing. That's
where we found it."
"Could it
have belonged to another letter sent at an earlier time?"
"There were
notes on it relating to events that happened that evening," Monk replied
with satisfaction.
"Good. So
Mrs. Argyll sent him a note. If she swears it was an invitation to dinner in a
week's time, and she is willing to, what have we?"
"A woman
prepared to lie to two police officers, under oath."
"To save
her husband, her home, her source of income, and her position in society-and
thus also her children." Rathbone puckered his mouth into a tight, bleak
smile. "Not an unusual phenomenon, Monk. And not one you would find it
easy, or popular, to destroy. You would not win the jury's favor with
that."
"I want
their belief, not their favor!" Monk snapped.
"Juries are
driven by emotion as well as reason," Rathbone pointed out. "You're
playing a dangerous game. I can see about charging Sixsmith as an accessory,
possibly an unknowing one as far as murder is concerned, and hope to draw out
enough to implicate Argyll, but you'd have to come up with a lot more than you
have so far." His face pinched a little. "It happens sometimes. You
can catch everyone but the real culprit. It looks as if Argyll's protected
himself pretty well. To reach him you'll have to destroy this man Sixsmith, who
may be completely innocent of anything except a fairly usual business bribe.
You'll also destroy Argyll's wife, who is doing what any woman would do to
protect her children, perhaps even to protect her belief in her husband as a
decent man. And she may need that to survive with any kind of sanity."
Monk hesitated.
Was it worth it? Should he destroy the slightly tarnished, those culpable only
of ordinary human weakness, in order to reach the truly guilty? For
what-vengeance? Or to protect future victims?
"You don't
have a choice now," Rathbone said quietly. "At least not as far as
Sixsmith is concerned. I'll prosecute, by all means, and uncover everything I
can. Meanwhile, you find out more about this mysterious assassin. Show who
contacted him, if he ever took the second payment, if he knows who employed
him. Above all, you need to show what Havilland was going to do that was
sufficient to make Argyll want to kill him. So far all you have is an engineer
who lost his nerve and became a nuisance. Sane men don't commit murder for
that. Give me chapter and verse of what Argyll would lose, and connect it to him,
not just to Sixsmith."