Authors: Anne Perry
Monk nodded,
tears in his throat, for Mary Havilland, for Hester's father, for uncounted
people in despair.
Cardman saw him
to the door in silent understanding.
Outside in the
street Monk began to walk back down the hill towards Westminster Bridge. It
would be the best place to catch a hansom, but he was in no hurry. He must face
Runcorn in his own station and yet again challenge his judgment, but he was not
ready to do it yet. Were it not for the thought of Mary Havilland buried in the
grave of an outcast, her courage and loyalty to her father credited as no more
than the dementia of a bereaved woman, he would have accepted the verdict and
consider he had done all that duty required.
But he
remembered her face, the white skin, the strong bones and the gentle mouth. She
was a fighter who had been beaten. He refused to accept that she had
surrendered. At least he could not yet.
He wanted to
prepare what he would say to Runcorn, weigh his words to rob them of criticism,
perhaps even gain his support. The wind was cold blowing up off the river, and
the damp in it stung the flesh. It crept through the cracks between scarf and
coat collar, and whipped trousers around the ankles. The magnificent Gothic
lines of the Houses of Parliament stood on the far bank. Big Ben indicated that
it was twenty minutes before eleven. He had been longer with Cardman than he
had realized.
He hunched his
shoulders and walked more rapidly along the footpath. Hansoms passed him, but
they were all occupied. Should he have asked Cardman outright if he believed
the Havillands had committed suicide? He thought the butler was a good judge of
character, a strong man.
No. He was also
loyal. Whatever he thought, he would not have told a stranger that both his
master and then his mistress had committed such an act of cowardice before the
law of man and of God. His own judgment might have been wiser and gentler, but
he would not have left them open to the censure of the world.
He reached the
middle of the bridge and saw an empty cab going the other way. He stepped out
into the road and hailed it, giving the police station address.
The journey was
too short. He was still not ready when he arrived, but then perhaps he never
would be. He paid the driver and went up the station steps and inside. He was
recognized immediately.
"Mornin',
Mr. Monk," the desk sergeant said guardedly. "What can we do for you,
sir?"
Monk could not
remember the man, but that meant nothing, except that he had not worked with
him since the accident, nearly eight years ago now. Had he really known Hester
so long? Why had it taken him years to find the courage within himself, and the
honesty, to acknowledge his feelings for her? The answer was easy. He did not
want to give anyone else the power to hurt him so much. And in closing the door
on the possibility of pain, of course, he had closed it on the chance for joy
as well.
"Good
morning, Sergeant," he replied, stopping in front of the desk. "I
would like to speak to Superintendent Runcorn, please. It concerns a case he
handled recently."
"Yes, sir,"
the sergeant said with a hint of satisfaction at the lack of authority in
Monk's voice. "That will be on behalf of whom, sir?"
Monk forbore
from smiling, although he wanted to. The man had not recognized his police
coat. "On behalf of the Thames River Police," he replied, opening his
jacket a little so that his uniform showed beneath.
The sergeant's
eyes widened and he let out his breath slowly. "Yes, sir!" he said,
turning on his heel and retreating, and Monk heard his footsteps as he went
upstairs to break the news.
Five minutes
later Monk was standing in Runcorn's office. It had a large, comfortable desk
in it and the air was warm from the stove in the corner. There were books on
the shelf opposite and a rather nice carving of a wooden bear on a plinth in
the middle. It was all immaculately tidy as always-part of Runcorn's need to
conform, and impress.
Runcorn himself
had changed little. He was tall and barrel-chested, with large eyes a fraction
too close together above a long nose. His hair was still thick and liberally
sprinkled with gray. He had put on a few pounds around the waist.
"So it's
true!" he said, eyebrows raised, voice too carefully expressionless.
"You're in the River Police! I told Watkins he was daft, but seems he
wasn't." His face stretched into a slow, satisfied smile at his own power
to give help or withhold it. "Well, what can I do for you, Inspector? It
is Inspector, isn't it?" There was a wealth of meaning behind the words.
Monk and Runcorn had once been of equal rank, long ago. It was Monk's tongue
that had cost him his seniority. He had been more elegant than Runcorn,
cleverer, immeasurably more the gentleman, and he always would be. They both
knew it. But Runcorn was patient-prepared to play the game by the rules, bite
back his insolence, curb his impatience, climb slowly. Now he had his reward in
superior rank, and he could not keep from savoring it.
"Yes, it
is," Monk replied. He ached to be tart, but he could not afford it.
"Down at
Wapping? Live there, too?" Runcorn pursued the subject of Monk's fall in
the world. Wapping was a less elegant, less salubrious place than Grafton
Street had been, or at least than it had sounded.
"Yes,"
Monk agreed again.
"Well,
well," Runcorn mused. "Would never have guessed you'd do that! Like
it, do you?"
"Only been
there a few weeks," Monk told him.
Again Runcorn
could not resist the temptation. "Got tired of being on your own, then?
Bit hard, I should imagine." He was still smiling. "After all, most
people can call the police for nothing. Why should they pay someone? Knew you'd
have to come back one day. What do you need my help with? Out of your depth
already?" He oozed pleasure now.
Monk itched to
retaliate. He had to remind himself again that he could not afford to.
"James Havilland," he answered. "About two months ago. Charles
Street."
Runcorn's face
darkened a little, the pleasure draining out of it. "I remember. Poor man
shot himself in his own stables. What is it to do with the River Police? It's
nowhere near the water."
"Do you
remember his daughter, Mary?" Monk remained standing. Runcorn had not
offered him a seat, and for Monk to be comfortable would seem inappropriate in
this conversation, given all the past that lay between them.
"Of course
I do," Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the
dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he
ruled his little kingdom. "Has . . . has she complained to you that her
father was murdered?"
Monk was
stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in
Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should
trespass on his case.
"Who did
she think was responsible?" he asked.
Runcorn was too
quick for him. "Did she?" he challenged him. "Why did you say
did!"
"She fell
off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening," Monk replied.
Runcorn was
stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd
moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary
Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. "Suicide?" he said
hoarsely.
"I'm not
sure," Monk replied. "It looked like it at first. She was standing
near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of
her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing,
and then both overbalanced and fell."
"A
man?" Runcorn's eyes widened. "Who? Argyll?"
"Why do you
think it was Argyll?" Monk demanded.
Runcorn lost his
temper, color flooding up his cheeks. "Don't play your damn fool games
with me, Monk!" he said harshly. "You always were a heartless
bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she's dead, too! It's my
case, and I'll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn
force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer
again. Do you hear me?"
Monk's temper
flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level
voice. "If you're fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone
superintendent, you'll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of
authority," he retorted. "I don't know whether Mary Havilland jumped,
fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards
from two hundred feet away-too far to see in the dark." He was not going
to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about
Hester's history. That was another grief, another time. "If I knew exactly
what happened to James Havilland, it might help me."
Runcorn grunted,
then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders sagged a little.
"Oh. Well, I suppose you do need that. Sit down." He waved at a
wooden chair piled with papers, and eased himself into his own leather-padded
seat behind his desk.
Monk moved the
papers onto the floor and obeyed.
Runcorn's face
became somber. He had dealt with death both accidental and homicidal all his
adult life, but this one apparently moved him, even in memory.
"Stable boy
found him in the morning," he began, looking down at his large hands
rather than at Monk. "Seems the boy lived a mile or so away, and used to
walk to work every morning. Mews are small there, and the room above the stable
was kept for harnesses and the like. He could have slept in the straw, but
seems he had an aunt with a lodging house in the area, and he helped out there
too, and got fed and looked after for it. He seemed like an honest lad, but we
checked it all, and it was the truth. He was home all night, and Havilland's
butler said they'd never had a day's bother with him."
Monk nodded.
"Boy
arrived about six," Runcorn went on. "Found his master on the floor
of the room where they keep the hay and feed. Lying on his back, shot through
the head. One clean bullet into the brain. Must've been standing near the
middle of the room, and fell backwards. Blood exactly where you'd expect it to
be. Gun fallen out of his hand but not more than a foot away."
Monk felt a
chill settle over him.
"Boy went
in and told the butler-can't remember his name," Runcorn went on.
"Carter, or something like that."
"Cardman,"
Monk supplied.
"That's
right," Runcorn agreed, blinking several times. "He went out to look.
Saw just what the boy had said, and sent the footman for the police. It was
nearer eight o'clock by the time I got there. Didn't know Havilland personally,
but I knew him by repute. A very decent man. Hard to believe he'd taken his own
life." He looked up at Monk suddenly. "But one thing police work
teaches you: You never know what goes on in somebody else's mind. Loves and
hates that their own families don't ever dream about."
Monk nodded. For
once he had no quibble at all. He tried to imagine Runcorn and the scene: the
small stable, the straw, the sound and smell of horses, the leather harnesses,
the gleam of lantern light on polished brass, the dead man lying on the floor,
the sickly smell of blood.
"Were the
horses frightened?" he asked. "Any injuries?"
Runcorn frowned.
"No. Bit nervous. They'd smelled blood and they must have heard the shot,
but nothing was disturbed as if there'd been a fight. No wounds, no wood
kicked, no cuts, neither of 'em really spooked. And before you ask, there were
no other marks on the body, no bruises, clothes as neat as you please. I'd lay
my reputation no one struggled or fought with him before he was shot. And the
way he was lying, either he shot himself, which everything pointed to, or
whoever else did it stood within a couple of feet of him, because there was
nowhere else to stand in a room that size."
"And
nothing was taken, nothing missing?" Monk asked without hope now. He had
outwitted Runcorn many times in the past, but that was years ago. They had both
learned in the time between: Monk to be a little gentler, and more honest in
his reasons for cleverness; Runcorn to think a little harder before coming to
conclusions, perhaps also to keep his attention on the case more, and less on
his own vanity.
"Nothing to
take in the stables," Runcorn replied. "Unless you count the odd
horse brass, but the stable boy said they were all there."
"Coachman
agree?" Monk put in.
"Seems a
footman doubled as coachman," Runcorn answered. "He was handy, and
with a butler and junior footman who doubled as boot boy, that was all that was
necessary."
"And the
house?" Monk pressed. "Anyone intrude in the night? Or impossible to
tell, if Havilland had left the door open. Had he?"
"Yes. The
butler says he sat up late. Told them he wanted to work in his study, and sent
them all to bed. But a thorough search was made and both Miss Havilland herself
and the housekeeper said nothing at all was missing, or even moved. And there
were plenty of nice things, easy to carry, if a burglar'd wanted. Easy to sell."