Authors: Anne Perry
"What time
did he die?" Monk was not yet willing to give up, although it was
beginning to look more and more as if Mary Havilland's belief in her father's
murder was simply a desperate young woman's refusal to accept the truth that he
had killed himself.
"Police
surgeon reckoned between midnight and about three, close as he could tell.
Pretty cold in the stables, late autumn. The thirteenth of November, to be
exact. Frost was sharpish that night. I remember it was still white all around
the edges of the leaves on the garden bushes we passed going in." Runcorn
was hunched up, as if the memory chilled him.
"No one
heard a shot?"
"No."
Runcorn gave a tiny, bleak smile. "Which was unusual. You'd think someone
would've. Tried shooting the thing myself, and it was loud enough. Could hear
it clear a hundred yards off, on a still night like that. I followed that one
all the way, but if anyone heard, they wouldn't admit to it." There was
long experience in his face, and fighting against it a very faint quickening of
hope.
Monk realized
with surprise that Runcorn wanted Mary Havilland to be right; he simply could
not see the possibility.
"Muffled by
something?" Monk asked.
Runcorn shook
his head no more than an inch or two. "Nothing there. Powder burns on his
skin. If he'd wrapped a towel or a cloth around it to deaden the sound, that'd
account for why nobody heard it, or maybe didn't recognize it for a shot, but
then the cloth would still be there, and it wasn't. Unless . . . somebody took
it away!" He did not quite make it a question, but it was in his eyes.
"No sign of
anyone else there?" Monk asked, seeking the same hope.
"Not a
thing, and I looked myself."
Monk believed
him. Not only was Runcorn not easily a liar, there was a painful hunger in him
to believe better of Havilland than the circumstances justified. Even now, two
months later, it was still there.
Monk asked the
next, obvious question. "Why? What was so wrong that he'd shoot himself in
his own stables in the middle of the night?"
Runcorn pressed
his lips together and hunched his shoulders a little more. "I
looked." There was an edge of defense in his voice. "As far as anyone
knew, his health was excellent. He ate well, slept well enough, walked often.
We checked into his affairs; he certainly was more than comfortably off. No
unaccounted expenditure. He didn't gamble. And if anyone was blackmailing him,
it wasn't for money. If he had a mistress, we never found her. If he had bad
habits, we saw no sign of them, either. He drank very little. Never been seen the
worse for it. Wife died seven years ago. Had two daughters. Jenny, the elder,
is married to Alan Argyll, a very successful businessman."
Runcorn took a
deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "Havilland worked for Argyll's
company as an engineer in the big rebuilding of the sewers. Well respected,
well paid. Seemed to get on all right, at least until recently, when Havilland
took it into his head that the tunnels were dangerous and there was going to be
an accident one day. We couldn't find any evidence for it. Argyll's safety
record is good, better than most. And we all know the new sewers are necessary,
urgently so."
"And
Mary?" Monk asked. He wanted to fault Runcorn, to find something the
superintendent had forgotten or done badly, but he couldn't.
Runcorn's face
softened. "The poor girl was beside herself with grief," he said
defensively, as if he felt he needed to protect her memory from Monk's
intrusion.
Monk liked him
the better for that.
"She
couldn't believe he would do such a thing," Runcorn went on. "Said he
was on a crusade, and people in crusades get killed sometimes, but they don't
shoot themselves. She said he was on the edge of finding out something about
the tunnels, and someone killed him to stop him doing that. Lots of money at
stake. Fortunes to be made, and I suppose lost, in all this. And
reputations."
"What do
you believe?" Monk asked.
"Asked a
few questions about him," Runcorn said unhappily. "According to the
men in the works, he'd gotten a bit eccentric. Scared stiff of tunnels and holes,
so they said. Used to shake and go white as a ghost, break out in a
sweat." He lifted one shoulder very slightly. "Happens to some
people. Others it's heights, or spiders, or snakes. Whatever. Usually think of
women being frightened of that sort of thing, but it doesn't have to be. Worked
a case once with a woman who fainted at the sight of a mouse. Can't think why,
but it doesn't have to have a reason. Knew another one terrified of birds, even
a harmless little canary." He stopped. All the lines of his face sagged,
making him look older, more tired than before. "He did seem obsessed with
the dread of an accident, and as far as I could see, there was no reason for
it."
"What did
Mrs. Argyll think of her father in this?" Monk asked, remembering Jenny
Argyll's stiff back and carefully controlled face.
"Blamed
herself for not seeing how far his madness had gone," Runcorn answered,
weariness and confusion in his eyes. "Said she would have had him better
looked after if she'd known. Not that there was a thing she could've done, as
her husband told her. As long as he breaks no laws-and Havilland didn't-a man's
entitled to go as daft as he likes."
"And
Mary?"
Runcorn sighed.
"That's the thing. Poor girl refused to accept it. Determined her father
was right and wouldn't let it rest. Started reading all his books, asking
questions. Broke off her engagement to Toby Argyll and devoted herself to
clearing her father's name. Wanted him buried in consecrated ground if it took
her her life's work to do it." His voice sank even lower. "Now it
looks as if the poor soul'll lie beside him. Do you know when they're going to
do that, because-" He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat, then glared
defensively at Monk as if challenging him to mock.
Monk had no
desire to. In his mind's eye he could see again and again the figure of Mary
tipping over the rail, clinging on to Toby Argyll, and the two of them plunging
down into the icy river. He still did not know what had happened; nothing was clear,
and he ended up not remembering but imagining, because he wanted her not to
have done it herself.
And he
remembered the strong bones and the gentle mouth of the white face they pulled
out of the river, and that Mrs. Porter had said she was a woman of opinions and
the courage to declare them.
"No, not
yet. But I'll tell you when I do. Have to tell the butler, Card-man, as
well."
Runcorn nodded,
then looked away, his eyes too bright.
"You said
you found where he bought the gun." Monk changed the subject.
Runcorn did not
look at him. "Pawnshop half a mile away. Owner described him close enough.
He was wearing a good coat, dark wool, and a scarf. Nothing odd in that,
especially on a November night."
"Not very
specific. Could have been anyone."
"Could
have, except it was the same gun. Had one or two marks and scratches on it. He
was certain enough."
"But why
would Havilland have killed himself?" Monk persisted.
Runcorn shook
his head. "Alan Argyll told me he was becoming an embarrassment to the
company. He was reluctant to say so, but he was going to have to dismiss him.
Havilland was upsetting the men, causing trouble. Argyll felt very badly about
it, but he had no choice. Couldn't let everyone suffer because of one man's
obsession. Said he hadn't told his wife, and certainly Mary didn't know, but he
had intimated as much to Havilland himself. He begged us not to tell them,
especially Mary. It wouldn't alter his suicide, and it would reduce him in
their eyes. In fact, it would make suicide seem more rational. Maybe he did
tell her after all." There was no relief in his face, no sense of
resolution.
"Poor
man," Monk said. "If he told her at last and she went off the bridge,
taking Toby Argyll with her, he's going to feel a guilt for the rest of his
life."
"What else
could he do?" Runcorn said reasonably, his face still puckered in
distaste.
"If
Havilland was murdered, who did Mary think was responsible?"
"Her
brother-in-law," Runcorn replied unhesitatingly. "But he wasn't. We
checked up-he was out all evening at a function and went home with his wife a
little after midnight. She'll swear for him, and so will the servants. Footman
waited up; so did the lady's maid. No way he could have been there. Same for
his brother, before you ask."
"He lives
close by. No servants to swear for him," Monk pointed out.
"He was out
of London that night," Runcorn responded. "Wasn't within a hundred
miles. Checked on that, too."
"I
see." There was nothing left to argue. He stood up with a strange
hollowness inside him. "Thank you."
Runcorn rose as
well. "Are you giving up?" It sounded like a challenge. There was a
note in it close to despair.
"No!"
Monk exclaimed. In truth, though, he had no idea where else to look for
evidence. Inevitability closed in on him.
"Tell
me," Runcorn said, frowning, "if you find anything. And ..."
"Yes, I
will," Monk promised. He thanked him, and left before it could grow any
more awkward. There was nothing else for them to say to each other, and the
brief truce was best unbroken by not trying.
Monk returned to
Wapping station and spent the afternoon in the general duties that were part of
his new job. He disliked the routine, especially writing reports and even more
reading other people's, but he could not afford to do less than his best. Any
error or omission could be the one that spelled failure. He must succeed. He
had no other skills than for his work and most certainly no other friends like
Callandra Daviot who could or should help financially.
At five o'clock
it was completely dark. Worse than that, there was a heavy fog rolling in from
the east, shrouding the river so closely he knew he would not find a boatman to
attempt rowing him across. Already the streetlamps were dimming, blurred yellow
ghosts fading altogether after twenty yards, so the night was impenetrable. The
mournful baying of the foghorns on the water broke the silence, and there was
little else to be heard but the steady drip of water and the slurp of the tide
on the steps and against the embankment.
Monk left at
half past five to begin the long walk up towards London Bridge, where if he was
very fortunate he might find a hansom to take him over, and as far as Southwark
Park and home.
He buttoned his
coat, pulled his collar up, and set out.
He had gone
about a quarter of a mile when he was aware of someone behind him. He stopped
just beyond one of the mist-shrouded lamps and waited.
An urchin came
into the pale circle of light. He looked about nine years old, as much as one
could see of his face through the grime. He was wearing a long jacket and odd
boots, but at least he was not barefoot on the icy stone.
"Hello,
Scuff," Monk said with pleasure. The mudlark had been of help to him in
the Maude Idris case, and Monk had seen him a dozen times since then, albeit
briefly. Twice they had shared a meat pie. This was the first time he had seen
the boots. "New find?" he asked, admiring them.
"Found one,
bought the other," Scuff replied, catching up with him.
Monk started to
walk again. It was too cold to stand still. "How are you?" he asked.
Scuff shrugged.
"I got boots. You all right?" The second was said with a shadow of
anxiety. Scuff thought Monk was an innocent, a liability to himself, and he
made no secret of it.
"Not bad,
thank you," Monk replied. "Do you want a pie, if we can find anyone
open?"
"Yer
won't," Scuff said candidly. "It's gonna be an 'ard winter. You wanna
watch yerself. It's gonna get bad."
"It's
pretty bad every winter," Monk replied. He could not afford to dwell too
long on the misery of those who worked and slept outside, because he was
helpless to do anything about it. What was a hot pie now and then to one small
boy?
"This in't
the same," Scuff replied, keeping step with Monk by skipping an extra one
now and then. "Them big tunnels wot they're diggin' is upsettin' folk down
there. Toshers in't appy."
Toshers were the
men who made their living by hunting for and picking up small objects of value
that found their way into the sewers, including a remarkable amount of jewelry.
They usually hunted together, for fear of the armies of rats that could rapidly
strip a man down to the bone if he was unlucky enough to lose his footing and
injure himself. And there was always the possibility of a buildup of methane
gas given off by the sewer contents, and of course a wave of water if the rain
was torrential enough.
"Why are
the toshers unhappy?" Monk asked. "There'll always be sewers, just
better ones."
"Change,"
Scuff said simply, and with exaggerated patience. "Everybody's got their
stretch, their beat, if yer like, seen as yer a policeman o' sorts."