Dark Assassin

by Anne Perry

  “And you are not going to pursue Mary Havilland’s path finding proof that any of the construction machines are being used dangerously!”

  She said nothing, but when she turned her attention back to the tea she realized that the kettle was almost empty; it had boiled nearly dry. She would have to refill it and begin again.

  “William,” she said gently, “I’m afraid the tea will have to wait a little. I’ll bring it through to you when it’s ready, if you like.” If he wanted to think that was any kind of admission of defeat or of obedience, this was not the time to point out to him that it was nothing of the sort.

  “Thank you. That is a good idea.” He turned and went back into the sitting room.

  “Really!” she said under her breath, but glad it was over for the moment, and she could be alone to gain control of her feelings again.

  FOUR

  Monk was in the stern of the ferry next morning as it made its way across the choppy waters. Waves were slapping the sides of the small boat, and the damp, raw wind stung the skin, freezing the cheeks and arms. The boatman needed not only his strength but his skill to keep from “catching crabs” with the oar blades and drenching them both.

  At least the wind had driven the fog away and the long strings of barges were going downriver on the tide, carrying goods from the Pool of London to everyplace on earth.

  He had spoken to Hester last night as if he was afraid for her safety, and indeed that was his concern. He did not want to prevent her from doing what she believed was right, but when she became involved in a cause she lost all sense of proportion. More than once it had endangered her.

  He looked at the choppy water, dark, turgid, and filthy. Perhaps if he could remember all his youth, his other experiences of women, of love, he would be more realistic. But he remembered nothing, and he wanted Hester as she was: naive, rash, stubborn, vulnerable, passionate, opinionated, loyal, sometimes foolish, always honest—too honest—never mean of spirit, and never, ever a coward. But he wanted her alive, and if she did not have the sense to protect herself, then he must do it for her.

  He would find out what happened to Mary Havilland, and to her father, because Hester would despise him if he did not.

  How had she felt seven years ago over her own father’s suicide? He had only just met her then, and they had scraped each other raw to begin with. She had found him cold and arrogant. Perhaps he had been, but he had also been bewildered by the unknown world around him because of his memory loss, increasingly aware he was disliked. It was Hester’s strength and courage that had constantly buoyed him.

  Had she felt guilty that she was not in England and at home when her parents both so desperately needed her? Was that at least in part why she was determined now to fight for Mary Havilland and, through her, for her father?

  He had not even thought of that before.

  They were at the Wapping shore. He paid the ferryman, climbed the steps up into the harsher wind, and strode over to the door. It was warm inside, but it took several minutes before the heat thawed his numb flesh. It made his hands tingle as the blood circulated again, and he was aware of the men putting on heavy overcoats and then caps as they went out to begin the next patrol.

  He spoke to them briefly, listening to the report of the night’s events: a couple of robberies and several fights, one ending in a knifing. The victim had died, but they had the man who had done it, and apparently it was the culmination of a long feud.

  “Anyone else involved?” he asked.

  Clacton gave him a sideways look eloquent of contempt, and Monk realized his mistake. He was treating Clacton as an equal, as he would Orme. Clacton was spoiling for a fight, inching around and around to find a weakness to jab. Monk held his temper with an effort. A man who loses his temper at a subordinate’s rudeness isn’t fit to command. No one must manipulate him. Nor must he be seen to need Orme’s help. He was alone. Orme wanted him to succeed. Clacton wanted him to fail. For none of them would he ever take Durban’s place. He did not mind that. He must make his own place, and none of them could admire Durban more than he did, for it was Monk who understood what he had done better than they, and who carried a far greater burden of guilt for it.

  He would not correct himself and rephrase the question. He must retrieve the station another way. He turned to Butterworth. “Mr. Clacton seems unwilling to reveal their names. Friends of his, perhaps. Or informants. Perhaps you can be more enlightening?”

  Clacton moved his mouth to protest, then looked at Monk’s face and decided better of it.

  “Yes, sir!” Butterworth said, barely concealing his smile. “No one else injured, sir, far as we know. No witnesses admittin’, but we know ’oo they worked for. It was more likely personal. Been grumblin’ on for a couple o’ months since a scrap downriver a bit. Drink an’ bad temper, most like.”

  “Do you expect any revenge?” Monk asked.

  “No, sir, but we’ll keep an eye.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  He dealt with a few other details and then the men went out—Butterworth with a grin, Clacton scowling, the other two noncommittal.

  Monk found Orme in one of the small offices. He closed the door as Orme looked up from the ledger he was writing in. “Mornin’, sir,” he said, regarding Monk solemnly. “Got the doctor’s reports on Miss ’Avilland and Mr. Argyll. Nothin’ we din’t know about, ’ceptin’ for sure she couldn’t’ve bin with child. She was just like she should’ve bin. No man ’ad touched ’er.” There was a deep sadness in his eyes. “They’re gonna bury ’er this mornin’. ’Er sister din’t even ask the church to ’elp, let alone give ’er a place. I s’pose she knows it din’t do no good for ’er pa, poor soul.”

  Monk sat down at the other side of the small wooden table. Suddenly he felt sick. It was no use raging against the blindness, the arrogance to judge, or the lack of human pity that had ruled Mary unfit for a decent burial. None of it would do any good.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Where?”

  “On the land outside St. Mary’s Church on Princes Road. It’s just opposite the Lambeth work’ouse.” He added nothing, but his voice was thick and he lowered his eyes.

  “Thank you,” Monk repeated.

  “Eleven o’clock,” Orme added. “You’ll ’ave time ter see Mr. Farnham an’ then go.”

  “No, I won’t—not if I go tell the butler and Superintendent Runcorn.”

  Orme looked at him gravely.

  “Please tell Mr. Farnham I’ll see him when I return.”

  “Yes, sir. Would that be Superintendent Runcorn o’ the Metropolitan Police?”

  “Yes. He was the one who investigated James Havilland’s death.” He told him what Runcorn had said, and about the superintendent’s clear sadness over Mary’s death as well, including his reluctance to believe it was suicide.

  “But there weren’t no doubt ’er father killed ’isself,” Orme said quietly. His round blue eyes held no hope that Monk could be wrong, but he did not hide his disappointment.

  “Couldn’t find any,” Monk admitted. “Except that she didn’t believe it. She was certain that he was a fighter and would never have given up.”

  Orme’s mouth tightened. “Well, she wouldn’t easy think ’er own pa were the kind ter shoot ’isself, would she!” It was not a question. “Mebbe she ’eld out as long as she could, and when somethin’ turned it fer ’er so she couldn’t kid ’erself any longer, that was what broke ’er. Poor creature. Poor little soul.”

  “At the time, did you think she jumped?” Monk asked.

  Orme blinked. “Funny way ter go over, backwards, like. But she was strugglin’ wi’ young Argyll. You mean was ’e tryin’ to stop ’er, or ter make sure as she went? Why? ’Cos she turned ’im down? That’s a bit…” He spread his hands, not able to find the right word.

  “No,” Monk said. “Because she was looking for the proof of danger that she thought her father was on the brink of finding.”

  “Why
’d they do that? Seems daft. Nob’dy wants a cave-in,” Orme pointed out. “Costs a fortune to repair. An’ Argyll stands out as a man ’oo likes his pennies, every one of ’em.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, Mr. Monk, I do. I done a bit of askin’ about ’im. Just ’cos o’ that poor girl. Does very well fer ’isself, Mr. Argyll, but all proper and careful.”

  “You found nothing ugly?”

  “No. An’ I looked.” He did not need to explain why. “Yer gonna go on a bit longer, sir?”

  “A bit.” Monk forced himself to trust Orme, hoping he was not going to regret it later. Orme might even prefer not to know the reason Monk was going to continue; keeping the distance between them might be more comfortable. But Monk disregarded it. “My wife was approached by someone concerned about the chances of a really bad cave-in.” Orme did not need to know about Hester’s involvement with the clinic at Portpool Lane, or that the friend was a ratcatcher. “He took her to see one of the big tunnels, very deep. The man knew all the underground rivers and wells, and he’s afraid the tunnelers are going too fast.”

  Orme was watching him with anxiety now, his attention complete.

  “She promised to help if she could,” Monk went on. “She found the member of Parliament chiefly concerned, and went to see him.” He ignored Orme’s amazement. “It seems Mary Havilland had been there already and had impressed both him and his wife most favorably. They were distressed about her death and keen to do all they can to assist in reform, if anyone can find proof that there is a real danger.”

  “Well, well.” Orme sat back in his chair. “So she was really doin’ summink.” His face filled with a sudden pity so sharp he became conscious of it. He blinked and turned away, as if needing to shelter himself from Monk’s eyes.

  “I’m going to pursue it at least another day or two,” Monk said tersely. “See if I can find out exactly what Havilland was looking at, and what he found. I need to know if it was real, or just his own fear of being closed in.”

  Orme nodded. “Mr. Farnham isn’t going to like it,” he warned. “ ’E likes ter be tellin’ us what ter do, an’ there’s plenty o’ theft, same as always. All this diggin’ o’ new sewers an’ tunnels is makin’ folks restive. So many navvies around’s makin’ it ’arder ter move stolen goods, too. The Fat Man’s one o’ the biggest fencers o’ the good stuff—jewelry, gold, ivory, silks, an’ the like. ’E’s un’appy with so much comin’ an’ goin’.”

  “I know.”

  “Jus’ sayin’,” Orme replied.

  “Thank you. Theft is important, but murder, if it is murder, is more so.”

  Orme gave a little downward smile. “ ’E won’t say it’s murder. An’ it’s the people ’oo’re stole from ’oo run the river. That’s where the money is.”

  “You’re a wise man,” Monk conceded. “Remind me of that again in a day or two. Meantime, it’s dead women like Mary Havilland to whom we owe justice as well.”

  Monk took a hansom to the burial and picked up both Runcorn and Cardman. They rode in silence to the church. They were early, but it seemed appropriate to stand on the short strip of withered grass and wait, three men united in anger and grief for a woman one had known all her life, one only the last two months of it, and the third not at all.

  They stood stiff in the icy wind, each in his thoughts, oblivious of the traffic or the bulk of the workhouse black against a leaden sky.

  The gravediggers had done their job; the earth gaped open. The small cortège was led by the minister, whose unsmiling countenance was like the face of doom, followed by Jenny Argyll in unrelieved black and so heavily veiled her face was invisible. Monk knew her only because it could be no one else with Alan Argyll, although she took no notice of him at all, nor he of her. They looked as isolated as if the other were not there.

  Was Argyll thinking only of his dead brother? The bitterness in his face suggested it.

  There was no service, nothing said of the hope of resurrection. It was without mercy. The wind whipped the mens’ coattails, and the ice it carried stung the bare skin of their cheeks, making them red in contrast with white lips and hollow eyes. Monk looked once each at Runcorn and Cardman, then did not intrude further on their bereavement.

  Monk turned to the minister and wondered what manner of God he believed in, whether he did this willingly or under protest because he had a wife and children to feed. Monk was overwhelmingly grateful that his own faith was not hostage to financial need, his own or anyone else’s. He should pity the man his bondage, and yet there were no questions in the minister’s face.

  It was over almost before Monk realized it. Without a word, the cortège departed. In silence, Runcorn, Cardman, and Monk left, in opposite directions.

  “Suicide,” Monk’s superior said brusquely when Monk went into his office early in the afternoon. “For God’s sake, man! She jumped right in front of you, and took with her the poor devil who was trying to save her! Don’t make it even worse for the family by drawing it out!” Farnham was a big man, broad-shouldered and heavy-bellied. His long-nosed face could break into a sudden smile, and there were those who spoke of certain acts of kindness, but Monk felt uneasy in his presence, as if never certain he would be true to the best in himself. Farnham had sought authority and won it, and now he wore it with intense pleasure.

  Arguments of belief or intuition would only be mocked. Anything Monk put forward would be seen as enlightened self-interest for the River Police. “It probably is suicide, sir,” he agreed aloud. “But I think we should make certain.”

  Farnham’s eyebrows rose. He had trusted Durban and known where he was with him, or at least he had assumed he did. He resented the fact that now he had to learn the strengths and weaknesses of a new man. He was sufficiently aware of what had really happened not to hold Monk accountable for Durban’s death. But Monk had survived, and Farnham blamed him for that.

  “Not much is ever sure in police work, Monk,” he said sourly.

  “Thought you would have known that!” The criticism was implicit.

  Monk swallowed his impatience. “Not about what happened on the bridge, sir. I’m thinking of what she was investigating to do with the sewer tunnels and their construction.”

  “Not our concern!” Farnham snapped. “That’s the Metropolitan Police.” The distaste with which he said that was exactly what Monk had expected, had already seen in him in the few weeks he had been here. It was part of what Farnham disliked in Monk himself, and the fact that he had been dismissed from the Metropolitan Police was conversely a point in his favor.

  “Yes, sir,” Monk agreed with difficulty. “But if there is something, and it causes a real disaster and we knew about it, or at least had a chance to find out, do you think they’ll see it that way?”

  Farnham’s eyes narrowed. “You can have a couple of days,” he warned. “If you find something worth pursuing, then give it to them, on paper, and keep a record of it here! Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Monk thanked him and left before Farnham could change his mind or add any further restrictions.

  He began by learning as much as he could about the vast network of new and old sewers and how they interconnected. It was an immense complex, intended to take the ocean of waste from London’s three million people eastwards away from the city and its present egress into the river, and instead process it through large purification works closer to the sea. Then the surplus water could be released, comparatively clean, and the solid waste otherwise disposed of. It was a brilliant feat of engineering, costing a king’s ransom of money, but for the capital of the Empire and the seat of government for a quarter of the world, it was absolutely necessary.

  It took more time to find the exact place of the Argyll company in it, and he was surprised how large it was. It must have cost a considerable effort and influence to obtain it, and no doubt would not be easily forfeited. They had three sites close to one another. Two were cut-and-cover, like the crevasse that Hester
had described, but one was too deep for that method. They were actually tunneling, burrowing like rabbits under the ground, scraping out the earth and rock and carrying it back to the entrance to get rid of it. The necessity for this was created not only by the depth but also by the fact that other rivers and gas lines crossed above it in several places and could have collapsed had they been exposed by the more open method.

  He searched but could find no adequate map that charted all of London’s old wells, springs, and submerged rivers or the old gutters, drains, and waterways that had altered over the course of the centuries. Clay slipped. Some earth absorbed water; some rejected it. Some old drains, dating back to the Roman occupation, had survived. Some had been broken or had caved in, and the land had subsided, diverting them deeper or sideways. The earth was a living thing, changing with time and usage. No wonder Sutton, whose father had been a tosher and knew all the waterways large and small, was now frightened by the vast steam engines that shook the ground, and by the knowledge that men were digging, shoveling, and moving earth, disturbing what was settled.

  Monk was circumspect about mentioning the Havillands’ name, but he would not learn anything further of use if he did not. It gave him a wry, half-sour pleasure that it was far easier now than in his independent days because he could use the power of the River Police to ask for what he wanted. He was cramped by rules, hemmed in and robbed of freedom by the necessity of answering both upwards to Farnham and in a sense downwards to Orme and the other men. He could not lead if he could not inspire men to follow him. The mere holding of office could force obedience for a while, but it could not earn the respect or the loyalty that were what mattered. He would not replace Durban anywhere except in the records on paper.

  He made detailed enquiries of clerks at the construction offices regarding old maps, earlier excavations, waterways, the nature of soil, graveyards, and plague pits—anything that might affect new tunneling. He was told of James Havilland’s investigations.