Dark Assassin

by Anne Perry

  “And Miss Mary Havilland?” he insisted. “Did she explain her involvement? Weren’t you curious that a young woman should know anything about such matters, or care?”

  “Yes, I was,” the clerk agreed. “That’s ’ow come I remember. As ’e were ’er father, she told me, an’ ’e were dead, she were doin’ what she could ter finish ’is work. ’E worked fer one o’ the big companies, Argyll Company.”

  “She told you that?”

  “No. I know that meself. Not that I knew ’im, like, but I seed ’im on the works once or twice. Din’t look well. Sort o’ pale an’ sweatin’. Mind, I seen men like that when they ’as ter go down deep. Scared o’ bein’ closed in. An’ o’ the rats an’ the water.” He shuddered. “Don’t like ’em much meself.”

  Monk pressed it a little further, noting down the details, then thanked the clerk and left.

  The rest of the day yielded nothing new. Mary Havilland had followed in the footsteps of her father in half a dozen places. Obviously Havilland had believed that the steam engines were dangerous, but had he learned anything that proved it?

  Monk turned it over in his mind as he walked back along the dockside towards the station. It was dark and there was a fine rain. The smell of the tide was harsh, but he was becoming used to it. Even the constant slurping of the water against the embankment and on the steps down to the ferryboats and barges assumed a kind of familiar rhythm. The foghorns were booming again because the rain blinded vision; lights loomed out of the darkness before there was time to change course.

  He wondered about Scuff. Where was he on a night like this? Had he eaten? He had shelter, Monk knew that, but had he any warmth? Then he remembered that the chief booty of mudlarks was coal. Very often the lightermen would deliberately knock pieces off their barges into the shallow water for the small boys to get. Perhaps he had a fire. The riverside was full of children scraping by the best they could—like the rest of the city. It was irrational to worry about one.

  He forced his mind back to the case.

  Had Havilland found anything to make it necessary for someone to kill him? It seemed unlikely. What could it be? Argyll’s had had no serious accidents. But Havilland had been an engineer himself, and he knew exactly what their huge machines were capable of, what safeguards were taken, and that Alan Argyll, of all people, would not want injuries or time lost. An unforeseen incident might kill dozens of men, but it would ruin the company.

  So what had Havilland imagined?

  Had he really learned something so dangerous he had been murdered to hide it? And then Mary had followed in his footsteps and found it also, and in turn been murdered?

  Or was Havilland simply a man who had lost his mental balance, become obsessed, and imagined danger where there was none? Were the diverted streams and the threat of slippage an excuse rather than a reason, in order to close that tunnel and avoid ever going down there again? Was it even possible he had some kind of a grudge against the Argylls personally? Mary, devoted to him, had believed his view, and then when she had finally been forced by the evidence to face the truth, had she been unable to bear it? Only for her it was worse! First her father’s error, his suicide, her own broken betrothal to Toby Argyll, then an estrangement from her sister, the shame of her false accusations, and nothing to look forward to in the future, not even financial security.

  Had Toby told her some truth so bitter it had broken her at last? Could she even have lashed out at him because of it?

  Hester would be hurt to know that. He winced and shuddered in the cold as he thought of having to tell her, perhaps tomorrow or the day after.

  The next day he decided to go directly to the deepest tunnel, again using his authority to oblige them to allow him in.

  It was a vast hive of labor—men wheeling, digging, hacking, and shoring up the entrance where load after load of earth, clay, stones, and shale came out in wagons. Each cart was hauled up the forty-foot cliff face to the level above. The tunnel itself was like the entrance to a mine, high enough for a man to walk in. But it would be far less when the brickwork was laid. It would become a hollow tube with occasional holes for storm drains to empty. Iron-ringed ladders would lead up to the street and daylight, so sewer men could go down and clean out any blockages that would impede the flow.

  A huge steam engine pounded, shuddering the ground, drawing the chain that pulled up the loads of debris and carried them away to a pile where they were emptied. It hissed and belched steam, and the noise of it caused the men to shout to each other within twenty or thirty yards of it. The stokers shoveled more coal into the furnace, then returned to hauling and tipping.

  Monk showed his police identification. Grudgingly they gave him access to the bottom down a steep cutting, but no one went with him. He found himself slipping and losing his balance several times, only just avoiding falling into the wet clay beneath him. Several times he banged against the loosely timbered sides.

  Once at the bottom he could walk more easily on the boards laid on the rubble and clay. The swill of dirty water seeped from the sides and gathered in puddles, trickling slightly down towards the tunnel mouth. He looked upwards quickly. How deep was he? He felt a flutter of panic. The walls towered up to a narrow strip of sky, and the movement of clouds across it made him reel.

  He was sharply aware of the smell of it all around him—wet, earthy, moldy, as if nothing was ever dry and the wind never cleansed it.

  He faced the dark hole ahead of him with a reluctance that startled him. He had never before felt such a crowding sense of being enclosed. He had to force himself to keep walking and try to dull his imagination.

  The shadow closed over him. The winter daylight did not penetrate far. Beyond a few yards it was lit by covered gaslight. A naked flame could ignite the fumes in the air. He had heard of mine explosions and men buried forever in collapsed shafts. Could that possibly happen here? No, of course not! This was one straight tunnel, which was going to be bricked around, held with steel. Sewers did not collapse.

  The noise of hammering and shoveling was ahead of him. He kept on walking, the water slopping underneath the boards. Where were the nearest rivers? Did anybody even know for certain? How much did the rivers secretly change course because of subsidence, the great engines above the ground shaking the earth, compressing it down, or rattling it loose? He was sweating and his heart was pounding in his chest.

  He was still walking at exactly the same speed along the boards. The steadiness of his pace gave him an illusion of being in control, at least of himself. Dripping water seemed to be everywhere, a sheen on the walls in the gaslight. A rat appeared from nowhere, making him start. It ran along beside him for a dozen yards, then the shadows swallowed it up.

  Ahead there were brighter lights, shouts, and the noise of pick blades striking with a sharp clang against rock and a dull thud against clay. He saw it, a machine like a huge drum, almost the size of the tunnel itself, the power of it thrumming as if it were the heartbeat of the earth.

  There were at least twenty men laboring at one task or another, and not one of them looked up or took the slightest notice of Monk. The air was stale and cold and had a strange taste to it.

  A man trundled past him with a barrow load of debris. Another rat shot out of the shadows, and then back in again. The sides of the tunnel beyond the last of the boards gleamed wet, and here and there were dribbles of water running down to the sodden earth.

  If the diggers broke into a small underground stream it would gush in here like an open tap, except there would be no way of turning it off. He must not allow himself to think of that, or he might panic. He could feel the sweat on his body now.

  He strode forward and deliberately drew the attention of the best-dressed man present, one of the only two wearing jackets—presumably they supervised rather than performed the labor themselves.

  The man was broad-shouldered and already spreading a little at the waist, although he looked no more than in his middle forties. His featur
es were regular, even handsome, except that his mouth was a trifle large. His hair was dark with a heavy wave and he had a thick, dark mustache. When he turned to face Monk, his eyes were blue.

  “Yes?” he said with surprise. He spoke loudly, but that was necessary to be heard above the din of the machine and the crushing and grinding of earth and falling stones.

  “Monk, River Police,” Monk replied. “I need to talk to the man in charge here.”

  “That’s me! Aston Sixsmith,” the man told him. “What is it, Mr. Monk?”

  Monk waved his arm to indicate that they should go back towards the entrance, away from the noise, and he had to concentrate deliberately in order not to turn immediately and walk ahead. He began to feel far more sympathy for James Havilland than he had even an hour ago. He could understand any man who felt oppressed by these walls, the darkness, and above all the close, stale air on his face and in his lungs.

  Sixsmith walked in front of him and stopped a hundred feet away from the digging. “Well, Mr. Monk, what can I do for you?” He looked curious. “You said River Police? We haven’t any trouble here, and I haven’t taken on any new men in the last month or so. Are you looking for someone? I’d try the Thames Tunnel if I were you. There’s a whole world down there. Some people live pretty well all their lives underground. This time of the year it’s drier than up above. But I imagine you know that.”

  “Yes, I do,” Monk replied, although the world of the Thames Tunnel was one he had not yet had time to explore. The river itself kept him constantly alert, always learning, finding the vast gaps in his knowledge and little, stupid mistakes made out of ignorance. His face was hot with the memory of the times Orme had rescued him, albeit always discreetly. He could not go on like that. “I’m not looking for a man.” He faced Sixsmith squarely, meeting the clear blue eyes. “I believe you used to work with James Havilland?”

  Sixsmith’s expression darkened with a sudden sadness. His face was more mobile, more easily marked with emotion than Monk had expected. He looked not unlike the navvies himself and blended with them easily, but his voice, both in tone and in diction, placed him as far different, a man of more gentleness and considerable education, whether formally acquired or not.

  “Yes. Poor man,” he replied. “In the end the tunnels got to him.” His eyes searched Monk’s, and Monk had the distinct feeling that his own fear was sensed, if not seen.

  “What can you tell me about him?” Monk asked. “Was he a good engineer?”

  “Excellent, if a little old-fashioned,” Sixsmith answered. “He wanted new ideas tested more thoroughly than I think was necessary. But he was a sound man, and I know no one who didn’t both like and respect him. I certainly did!”

  “You said the tunnels got to him,” Monk continued. “What did you mean?” He was glad when they started to move towards the entrance again, even if it was to a crevasse rather than the level ground.

  Sixsmith sighed and moved his hands in a slight gesture of regret. Despite the dirt on them, both the power and the grace were visible. “Some men can’t stand closed-in places,” he explained. “You’ve got to have a special kind of nerve to work underground. He hadn’t. Oh, he tried his best, but you could see him losing control.” He sighed and pulled his wide mouth tight. “I attempted to persuade him to stay up top, but he wouldn’t listen. Pride, I suppose.”

  “Was there anything in particular he was afraid of?” Monk asked as innocently as he could.

  Sixsmith looked at him carefully. His gaze was very direct, and it was impossible to miss the intelligence in his eyes. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to conceal it now,” he said resignedly. “The poor man’s dead, and the world knows his weaknesses. Yes, he was afraid of a stream bursting through and sending the whole side caving in. If that happened, of course, men would be buried alive or drowned. He became obsessed with the idea of lost underground navvies just waiting to find a way in, almost like an evil presence.” He looked at Monk defensively. “It’s not insane, Mr. Monk, not entirely. It’s just the exaggeration of something real—fear taken beyond reason, so to speak. Tunnel engineering is a dangerous business. Men died in building the Thames Tunnel, you know? Crushed, gassed, all sorts of things. It’s a hard profession, and it’s not for everyone.”

  “But you liked him personally?” Monk was shivering in spite of his heavy coat. He clenched his teeth, trying to hide it.

  “Yes, I did,” Sixsmith said without hesitation. “He was a good man.” He pushed his hands in his pockets. He walked easily, even casually.

  “Did you know Miss Mary Havilland?” Monk pursued.

  A shadow of exasperation crossed Sixsmith’s expressive face. “Yes, I did. Not well. She took her father’s death very hard. I’m afraid she was a bit less…well-balanced than he was, or her sister, Mrs. Argyll. Very emotional.”

  Monk found himself resenting Sixsmith, which was unreasonable. He had never known Mary Havilland in life and Sixsmith had. He must remember that her likenesses to Hester were superficial—matters of circumstance, not nature. And yet her face had looked so gentle and so sane. Emotional, certainly, but her passions were those of a strong woman, not the fancies and indulgences of a weak one.

  It was difficult for him to speak of her death to this man who saw her so differently. He hesitated, looking for the words he wanted, even, for an instant, forgetting how far ahead the light still lay.

  Sixsmith was there before him. “Is that why you are here? You said River Police. She died in the river, didn’t she?” He pursed his lips. “I’m deeply sorry about that. And young Toby, too. What a terrible tragedy.” He was looking at Monk intently now. “Are you assuming that she killed herself because of her father? You are almost certainly right. She couldn’t accept the truth. Fought against it all the way, poor soul.” He shrugged slightly. “Maybe I would have if it had been my father. It’s hard to face something like that about your own family.”

  Monk swung to face him, but there was nothing but a crumpled pity in Sixsmith’s face.

  “Everyone was very sorry for her,” Sixsmith went on. “Turned a deaf ear to her questions and accusations, hoped she’d grow out of it, but it doesn’t seem to have helped. Perhaps she finally saw the truth, and it was too much for her.”

  Monk looked into his powerful, sad face and felt the weight of his conviction and pity. “Thank you. I’ll come back if there seems anything further.” He held out his hand.

  Sixsmith grasped it with a sudden smile so warm it entirely changed him. They could have been friends met again after a long separation. “Do come back,” he said, letting Monk’s hand go. “Any help I can be.”

  In spite of what Sixsmith had said, Monk still went to check one more time on James Havilland’s suicide. Even as he rode in a hansom along the Embankment he was aware that Farnham would have expected him to attend to the urgent crime on the river, which was his job, but he knew Orme would deal with all the regular accidents and the crimes. He realized ruefully that Orme did that much of the time anyway. He was teaching Monk more than he was learning from him.

  Mary Havilland and Toby Argyll had died in the river. Had she really believed that he and his brother were responsible for her father’s death? If so, then perhaps she had taken Toby with her over the edge intentionally, as Alan Argyll had implied in the shock of his loss. If that was so, then it was murder.

  Monk decided to spend one more day seeking to lay to rest the doubts that swirled around in his mind. Then he would have to tell Hester the truth, however sad or brutal it was.

  Last time at the Havilland house he had spoken only to Cardman, who was intensely loyal. Perhaps if he spoke to a different servant, someone who had been there less time and would very shortly be seeking another place anyway, he would hear a different story.

  It was a gray day with sleet on the wind. He was glad to reach the house again and be permitted into the kitchen, where he was offered a hot cup of tea and some Madeira cake. The reason for such hospitality w
as quickly revealed.

  “Yer police, the law?” the cook asked him, offering a second piece of cake.

  He accepted, as it was excellent. “Yes,” he agreed with his mouth full, an upwards lift in his voice to encourage her to continue.

  “Can yer tell us what’s goin’ to ’appen ter us, Mr. Monk? Mr. Argyll’s too upset o’er the death of ’is brother ter take up any business matters, an’ Mrs. Argyll must be broke to pieces about poor Miss Mary. It’s just that we don’t know our position, like. Me and Mr. Cardman’ll stay as long as we’re needed. But we ’ave ter tell some o’ the maids an’ the footmen. It in’t always that easy ter find a good place, an’ comin’ from a tragedy like this don’t ’elp.”

  He looked at her plump, anxious face. Her fair hair was graying, pulled back into a loose knot. She was trying hard not to sound callous, but one suicide in the house was damaging enough; two could make domestic reemployment far harder than held any justice. The fear was in her eyes.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Plimpton, but I will find out, and see that you are informed as soon as possible. We are not sure yet how Miss Havilland came to fall into the river.” He stopped, seeing the wordless emotion in her face. It would take great delicacy to draw from her what she really believed. She might not even have put it into words herself. “Or Mr. Toby Argyll,” he added, watching her.

  He saw the flicker of anger—a flash—and then she hid it again. She was a woman whose position in life had never allowed her to leave her feelings uncontrolled. He read the dislike of Toby that she dared not tell him.

  “Thank yer, sir,” she replied.

  He needed more. “I imagine you knew Miss Havilland a long time?”

  “Since she was born,” Mrs. Plimpton replied, her voice thick with grief.

  Monk tried a different approach. “Was she extremely fond of Mr. Argyll?”

  “No,” she said abruptly, then realized she had been too forthright. “I mean…I mean o’ course she liked ’im, but it were she as broke it orff, not ’im.” She gulped. “Mr. Monk, she would never ’ave taken ’er own life! If yer’d ’ave known ’er, yer wouldn’t even think on it. She were that determined to prove as poor Mr. ’Avilland were killed, not took ’isself, an’ she were on the edge o’ doin’ it! ’At excited, she were….” She stopped, sniffing and turning away.