Dark Assassin

by Anne Perry

  “From another company?” Sixsmith’s lips curled. “If you’d known Havilland, you wouldn’t even ask. He might have hid his weaknesses, and he might even have been something of a coward, but he was absolutely honest. He’d never have sold out. I’d lay my own life on that. And believe me, Mr. Monk, when you work with a man on things like that”—he jabbed his thumb downwards towards the tunnels beneath them—“you get to know who to trust, and who not to. Get it wrong and you don’t always live to talk about it.”

  “So both of the Argyll brothers must have known of Havilland’s fears, and that he was possibly a danger?”

  Sixsmith’s face tightened and he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I’m afraid so.”

  “And was Mary a danger also?”

  Sixsmith considered for a moment before answering. “Not really. She had very little idea of what she was talking about…. Can’t you call it an accident—Mary’s death, I mean?”

  Monk noticed that he had not mentioned Toby’s death. “Both of them?” he asked. “Mary and Toby Argyll, too?”

  A flash of understanding lit Sixsmith’s eyes. “Would have to be, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, if hers wasn’t suicide, then his wasn’t either,” Monk said reasonably. “The only alternative would be murder. Could he have meant to push her over? She went over backwards, hanging on to him.”

  Sixsmith breathed out slowly. “Trying to save herself, or trying to pull him in with her, you mean?” His face brightened. “Changed her mind, and trying to save herself! There you are. Unfortunately she was too late. Already lost her balance, and his too. Tragedy. Simple.”

  “You didn’t say ‘but Toby would never hurt her,’” Monk observed.

  Sixsmith looked at him very steadily, and now his expression was unreadable. “Didn’t I? No, I suppose I didn’t. Got to get back to work now, Mr. Monk. Can’t afford delays. Costs money. Good day.” He walked away easily with a long, swinging stride.

  Monk stood still for a moment, sharply aware again of the cold—and the noise of engines. The next thing he needed to ascertain was the exact time James Havilland had died, or as near as the police surgeon could tell him.

  “What the devil for?” the surgeon demanded when Monk found him in his consulting rooms. He was a lean man with a harassed air, as if constantly put upon and always trying to catch up with himself. “You come to me two months afterwards and ask me what time the poor man shot himself?” He glared at Monk. “Haven’t you anything better to do? Go and catch some thieves! My neighbor’s house was broken into last week. What about that?”

  “Metropolitan Police,” Monk replied, not without pleasure. “I’m Thames River Police.”

  “Well, poor Havilland died of a gunshot,” the surgeon snapped.

  “Not a drop of water anywhere near him, even tap water, never mind the damn river!” He glared at Monk with triumph. “None of your business, sir!”

  Monk kept his temper with difficulty, and only because he wanted the information. “His daughter believed he was murdered—”

  “I know that,” the surgeon interrupted him. “The grief unhinged her. A great shame, but we don’t have a cure for grief, unless the priest has. Not my field.”

  “Her death was very definitely from drowning in the river,” Monk went on. “I saw her go in myself, and that could have been murder.” He saw the doctor’s startled look with satisfaction. “Unfortunately, the young man who may or may not have pushed her overbalanced and went in himself,” he continued. “Both were dead when we pulled them out. I need to investigate her accusation, even if only to lay it to rest, for both families’ sakes.”

  “Why the devil didn’t you say so, man?” The surgeon turned away and began to look through a stack of papers in a drawer behind him. “Fool!” he muttered under his breath.

  Monk waited.

  Finally the man pulled out a couple of sheets with triumph and waved them in the air. “There you are. Very cold night. Lay on the stable floor. Warmer than outside, colder than the house. Should say he died no later than two in the morning, no earlier than ten. But as I remember the household staff say they heard him up at eleven, so that gives you something.”

  “Anything medical to prove he shot himself?” Monk asked.

  “Like what, for God’s sake? That’s police work. Gun was on the floor where it would have fallen. If you’re asking if he was shot at point-blank range, then yes—he was. Doesn’t prove he did it himself. Or that he didn’t.”

  “Any sign of a struggle? Or didn’t you look?”

  “Of course I looked!” the surgeon snapped. “And there was no struggle. Either he shot himself, or whoever else shot him took him by surprise. Now go and bury the dead decently, and leave me to get on with something that matters. Good day, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Monk said sarcastically. “It’s as well you deal with the dead. Your manner wouldn’t do for the living. Good day, sir.” And before the doctor could respond, he turned on his heel and marched out.

  It was already approaching four o’clock and the winter dusk was closing in. Funny how the weather always became worse as the days began to lengthen after Christmas. It was snowing lightly in the street, and within an hour or two it would start to accumulate. He began to walk, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

  So there had definitely been no fight. There was no evidence of a break-in, and nothing had been stolen. Someone had sent Havilland a note, almost certainly requesting a meeting in the stable. Either that person had taken Havilland by surprise and shot him, making it look like suicide, or Havilland had shot himself, presumably after the unknown party left.

  If it was the former, then the person had gone to some considerable trouble to make it look like suicide rather than a quarrel or a burglary interrupted. Why? Surely it would have been simple enough to make it seem as if Havilland had seen or heard something and disturbed a thief. That would not have implicated anyone. So why the appearance of suicide?

  The answer was glaringly obvious: to shame him, to discredit anything he might have been saying during the last few weeks of his life. If that was the case, then it had to be Alan or Toby Argyll—or both. Mary had known it, had possibly been on the verge of finding proof, and had paid for it with her life as well.

  Without realizing it, Monk had been walking towards the police station, as if he had already made up his mind to go back. Why could it not have been anyone in charge of the case but Runcorn? Any other police superintendent would have been easier. At least he assumed it would; he might have made many enemies, and he was absolutely certain he had no friends he could call upon. If there were any debts of kindness to be collected from the past, he had forgotten them, along with everything else. The crimes he had solved as a private agent had not endeared him to the police.

  He was still walking because it was too cold to stand still. He increased his speed, and five minutes later he was outside the police station. Ten minutes after that he was telling Runcorn what he had found out, and what he feared.

  Runcorn sat silently, his face furrowed with thought.

  “I’m going ahead with it,” Monk said, then instantly wished he had not. In one sentence he had excluded Runcorn and made a challenge of it. He saw Runcorn’s body stiffen, his shoulders hunch a little. He must retrieve the mistake, whatever it cost, and quickly. “I think you will, too,” he said, swallowing hard, “now that you know about the letter. We’ll do more if we do it together.” That sounded like an offer, and he meant it as one.

  Runcorn stared at him. “Metropolitan Police and River Police?” His blue-gray eyes were filled with amazement, memory, something that could almost have been hope.

  Monk felt the old guilt back like a wave. They had been friends once, watched each other’s backs in times of danger with an unquestioning trust. It was he who had broken that trust, not Runcorn. Now Runcorn must be wondering if this was just another trick.

  Runcorn’s face set hard. “If one of the Argylls
—or both—had a man murdered to hide what he knew, then I’ll see that justice is served,” he said grimly. “And I won’t let that girl stay buried as a suicide if she was murdered. Right, Monk.” He rose to his feet. “We’ll start again along the street where Havilland lived. I know neither of the Argylls was Havilland’s actual killer because they were both well accounted for. I got that far, on Mary’s word. Toby was in Wales, a hundred miles away, and Alan was at a party on the other side of the city with a hundred witnesses. His wife’s word I wouldn’t believe, but twenty members of Parliament I have to. But whoever shot Havilland must have been there. Maybe someone saw him, heard him, noticed something. Come on!”

  Monk followed eagerly. There was an element of recapturing the past in walking the dark, bitter streets beside Runcorn. They moved from one place to another, finding off-duty hansom drivers huddled around a brazier, or local police on the beat. They separated to ask the questions and waste less time, but still they learned nothing. It was snowing again now, big, lazy flakes drifting out of the sky into the lamplight and settling feather light on the ground. Monk began to wonder more honestly what time had given Runcorn in the years since they had started out as equals. Monk himself had been badly hurt, lost his profession, been to the edge of an abyss of fear, of a self-knowledge unendurable even now. At the last moment it was Hester who had helped him prove to everyone—above all to himself—that he was not the man he dreaded he might be.

  Monk had little enough materially. His reputation was dubious. He was still clumsy when it came to command. He had much to regret, to be ashamed of. But he had won far more than he had lost. He had solved many cases, fought for the truth, and mostly he had won.

  Far above any of that he had personal happiness, an ease of heart that made him smile in repose and look forward to going home at the end of the day, certain of kindness, of trust and of hope.

  What did Runcorn have? What gave him pleasure when he closed the office doors and became merely a man? Monk had no idea.

  They stopped at a public house, where they each drank a pint of ale and ate a pork pie with thick, crumbly pastry. Then they set out again. They left black footprints on the white of the pavement. The reflection of the pale street made the lamps look yellow, like eerie moons on stalks. Their breath was visible, like smoke. Carriages passed them in the street, hooves muffled by snow. It was midnight.

  “Been to the theater, most likely,” Runcorn remarked as another carriage passed them, looming out of the darkness, and then was swallowed again between the lamps, reappearing outlined against the falling snow.

  “One of them may have witnessed something!” Monk said eagerly.

  “Mews,” Runcorn said.

  “What?”

  “Mews,” he repeated. “We need the coachmen. People will have gone inside and be in no mood to help us at this hour. Coachmen’ll still be up. Got to unharness, cool the horses, rub them down, put everything away. It’ll be another hour before they can go to bed.”

  Of course. Monk should have thought of it himself. In trying to wrench his mind into the habits of river boats, he had forgotten the obvious.

  “Right,” he agreed, turning to follow Runcorn, who was still hesitating. The rank that Runcorn had attained over the years had not taken from him the inner conviction that somehow Monk was the leader. His brain knew better, but his instinct was slower. By sheer force of will, Monk deliberately walked half a step behind.

  They were sheltered for a few yards along the alley. Then, as they turned into the mews, the snow caught them again. All the stable lights were on, the doors open. Three men were busy along the length of it, working hard backing vehicles into coach houses, soothing animals and unharnessing them, trying to get finished as fast as possible and get out of the biting cold to warm up before going to bed.

  “Names and addresses,” Runcorn said, unnecessarily. “We’ll not get much more than that out of the poor devils at this hour.”

  Monk smiled to himself. The “poor devils” were going to get home into the warmth a long time before he was.

  “Evening,” Runcorn began cheerfully as they approached the first man, who was busy unfastening a harness on a handsome bay horse.

  “Evenin’,” he replied guardedly. The horse threw its head up and the man caught the rein, steadying it. “Quiet now! I know yer want ter go ter bed. So do I, boy. Steady now! What is it, sir? Yer lorst?”

  Runcorn introduced himself. “Nothing wrong,” he said mildly. “Just wonder if you’ve been to the theater, or something like that, and if you have, if you go quite often. You might have seen something helpful to us. We’ll come back at a better time to look into it.”

  The man hesitated. In the carriage lights his face was marked with weariness and the snow was dusting his hat and shoulders. “Prince o’ Wales Theater,” he answered guardedly.

  “Go often?” Runcorn asked.

  “Couple o’ times a week, if there’s somethin’ good on.”

  “Excellent. Which number house do you belong to, and what’s your master’s name?”

  “Not ternight.” The man shook his head.

  “Course not,” Runcorn agreed. “Tomorrow, maybe, at a decent hour. What’s his name?”

  Monk gave a half salute and moved on to the next coachman, who was clearly visible in the lights about four houses along.

  In half an hour they collected a reasonable list. They agreed to resume the following evening, a little earlier next time.

  Monk’s mood was considerably deflated when he arrived at the station in Wapping a little late the next morning.

  “Mr. Farnham wants to see you, sir,” Clacton said with a smile composed far more of satisfaction than friendliness. The smile broadened.

  “ ’E’s bin waitin’ a while!”

  Monk could think of no reply, save one, that would not play straight into Clacton’s hands. But the resolve hardened inside him to deal with Clacton decisively as soon as he could create the opportunity. This time he simply thanked him and went to report to Farnham.

  “Cold getting to you, Monk?” Farnham said unsympathetically before Monk had closed the office door.

  “Sir?” The room was warm and comfortable, smelling slightly of woodsmoke, and there was a cup of tea steaming on the desk next to a pile of papers.

  “Fancy your bed more than a brisk river crossing?” Farnham elaborated. “Didn’t see that that’s what the job would need? On the water, Monk! That’s where the work is!” He did not add that Durban would have been here long before this hour, but it was implicit in his expression.

  “Yes, sir. It was a cold night,” Monk agreed, biting his temper with great difficulty. Private work might leave him frighteningly short of money, but it afforded him the luxury of not putting up silently with remarks like that. He had to remind himself with cruel bluntness what it would cost him to retaliate now. “It was a harsh night,” he added. “It was snowing quite hard when I got home at half past one.”

  Farnham looked irritated. “Chasing that suicide again? Do I have to remind you that river crime is up, which is our business—your business, Monk? There aren’t many passenger boats on the water this time of year, but the few there are are experiencing more thefts than usual, and we aren’t doing anything about it! Some people are suggesting that is because we don’t care to.” His face was hard and there were blotches of color in his cheeks.

  Monk realized Farnham was losing control of his anger again, because the emotion inside him was too powerful to govern. It was fear, the possibility of disgrace to the police force he loved and which was his source not only of income and power, but of his belief in himself.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Monk said dutifully. “That perception is completely wrong. We care very much, and we must prove it.”

  “Yes, you damned well must!” Farnham agreed vehemently. “Suicides are tragic, but they happen. It’s hard enough for the surviving family members without you nosing around asking pointless questions and
keeping it in the forefront of everybody’s minds.”

  He started to pace up and down. He had apparently forgotten his tea. “People are saying that the River Police are corrupt!” The pink deepened in his cheeks. “That has never happened before since I’ve been in the force! They even said we’re taking a rake-off ourselves!” He stopped mid-stride and glared at Monk, his eyes bright and hot. “I won’t have my force destroyed by that slander. I lost my best man in Durban. He was wise, brave, and loyal, and above all he was honest. He knew this river like his own backyard, and he knew its people, good and bad.” He jabbed his finger at Monk. “No one would have said such a monstrous thing about us if he were alive. I don’t expect you to take his place. You wouldn’t know where to begin! But you’ll clear up this mess and prove we don’t look the other way at crime, any crime! And we take nothing out of it but our pay, which is hard earned by the best bunch of men who ever wore Her Majesty’s uniform! Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Good. Then get out and begin to do what you are hired for. Good day.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Monk went back to the outer room and his own desk, where the reports were of monetary theft. None of the men commented, but he felt Clacton’s eyes on him. The patrol had already gone out before Monk had arrived. He read the account of the night’s events, the usual minor thefts, disturbances, and accidents. There was only one major incident, but it had narrowly avoided becoming a disaster, largely due to the rapid action of the River Police on duty.

  Monk made a note to himself to congratulate the men concerned, and to do it as publicly as possible.

  Farnham was not exaggerating. The thefts reported on the passenger boats going up and down the river had increased alarmingly. He had read the old reports from the same time last year, in Durban’s neat, strong hand, and it had more than doubled since then. The escalation had come since Monk had taken over.