Dark Assassin

by Anne Perry

  Was that coincidence? Or had the thieves taken advantage of a new and slacker regime, a commander who was ignorant of a great deal of their names and habits, their connections with one another, their methods and tricks? A commander who also did not know his own men and whose men in turn had little confidence in him?

  Then a darker and even uglier thought forced itself into his mind. Were Durban’s figures a good deal less than accurate? Was it possible that for his own reasons he had altered them, either to hide the true degree of crime or—a thought that was even more painful—because the accusers were right and the police were pocketing some of the takings themselves?

  No. He refused to think that. Durban would not have stolen. Monk had known Durban only briefly and had not only admired him but liked him as a friend and companion. But who knew what other friends he had, or enemies, what debts paid and unpaid?

  He realized with surprise that he intended to protect Durban—from Farnham, from whoever it was that accused them of corruption, even from Orme if necessary. It was not a matter of paying his own debt; it was simply out of friendship.

  How to build such a defense was a great deal more difficult. He sat looking through the figures of recent crime again, reading and rereading them, trying to see a pattern in order to understand what had changed. Half an hour later he was forced to accept that he did not know any more than when he had begun.

  He could not afford the luxury of pride and would have to ask one of his men. He sent for Orme. Confiding in him was a risk. If he did not understand what Monk was trying to do, he might feel confused and defensive, fearing that he was seeking to undermine Durban and establish himself on the ruin of another man’s reputation.

  If he already knew of the corruption and even was a party to it, then Monk would have left himself vulnerable in a way that might prove his ultimate defeat. With Orme against him he could not succeed in any part of his job.

  “Yes, sir?” Orme stood in front of him, his jacket buttoned straight, his clean collar fastened a little tightly around his neck. He looked anxious.

  “Close the door and sit down,” Monk invited, indicating the wooden chair near the far side of his desk. “Mr. Farnham says that thefts have gone up alarmingly on the passenger boats,” he said when Orme had obeyed. “Looking at the figures in all the reports, he’s right. They’re much higher than this time last year. Is that coincidence, or is there something I have neglected to do?”

  Orme stared at him, evidently confused by his candor. Perhaps in the work they had done together he had already realized that Monk was a proud man and had difficulty relying on anyone else.

  All Monk’s instincts were to retreat, but he could not afford to. He had everything to gain from winning Orme’s trust, and everything to lose without it. He forced himself to speak gently. “Mr. Farnham says that there are people suggesting we are corrupt. We have to clear this up and prove them wrong—or liars, if that’s what they are.”

  Orme paled, his body stiff. His eyes met Monk’s in a puzzled, unhappy gaze.

  “The River Police have had a name for honesty for over half a century,” Monk went on, his own voice quiet and angry. “I won’t have it changed now! How do we stop this, Mr. Orme?”

  Orme snapped to attention. Suddenly he realized Monk was asking his help, not somehow challenging him, and far less blaming him.

  “There’s a lot fer us to do, sir,” he said carefully, as if testing Monk’s intent.

  “There is,” Monk agreed. “There are the usual fights and robberies in the docks and along the barges and moored ships, the accidents, the dangerous wrecks or cargoes, the thefts, fights, sinkings, and fires.”

  “And murders,” Orme added, watching Monk’s eyes.

  “And murders,” Monk agreed.

  “Do you reckon as she meant to go o’er, Mr. Monk?”

  So he was thinking of Mary again, as if he too was haunted by her courage, her loneliness, the unsolved questions.

  “No, I don’t.” He was being more honest than he had intended, but there was no help for now but to go on. If he could not rely on Orme, he was lost anyway. “I think she knew of something in the tunneling more dangerous than just the engines, or even the speed with which they’re cutting. I don’t know what it is yet, but I think someone killed her—and her father—over it.”

  “Argyll?” Orme said with surprise.

  “Not directly, no. I think he probably paid someone to kill James Havilland, and Mary found that out, too.”

  Orme’s face was grim with the anger a normally gentle man feels when he is outraged. There was something frightening in it, unselfish and implacable. “I think as you should keep followin’ that until you find out ’oo it was, sir,” he said levelly. “It’s wrong ter let that go by. If we don’t see it right fer a woman like that, wot use are we?”

  “And the thefts from the passenger boats?” Monk asked. “Our reputation matters, too. It’s part of our ability to do the job. If people don’t trust us, we’re crippled.”

  “We got to do wot’s right, an’ trust it’ll be seen as right,” Orme said stubbornly. “I can’t find out ’oo killed ’er. I ’aven’t got the skill fer that. Never done it with people o’ that class. Give me a river fight, dockers, thieves, lightermen, sailors even, an’ I can sort it out. But not ladies like that. You done that fer years, Mr. Monk. You know murders wot are quiet. I know a punch in the face; you know a knife in the back. We’ll get it all, between us.”

  “What about a hand in the pocket, a slit in the purse, and your money gone?” Monk asked.

  Orme’s mouth tightened. “I’ll take care o’ that. An’ o’ people with big mouths an’ small minds. I know a lot o’ people ’oo’ve got secrets. You can’t help gettin’ enemies in this job, but if yer careful, an’ keep yer promises, you get friends as well.”

  “I don’t know where the enemies are yet,” Monk admitted.

  Orme smiled mirthlessly. “Not yet you don’t—but I do. There’s a few I can use, an’ I will. Believe me, sir, ’em boat thieves’ll wish they ’adn’t started. You find ’oo killed that poor girl. I’ll be be’ind you, an’ I’ll watch yer back against Mr. Farnham.”

  “Thank you,” Monk said with utmost sincerity.

  SEVEN

  Later in the afternoon Monk and Runcorn were in Charles Street again. They were about to begin the task of knocking on the doors of those who had been to the theater the night before, and might possibly have returned at about that same hour the night when James Havilland had died. The day’s rain had turned the snow to slush, but now it was freezing again and the pavements were slippery underfoot. The pall over the city from so many domestic fires and factory chimneys blocked out the stars. The streetlamps glowed yellowish white with a halo of mist around each one, and the cold of the night caught in the throat. The noise of hooves was sharp and loud and carriage wheels crunched on the frozen slush.

  Monk and Runcorn walked as swiftly as it was safe to do without losing one’s footing. They kept their heads down out of the wind, their hats low, coat collars turned up.

  Runcorn glanced at Monk as if about to speak, then seemed to change his mind. Monk smiled, partly to himself. He knew that Runcorn was thinking—just as he was himself—that they were almost certainly wasting their time. But having come this far, they might just as well try every house whose front door, servants’ entrance, or mews might possibly have allowed one of the occupants to see someone come or go to Havilland’s mews that night.

  Monk had earlier checked with the library of past newspapers exactly which theaters had been open and the hours when the curtains had come down.

  “Better get on with it,” Runcorn said grimly, approaching the first door and climbing the steps.

  That attempt was abortive, as was the second. The third took a little longer, but also yielded nothing. The man who came to speak to them was polite, but quickly made it apparent that he did not wish to become involved in anything that had happened in the street, o
r anyone else’s home. They left feeling more despondent than if he had simply denied being out.

  Runcorn pulled his coat collar up higher and glanced at Monk, but he did not say anything. They were now four doors away from Havilland’s house, and on the opposite side of the street. Monk continued the investigation from habit, in the perverse refusal to surrender rather than any hope of achieving anything.

  He and Runcorn walked up to the step side by side, but it was Runcorn who knocked on the door.

  The footman who answered was young and somewhat flustered. He had very clearly not been expecting a caller at this hour of the night. “Yes, gentlemen?” he said with some alarm.

  “Nothing wrong,” Runcorn soothed him. “Is your master at home?”

  “Yes!” The young man blinked. He should have been more circumspect, even at this hour of the night, and he realized it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The color washed over his face. “At least…”

  “That would be Mr. Barclay, and Mrs. Ewart?” The lift of puzzlement was barely discernible in Runcorn’s voice.

  “Yes, sir.” The footman’s face was pink. He was plainly embarrassed and trying very hard to find a way out of his predicament. He was still struggling when a man in his middle thirties came across the hall behind him and into the vestibule. He was tall and rather elegant, and dressed in evening clothes as if he had only lately returned from some formal event.

  “What is it, Alfred?” he asked with a frown. “Who are these gentlemen?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I was—”

  “John Barclay,” the man said brusquely. “Who are you and how may we be of assistance? Are you lost?”

  “Superintendent Runcorn, Mr. Barclay,” Runcorn introduced himself. “And Inspector Monk, of the Thames River Police. Sorry to disturb you so late, sir, but since you’ve been out at this hour, we wondered if you might do so quite often.”

  Barclay’s eyebrows rose. “What of it? And what on earth can it have to do with the River Police? I haven’t been anywhere near the river. Except across the bridge, of course. Did something happen?”

  “Not tonight, sir.” Runcorn was shivering, so his words were a trifle blurred.

  Monk sneezed.

  “I haven’t seen anything to interest the police at any time,” Barclay said a little impatiently. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” He glanced at Monk. “For heaven’s sake, man, go home and get a hot toddy or something. It’s nearly one in the morning!”

  Something in the man’s attitude irritated Runcorn. Monk saw it in the tightening of the muscles of his jaw and a slight alteration to the angle of his head. “Were you acquainted with Mr. James Havilland, four doors up, across the road, sir?” he asked.

  Barclay stiffened. “I was, but not more than to be civil to. We had little in common.”

  “But you knew him?” Runcorn was determined either to keep Barclay on the step or to be invited inside. The night was bitter and the wind was coming from the northeast and blowing right into the house.

  “I’ve told you, Inspector, or whatever your rank is—” Barclay began.

  “Superintendent, sir,” Runcorn corrected him.

  “Yes, Superintendent. I knew him as one casually knows neighbors! One is civil, but one does not mix with them socially if they are not of the same…interests.”

  There was a light tap of heels across the parquet floor of the hall behind him, and the door opened, showing a woman of about his own age. She too was slender, with brown hair, blue eyes, and winged brows that gave her face a highly individual look.

  “It’s nothing, Melisande,” he said hastily. “Go back into the warmth. It’s a filthy night.”

  “Then don’t keep the gentleman on the step, John,” she said reasonably. She looked beyond him at Runcorn, and then at Monk. “Please come in and speak in comfort. Perhaps you would like something hot to drink? As my brother says, it’s a rotten night. Your feet must be frozen at least. I know mine are.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mel, they’re police!” Barclay hissed in what might have been intended as an aside but was perfectly audible, probably as far as the street.

  “Oh, dear! Has something happened?” She came closer. Monk could see in the vestibule light that her face was lovely, but there was a patience and even a sadness in it that suggested that life was not as easy for her, or as rich, as superficial judgment might assume.

  “Nothing that needs to concern you, my dear,” Barclay said pointedly.

  “They are merely looking for witnesses.”

  She did not move away. “It must be urgent to bring you out at this time of night.” She looked to Runcorn, who was standing more in the light than Monk was. “What is it you need to know, Mr….?”

  “Runcorn, ma’am,” he replied, suddenly sounding a trifle self-conscious. There was something in the elegance of her gown, the flawless curve of her throat, that seemed to make him more than normally aware of her, not only professionally but personally.

  She smiled. “What is it that we might have seen, Mr. Runcorn?”

  Runcorn coughed as if his throat was tight. “There’s not much chance, ma’am, but we’re pursuing everything we can. It’s about Mr. James Havilland.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t know him well,” she began.

  “You didn’t know him at all,” Barclay exclaimed, then turned to Runcorn again. “We really have no idea what happened or why, except that the poor man shot himself. Frankly I can’t imagine why you’re wasting your time delving into it. Is there not enough crime to keep you busy? If you don’t know where it is, I can certainly tell you!”

  “John!” she remonstrated, then looked at Runcorn as if in apology.

  “What is it you think we may have seen?”

  There was a sudden gentleness in Runcorn’s face. Monk was beginning to realize how much he had changed in the last two years. Some kind of confidence within him had enabled him to look outwards with less need to defend himself, more awareness of the hurt of others.

  “Anyone else in the street, or coming out of the mews,” he answered her. “Apart from your own immediate friends and servants, any stranger at all, or person you wouldn’t expect to see. Actually anyone else at all, because they might have seen something and be able to help.”

  “Help what?” Barclay asked scathingly. “Let the dead rest in peace! At least grant them that much decency. His poor daughter took her own life as well. I presume you know that?”

  Monk spoke for the first time, with an edge to his voice. “I was there, on patrol on the river. She went over the bridge. I am not certain that she intended to.”

  Barclay looked surprised. “No one else seems to have any doubt. But even if she fell by accident, that has nothing to do with us. It was miles from here, and we can’t help you. I’m sorry. Good night.” He stepped back.

  Melisande’s gown was light and she was obviously cold, but she refused to step out of his way. She looked at Monk. “Is there some chance she did not take her life?” Her face was soft, her eyes lit with hope. “I didn’t know her very well, but I would so much like to think that she was not so filled with despair that she would do such a thing, and of course also that she could have a proper burial. The other is so…brutal.”

  “Yes, there is a chance, ma’am,” Monk replied. “That is part of what we are still investigating.”

  “And if we saw anyone in the street the night of her father’s death, that might help?”

  “Yes.”

  Runcorn was staring at her with a steady, unwavering gentleness. Had he too seen the sadness in her, the vulnerability?

  As if aware of it, she turned and answered as though it were Runcorn who had elaborated rather than Monk. “We were at the theater that night,” she told him. “I can’t remember what we saw, and it doesn’t matter now. It went right out of my head when I heard the next day what had happened. But we did return about half past midnight, and we saw a man coming out of the mews opposite.”

 
“He wasn’t coming out,” Barclay contradicted her with a wince. “He was on the footpath, staggering around. He had clearly been over-indulging. I’ve no idea who he was, so I couldn’t tell you where to find him. But even if I could, he would be useless to you. He couldn’t even see where he was going, let alone be a credible witness to anything.” His brow furrowed, his expression sharper. “But even if he’d seen Havilland put the gun to his head and pull the trigger, how would that help anyone? You know what happened. Let it be mercifully forgotten. It’s no one’s fault, and nothing whatever to do with us.”

  Monk was freezing. His body and Runcorn’s were to some extent sheltering Barclay and his sister, but even so he felt a stiffening of anger, a heat of resentment rise inside him. “It is possible, sir, that Mr. Havilland did not kill himself!” he said sharply.

  “Don’t be absurd!” Barclay was angry now, rattled. “Are you suggesting there’s some maniac going around shooting people in their own homes, in the middle of the night? Here?” He put his arm out as if to protect his sister.

  She moved fractionally away from him, just out of his reach, her eyes still on Runcorn.

  It was Runcorn who answered, not to contradict Barclay so much as to reassure Melisande. “No, sir. If it was someone else, then it was deliberately planned and arranged, and it was to do with his work. There is no need at all for anyone else to be alarmed. If we are right, then the man concerned is miles away from here, and the last thing he’d be likely to do is draw attention to himself by coming back.”

  Melisande smiled. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “And he did come out of the mews. He staggered around a little as if he was drunk, and he said he was.”

  “He said he was?” Runcorn was startled. “What did he say, exactly?”

  “He had a stain on his jacket.” She touched her shoulder, about the place where she would have pinned a corsage. “About here. Quite a large stain, three or four inches across, dark, as if it was wet. He saw me looking at it, only briefly. I suppose that was rude, but it was such an odd place to have a stain so large. He said he had tripped and fallen in the mews. He”—she made a slight gesture as if brushing herself down—“he said he didn’t know what he fell in, and would prefer not to think of it. Then he apologized and went on down the road.” She glanced at her brother. “If he fell in the mews, then he should have smelled of horse manure.”