by Anne Perry
Argyll had cheated them. They had followed the trail, and ended by being forced to arrest a man they knew was innocent, while Argyll watched them and laughed. Damn him!
EIGHT
It was three days before Monk had time to consider the Havilland case again. There was a large fire in one of the warehouses in the Pool of London, and the arsonists had attempted to escape by water. It was brought to a successful conclusion, but by the end of the second day Monk and his men were exhausted, filthy, and cold to the bone.
At half past eight, with the wind howling outside and the woodstove smelling of smoke, Monk was sitting in his office and finishing the last of his report when there was a knock on the door. He answered, and Clacton walked in, closing the door behind him. He came over to stand in front of the desk, looking casual and more elegant than perhaps he was aware.
“What is it?” Monk asked.
“Worked pretty ’ard the last couple o’ days,” Clacton observed.
“We all did,” Monk replied. If Clacton was expecting any leave, he would be disappointed.
“Yeah,” Clacton agreed. “You most of all…sir.”
Monk was uncomfortable. He saw the gleam of anticipation in Clacton’s eyes. “You didn’t come in here to tell me that.”
“Oh, but I did, sir,” Clacton responded. “I know ’ow ’ard it must ’a bin for you, wot with your own business on the side an’ all. Can’t ’ave ’ad much time for that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Monk demanded.
Clacton blinked and smiled. “Yer bit o’ private work. For Mr. Argyll, is it? Findin’ out ’oo killed ’is pa-in-law, and get ’em off the ’ook? Worth a bit, I shouldn’t wonder.” He left the added suggestion hanging in the air.
Monk’s mind raced. He had envisioned all kinds of attack from Clacton, even the remote possibility of physical violence. He had not foreseen this insinuation. How should he deal with it? Laughter, anger, honesty? What would Clacton’s next move be?
“Din’t think I knew, did yer?” Clacton said with satisfaction. “Look down on the rest of us like we’re beneath you. Not as clever as the great Mr. Monk! ’Oo don’t know a damn thing when it comes ter the river. Come to ’ave Orme ’old yer ’and or yer’d fall in! Well, the rest of ’em might be stupid, but I’m not. I know wot yer doin’, an’ if yer don’t want Farnham ter know as well, yer’d be wise ter let me ’ave a bit o’ the price.”
There was no time to weigh the consequences.
“I doubt Mr. Argyll will pay me for anything I’ve found out so far,” Monk said dryly. “It looks like he’s responsible for Havilland’s death.”
“Yeah?” Clacton’s fair eyebrows rose. “But it’s Sixsmith they’ve arrested. Now why would that be, d’yer think? A bit o’ shiftin’ around of evidence, mebbe?”
Monk was cold and tired, and his bones ached, but now he was assailed by fear also. He recognized both cunning and hatred in the young man in front of him. There was no loyalty to Durban or anyone else, just pure self-interest. Monk had no time to care why. Clacton was dangerous.
“Do you think you can find this supposed evidence?” he asked bluntly.
Clacton’s eyes were bright and narrow. “Yer bettin’ I can’t?”
“I’ll be happy if you can,” Monk replied. “It’s Argyll I want!”
For the first time Clacton was thrown off balance. “That’s stupid! ’Oo’ll pay yer?”
“Her Majesty,” Monk replied. “There’s a conspiracy behind Havilland’s death. Thousands of pounds in the construction business, and a lot of power to be gained. Go and tell Mr. Farnham what you think, by all means. But you’d be better to go and get on with your job, and be glad you still have one.”
Clacton was confused. Now he was the one needing to weigh his chances, and it angered him. The tables had turned, and he had barely even seen it happen.
“I still know yer crooked!” he said between his teeth. “An’ I’ll catch yer one day!”
“No,” Monk told him, “you won’t. You’ll fall over yourself. Now get out!”
Slowly, as if still unsure whether he had another weapon left, Clacton turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Monk could see that as soon as he was in the main room his swagger returned.
Monk’s tea was cold, but he did not want to go and get more. His hand was trembling, and the breath caught in his throat. Clacton’s accusation had been worse than he expected.
The following morning he went to Sir Oliver Rathbone’s office. Monk was prepared to wait as long as necessary, but it proved to be no more than an hour. Rathbone came in elegantly dressed in a wool overcoat against the biting east wind. He looked surprised to see Monk, but pleased. Since he had realized how much he loved Margaret Ballinger his rivalry with Monk had softened considerably. It was as if he had reached a kind of inner safety at last, and was now open to a gentler range of emotions.
“Monk! How are you?” Rathbone was very different from Monk, a man of excellent education, comfortable with himself. His elegance was entirely natural.
Monk smiled. In the beginning Rathbone had discomfited him, but time and experience had shown Monk the humanity beneath the veneer. “I need your help in a case.”
“Of course—why else would you be here in the middle of the morning?” Rathbone made no attempt to conceal his amusement or his interest. If Monk was out of his depth legally, then it offered an interesting problem, which was exactly what he craved. “Sit down and tell me.”
Monk obeyed. Very briefly he described Mary Havilland’s fall from the bridge with Toby Argyll, then his discovery of James Havilland’s earlier death and the course of the investigation that had led to the arrest of Aston Sixsmith.
“Surely you don’t want me to defend Sixsmith,” Rathbone said incredulously.
“No…at least not to act as defense for him,” Monk replied. He was beginning to wonder if what he was intending to ask was impossible. Again, fury at Argyll washed over him, and a sense of helplessness in the face of the skill with which Argyll had manipulated both Sixsmith and the police into the position he wanted them in. Monk could picture Argyll’s angry, slightly arrogant face marred by grief as if he had seen him only moments ago. “I want you to prosecute Sixsmith, but in such a way that we get the man behind him,” he answered Rathbone. “I don’t think Sixsmith had any idea what the money was for. Argyll told him what to do and he did it, either blindly or out of loyalty to the Argylls, believing it was for some legitimate purpose.”
Rathbone’s fair eyebrows rose. “Such as what, for example?”
“Tunneling is a hard trade. I don’t say he wouldn’t cut corners or pay bribes to some of the more violent of those who know the sewers and the underground rivers and wells. I don’t know.”
Rathbone thought for a moment or two. Clearly his interest was caught. He looked at Monk. “You believe the elder Argyll brother used Sixsmith to pay an assassin to kill Havilland, because Havilland was a threat to him. Who found this assassin, if not Sixsmith?”
Monk felt as if he were on the witness stand. It was more uncomfortable than he had anticipated. It would be impossible to escape with inaccurate or incomplete answers. “Alan Argyll himself, or perhaps Toby,” he answered. “Alan has taken great care to account for all his own time before and after Havilland’s death, but Toby was several years younger and spent more time on the sites and knew some of the tougher navvies.”
“According to whom?” Rathbone said quickly.
Monk smiled, but without pleasure. “According to Sixsmith. But it can be easily verified.”
“You’ll need to do it,” Rathbone warned. “The money came from Argyll, you say?”
“Yes.”
“If he says it was for wages, or a new machine, and that Sixsmith misappropriated it, can you prove he’s lying?”
Monk felt his muscles tighten defensively. “No, not beyond a doubt.”
“Reasonable doubt?”
“I don’t know wh
at doubt is reasonable. I’m certain myself.”
“Not exactly relevant,” Rathbone said dryly. “Why would Argyll want Havilland dead so much that he would be prepared to use Sixsmith to hire an assassin?”
“Knowledge that the tunnels were dangerous and work should be stopped,” Monk replied.
“Isn’t all such work dangerous? The Fleet sewer collapse was appalling.”
“That’s cut-and-cover,” Monk told him. “Imagine that underground, possibly collapsing at both ends, with water, or worse—gas.”
“Is gas worse? I would have thought water would be pretty dreadful.”
“The gas would be methane. That’s flammable. It would only need one spark and the whole thing would be ablaze. If it came up through the sewers, it could start another Great Fire of London.”
Rathbone paled. “Yes, I have the idea, Monk. Why do you think that is anything more than a madman’s nightmare? Surely Argyll wouldn’t want that any more than Havilland or anyone else. If it were a real danger, he’d stop the work himself. What was he afraid of—that Havilland would frighten the workforce and they’d strike? Why not just bar him from the site? Isn’t murder excessive, not to mention dangerous and expensive?”
“If it wasn’t the navvies Havilland was going to, but the authorities, that would be different. He couldn’t stop that so easily. And even an unfounded fear could close the excavations for enough time to delay the work seriously and cost a great deal of money. To a ruthless man, one perhaps running rather close to the edge of profit and loss, or with an over-large investment, that could be motive for murder.”
Rathbone frowned. “But motive is not enough, Monk, which you know as well as I. Why not suppose it was Sixsmith, exactly as it appears to be?”
“Because it was Argyll’s wife who sent the letter to her father asking him to be in the stable after midnight,” Monk answered decisively. “At Argyll’s request.”
“And if Argyll says he did not ask her to write it?” Rathbone asked.
“You cannot force her to incriminate him. It would be profoundly against her interest.”
“Others will swear it is her handwriting.”
“You have the letter?”
“I don’t. I have the envelope.”
“The envelope! For God’s sake, Monk! Anything could have been in it! Did anyone see the letter? Is the envelope postmarked?”
Monk felt the argument slipping out of his grasp. “The envelope was hand delivered,” he replied levelly. “But it is beyond reasonable doubt that it was the one he received that evening, because he made notes on it in his own hand, and it was in the pocket of the jacket he was wearing. That’s where we found it.”
“Could it have belonged to another letter sent at an earlier time?”
“There were notes on it relating to events that happened that evening,” Monk replied with satisfaction.
“Good. So Mrs. Argyll sent him a note. If she swears it was an invitation to dinner in a week’s time, and she is willing to, what have we?”
“A woman prepared to lie to two police officers, under oath.”
“To save her husband, her home, her source of income, and her position in society—and thus also her children.” Rathbone puckered his mouth into a tight, bleak smile. “Not an unusual phenomenon, Monk. And not one you would find it easy, or popular, to destroy. You would not win the jury’s favor with that.”
“I want their belief, not their favor!” Monk snapped.
“Juries are driven by emotion as well as reason,” Rathbone pointed out. “You’re playing a dangerous game. I can see about charging Sixsmith as an accessory, possibly an unknowing one as far as murder is concerned, and hope to draw out enough to implicate Argyll, but you’d have to come up with a lot more than you have so far.” His face pinched a little. “It happens sometimes. You can catch everyone but the real culprit. It looks as if Argyll’s protected himself pretty well. To reach him you’ll have to destroy this man Sixsmith, who may be completely innocent of anything except a fairly usual business bribe. You’ll also destroy Argyll’s wife, who is doing what any woman would do to protect her children, perhaps even to protect her belief in her husband as a decent man. And she may need that to survive with any kind of sanity.”
Monk hesitated. Was it worth it? Should he destroy the slightly tarnished, those culpable only of ordinary human weakness, in order to reach the truly guilty? For what—vengeance? Or to protect future victims?
“You don’t have a choice now,” Rathbone said quietly. “At least not as far as Sixsmith is concerned. I’ll prosecute, by all means, and uncover everything I can. Meanwhile, you find out more about this mysterious assassin. Show who contacted him, if he ever took the second payment, if he knows who employed him. Above all, you need to show what Havilland was going to do that was sufficient to make Argyll want to kill him. So far all you have is an engineer who lost his nerve and became a nuisance. Sane men don’t commit murder for that. Give me chapter and verse of what Argyll would lose, and connect it to him, not just to Sixsmith.”
Monk stood up. “I’ll find it! How long have I?”
“Till it comes to trial? Three weeks.”
“Then I’d better start.” He moved towards the door.
“Monk!”
He turned back. “Yes?”
“If you’re right and it is Argyll, be careful. He’s a very powerful man and you work in a dangerous job.”
Monk stared at Rathbone with sudden surprise. There was a gentleness in his face he had not expected to see. “I will,” he promised. “I have good men around me.”
Monk began by going back to speak with Runcorn. The superintendent was probably as aware as Rathbone of the thinness of the case; nevertheless, Monk outlined it in legal terms while Runcorn sat behind his desk and listened grimly.
“Need to know more about this man in the mews,” he said when Monk had finished. “Might get a better description of him if we ask the cabbie again. And we’ll have to ask Mrs. Ewart to see if she can say anything more.”
She was surprised to see them again, but it was apparent that she was not displeased. She was wearing a woollen dress of a dark, rich wine color, and she looked less tense than she had the previous time. Monk wondered if that was in any part related to the fact that her brother was not at home at this hour.
She received them in the withdrawing room, where there was a bright fire sending its heat into the air. The room was not what Monk would have expected. There was a pretentiousness about it that took away something of the comfort. The paintings on the walls were big and heavily framed, the kind of art one chooses to impress rather than because one likes it. There was an impersonal feel to them, as there was to the carved ivory ornaments on the mantelpiece and the few leather-bound books in a case against the wall. The volumes sat together uniform in size and color, immaculate, as though no one ever read them. Then he remembered that Mrs. Ewart was a widow and this was Barclay’s house, not hers. He wondered for a moment what her own choice would have been.
She was looking at Runcorn. Her face in the morning light was less tired than the first time they had seen her, but it still held the same sadness at the edge of her smile and behind the intelligence in her eyes.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, ma’am,” Runcorn apologized, looking back at her steadily. “But we’ve looked into the matter further, and it seems very much like the man you saw could have shot Mr. Havilland. There’s a man arrested for hiring him coming to trial soon, but if we don’t find a good deal more information, he might get off.”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “You must catch the man who did it, for every reason. I have no idea where he went, except towards the main road. I imagine he would find a hansom and leave the area as fast as he could.”
“Oh, he did, ma’am. We traced him as far as Piccadilly, and the East End after that,” Runcorn agreed. Not once did he glance at Monk. “It’s just that the cabbie didn’t look at him except for an instant, and
he isn’t all that good at description. If you could remember anything else at all about him, it could help.”
She thought for several moments, withdrawing into herself. She gave a little shiver, as if thinking not only of the cold of that night but now also of what had taken place less than a hundred yards from where she had stood. Runcorn’s admiration of her was clear in his eyes, but it was the vulnerability in her, the sadness, that held him. Monk knew that because he had seen a flash of it before, and knew Runcorn better than he realized. There was a softness in Runcorn he had never before allowed, a capacity for pity he was only now daring to acknowledge.
Or was it Monk who had only just developed the generosity of spirit to see it?
Mrs. Ewart was answering the question as carefully and with as much detail as she could. “He had a long face,” she began. “A narrow bridge to his nose, but his eyes were not small, and they were heavy-lidded.” Suddenly she opened her own eyes very wide, as if startled. “They were light! His skin was sallow and his hair was black, at least it looked black in the streetlights. And his brows, too. But his eyes were light—blue, or gray. Blue, I think. And…his teeth…” Then she shivered, and there was a look of apology in her face, as if what she was going to say was foolish. “His eyeteeth were unusually pointed. He smiled when he explained the…the stain. I…” She gulped. “I suppose that was poor Mr. Havilland’s blood?” She looked at Runcorn, waiting for his reaction, although it was inconceivable that it should matter to her. Yet Monk could not help but believe that it did. Had she seen that gentleness in Runcorn? Or was it just that she needed someone to understand the horror she felt?
Runcorn continued to probe. What about the man’s clothes? Had he worn gloves? No. Had she noticed his hands? Strong and thin. Boots? She had no idea.
If she thought of anything else, he told her, she should send for him, and he gave her his card. Then they thanked her and left. Monk had barely spoken a word.
Even outside in the bright air, wind ice-edged off the river, Runcorn kept his face forward, refusing to meet Monk’s eyes. There was no purpose in forcing communication where none was needed. Later they could discuss what each would do next. They walked side by side, heads down a little, collars high against the cold.
