Dark Assassin

by Anne Perry

  The only place Monk could begin was with the nature and opportunities of the man who had paid the assassin.

  Was it Alan Argyll who had found him, or Toby? Or perhaps Sixsmith had actually contacted him first, for the task he had claimed?

  That was an obvious place to start. He could speak to toshers, who combed the sewers for lost valuables, or to gangers, who led the men who cleared the worst buildups of detritus and silt that blocked the narrower channels. They were all displaced. It would take a while before their services were needed, and there was no trade in which to earn their way in the meantime.

  He was walking from the Wapping station towards one of the cut-and-cover excavations when Scuff caught up with him. The boy still had his new odd boots on and the coat that came to his shins, but now he also had a brimmed cloth cap that sat uncomfortably on his ears. The hat needed something inside the band to make it a little smaller. Monk wondered how he could tell Scuff this without hurting his feelings.

  “Good morning,” Monk said.

  Scuff looked at him. “Yer doin’ all right?”

  Monk smiled. “Improving, thank you.” He knew the enquiry was nothing to do with his health; it was his competence in the job that Scuff was concerned about. “Mr. Orme is a good man.”

  Scuff appeared unsure whether he would go so far as to call any policeman good, but he did not argue. “Clacton’s a bad ’un,” he said instead. “You watch ’im, or ’e’ll ’ave yer.”

  “I know,” Monk agreed, but was startled that Scuff knew so much.

  Scuff was not impressed. “Do yer? Yer don’ look ter me like yer know much at all. Yer in’t got them thieves yet, ’ave yer!” That was a challenge, not a question. “An’ don’ let ’em talk yer inter takin’ on the Fat Man. Nob’dy never done that an’ come out of it.” He looked anxious, his thin face pinched with anxiety.

  Perhaps it was enlightened self-interest, given all the hot pies they had shared, but Monk still felt a twist of pleasure inside him, and guilt. “Actually I’ve been busy on something else,” he answered, to divert Scuff’s attention. He and Orme had agreed on some preliminary plans, which Orme had been carrying out, but there was no point in frightening Scuff needlessly. “Right now I’m busy trying to find out about a man who was killed just over a couple of months ago.”

  “In’t yer a bit late?” Scuff was concerned, his young face puckered. Monk’s incompetence clearly puzzled and worried him. For some reason or other he seemed to feel responsible.

  Monk was both touched and stung. He found himself defending his position, trying to regain respect. “The police thought at the time that it was suicide,” he explained. “Then his daughter fell off the bridge, and that was my case. In looking back at that, I found out about the father, and it began to look as if it wasn’t suicide after all.”

  “Wotcher mean, fell orff the bridge?” Scuff demanded. “Nobody falls orff bridges. Yer can’t. There’s rails an’ things. Someb’dy kill ’er too, or she jump?”

  “I’m not sure about that, either.” Monk smiled ruefully. “And I saw it happen. But when two people are struggling a distance away, in the half-light just before the lamps go on, it’s difficult to tell.”

  “But ’er pa were killed by someone else?” Scuff persisted.

  “Yes. The man was seen leaving. I know pretty well what he looks like, and that he went east beyond Piccadilly.”

  Scuff let out a sigh of despair. “That all yer got? I dunno wot ter do wi’ yer!” He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  Monk hid his smile with difficulty. Scuff had apparently adopted him, and felt every parent’s exasperation with an impossible child. Monk found himself ridiculously caught in an emotion that all but choked him. “Well, you might give me a little advice,” he suggested tactfully.

  “Forget about it,” Scuff replied.

  “You won’t give me any advice?” Monk was surprised.

  Scuff gave him a widening look. “That’s me advice! Yer in’t gonna find ’im.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m going to try,” Monk said firmly. “He murdered a man and made it look like suicide, so the man was buried outside Christian ground, and all his family believed he was a coward and a sinner. It nearly broke his younger daughter’s heart, so she spent all her time trying to prove that it wasn’t so. And now it looks as if she might have been killed for it too. Only they buried her outside Christian ground as well, and marked her as a suicide.”

  Scuff skipped a step or two to keep up with Monk. “Yer daft, you are.” But there was admiration in his voice. “Well, if you won’t be told, I s’pose I’d better ’elp yer. Wot’s ’e like, this man wot killed the girl’s pa?”

  Monk thought for a moment. What risk was there in telling Scuff? If he kept it vague, none at all. “Thin, dark hair,” he replied.

  Scuff looked at him, his eyes hurt, his mouth pinched. “Yer don’ trust me,” he accused.

  Monk felt a twist of guilt knot inside him. How could he undo the insult, the rejection? “I don’t want you to get involved,” he admitted. “If he kills people for money, he won’t think twice about getting rid of you if you get anywhere near him.”

  “Me?” Scuff was indignant. “I’m not ’alf as green as you are! I can look arter meself! Yer don’ think I got no brains!”

  “I think you’ve got plenty of brains—quite enough to get close to him and get hurt!” Monk retorted. “Leave it alone, Scuff! It’s police business. And you’re right,” he added. “I’ll probably never find him. But it’s the man who paid him I want most.”

  Scuff walked in silence for fifty yards or so. They crossed the road and started along the next stretch.

  “Will they bury that girl proper then?” he asked finally.

  “I’ll see that they do,” Monk answered, pleased that Scuff had seen the heart of the matter so quickly. “I’m cold. Do you want a hot drink?”

  “Don’ mind if I do,” Scuff said, but grudgingly. He was still hurt. “If this man weren’t killed on the river, why in’t the reg’lar rozzers doin’ it?”

  “They are, as well.” They turned the corner, away from the river and out of the worst of the wind. The pavements were slick with ice. A coal cart rattled sharply over the stones, the horse’s breath steam in the air.

  “S’pose yer don’ trust ’em neither,” Scuff said dourly.

  “It isn’t a matter of trust,” Monk told him. “We need all the help we can find. We’re searching for one man in all London, who makes a living killing people! I know what he looks like, but that’s all. He shot one man and caused the death of the man’s daughter. An innocent man may go to prison for the murder, and the one who paid him is going to get away with it. Worse than that, we’ll never prove the real reason for it, and there could be a cave-in in one of the new sewer tunnels that would kill scores of men. So no matter how difficult it is, I’ve got to try. Now, let’s get a hot cup of tea and a hot pie each, and stop sulking!”

  Scuff digested that in silence for a few minutes as they walked.

  “Don’ yer know nothin’ ’cept ’e’s thin an’ got black ’air?” he asked finally, giving Monk a sunny smile. “Someb’dy saw ’im, so yer gotta know more’n that!”

  “He had a narrow nose and quite big eyes,” Monk replied. “Blue or gray. And his teeth were unusually pointed.”

  Scuff shrugged. “Oh, well, mebbe you’ll find suffink then. There’s a man wi’ real good pies round there, on the other side o’ the road.”

  “And tea?”

  Scuff rolled his eyes in exasperation. “O’ course ’e’s got tea! Pies in’t no good wi’out tea!”

  In the afternoon Monk went back to his river patrol duties, forcing the Havilland case and all its implications out of his mind. The thefts had to be dealt with. He owed that to Durban, but more than that, to Orme. There was also the question of Clacton. He was very well aware that he had dealt with him only temporarily. Clacton was watching, awaiting his chance to catch Monk in another wea
kness or error. It was about more than money. His own promotion? To please someone else? Simply to gain another commander, one he could manipulate more easily?

  The reason mattered little. It could not wait much longer. Orme, at least, was expecting him to act. Maybe they all were. Had Runcorn dreaded Monk the same way, as one of the burdens that comes with leadership, to be endured until it can be dealt with? He winced at the thought.

  The river was cold, the incoming tide swift and choppy, and he was kept very fully occupied dealing with a warehouse theft. At half past six it was solved and he stood alone on an old pier beyond King Edward’s Stairs. It was totally dark in the shelter of a half-burned warehouse. Across the water the shore lights glittered as the wind blurred them. Lightermen were calling out to each other below him on the river, gusts of wind snatching their voices and distorting their words.

  He heard the boat bump against the steps and someone’s feet climbing up, then Orme’s solid figure was silhouetted against the faint light on the water.

  Monk moved forward. “Found the cargo,” he said quietly. “Did you get the boat they used?”

  “Yes, sir. Butterworth’s gone to assist ’em now.” Orme paused, then said, “I ’ear as the Mets arrested Sixsmith. That true?” At Monk’s nod, he sighed. “Must say I believed it were Argyll. Not as clever as I thought I were.” His voice was rueful.

  “I thought it was Argyll too,” Monk agreed. “I still do.” He told Orme briefly of his intention to find the assassin.

  Orme was dubious. “Yer’ll be lucky ter see ’ide or ’air of ’im, Mr. Monk. But I’ll ’elp you all I can. If anyone’d know ’im, it’d be river men, or folks that live in the tunnels, or Jacob’s Island. ’E could be just a passing seaman, off to Burma, the fever jungles o’ Panama, or the Cape o’ Good ’Ope by now.”

  “He wasn’t a seaman,” Monk said with conviction. “Pale face, thin, and he used a gun. In fact, he used Havilland’s own gun. There was a good deal of careful planning in this. I think he kills for a living.”

  “There’s ’im as do,” Orme agreed.

  The subject turned to the careful laying of the trap that would not only catch the actual thieves on the passenger boats, but would lead, with proof, to the hand behind them. Monk and Orme sincerely hoped that that was the Fat Man.

  “It’ll be dangerous,” Orme warned. “It could turn ugly.”

  Monk smiled. “Yes, I’m sure it could. There’s been something ugly about it from the beginning.”

  Monk expected Orme to respond, perhaps to deny it, but he remained silent. Why? Did he not understand what Monk was alluding to, or did he already know the answer? Why should he trust Monk, a newcomer to the river police? He barely knew him. They had never faced a real danger together—nothing more than choppy weather, the odd barge out of control, or night work, when a ship in the dark could be lethal. It was not enough to test a man’s courage or loyalty to his fellows. Trust needed to be earned, and only a fool placed his life in another man’s hands blindly.

  Or was he protecting someone? Could he want Monk to fail, spectacularly, so Orme could take his place? Orme deserved it. The men trusted him. Durban had. Which brought Monk back to the old question: Why had Durban recommended Monk for the post? It made no sense, and standing here in the dark on the windy embankment with the constant slap of the water against the stones, he felt as exposed as if he had been naked in the lights.

  Still he asked the question. “Who put out the word that we are corrupt? It came from someone.”

  “I dunno, sir.” Orme’s voice was low and hard. “But certain as death, I mean ter find out.”

  They heard the boat bump against the steps. It was time to go on patrol. Neither said anything more. The plan would begin the following afternoon. There was much to go over and prepare before then.

  In order to catch the Fat Man himself they needed the thieves to steal one article of such value that they could neither divide it, as they would a haul of money, nor break it up, as they would a piece of jewelry, selling the separate stones. It had to be something that was of worth only if it remained whole, yet too specialized and too valuable to sell themselves.

  Monk and Orme had obtained Farnham’s permission to borrow an exquisite carving of ivory and gold. Intact, it was worth a fortune; broken, its only value was in the weight of the gold, which wasn’t much. Even at a glance, a pickpocket would know that such a carving, in good condition, was worth enough to keep him for a decade, if fenced successfully.

  Farnham had insisted that Monk himself carry it.

  “You can look the part,” he said with a curl of his mouth as he passed over the figure, wrapped in a soft chamois leather cloth. He surveyed Monk’s beautifully cut jacket and white shirt with its silk cravat, and then his trousers and polished boots. Such clothes were a legacy from Monk’s earlier years, before the accident, when most of his money went to his tailor. They were not the fashion of a season, as a woman’s gown would have been, but timeless elegance. They spoke of old money, the kind of taste that is innate, not put on to impress others. Farnham might not have been able to describe it, but he knew what it meant. It was inappropriate in a subordinate, which was why Farnham’s smile troubled Monk. He remembered how Runcorn had hated his attire, and it made him even more uneasy.

  “Thank you, sir.” He took the carving and slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. It made a slight bump, pulling it out of shape.

  “Take care of it, Monk,” Farnham warned. “The River Police will go out of business if you lose that! With the word going around now, no one will believe we didn’t take it ourselves.”

  Monk felt odd. Was he walking straight into a trap, knowing it and yet still stupid enough to step in? Or caught tightly enough to have no choice?

  “Yes, sir.” His voice was rasping, as if the night air off the river had caught in his throat already.

  “Orme will give you a cutlass later,” Farnham added. “Can’t let you have a weapon yet. Even a knife a thief would feel and know there was something wrong. It’s a shame. Leaves you a bit vulnerable, but can’t be helped.” He was still smiling, thin-lipped, barely showing his teeth.

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” Monk turned and left, going to the outer room where the other men were waiting. Two of them were dressed as passengers, in order to keep a firsthand watch on the thieves. The rest were to remain in their own police boats close at hand, so they could follow anyone easily if they were to escape by water.

  Orme nodded and signaled the men to go. Monk noticed with a chill and an anxious dryness in his mouth that they all carried cutlasses in their belts. Three of them carried extra weapons as well, to arm those who were disguised, should the whole operation end in violence. Monk had no idea if he had ever fought hand to hand in his years before the accident, and certainly he had not since then. He was a detective, not a uniformed officer. It was too late now to wonder if he was up to it—strong enough, quick enough, even if he had any skill with a cutlass.

  He followed the men out into the hard, cold wind. Each was prepared, knowing his duty, the main plan, and the contingency. There was nothing more to say.

  Outside on the quay, Orme divided his armed men into three boats, and they pulled out and headed upriver. Monk and the two others who were dressed as passengers took a hansom up to Westminster, where they boarded the next ferry down towards Greenwich.

  The tide was slack, but the wind was raw. As they pulled out into the river, Monk was glad to go with the other passengers below deck into the cramped cabin, where there was some shelter. There were at least fifty other people on board: men and women and several children. Everyone was wrapped up in winter coats that offered a host of places easy enough to hide the proceeds from picked pockets. One obese gentleman wore a fur-collared coat that flapped as he walked. He could have hidden half a dozen one-pound bags of sugar without causing any further bulges on his person.

  A thin woman with voluminous shawls scolded three
children who trailed after her. She looked like an ordinary housewife, but Monk knew perfectly well that she could also be a passer of stolen goods, one to whom the pickpocket gave them until he was safely free of suspicion and could take them back. She would get her cut, in time.

  The plan was that if no one robbed him on the way down to Greenwich, he was to meet with one of the other policemen who was dressed as a passenger and show him the carving, as if intending to sell it to him. The policeman would pretend to decline and Monk would return to Westminster. He refused even to imagine the possibility of the thieves taking it and not being caught. On the other hand, if they were arrested too soon, then the whole operation was abortive. The police would have the thief—the fingers of the crime—but not the brain or the heart.

  A man bumped against him, apologized, and moved on.

  Monk’s hands went to his pocket. The carving was still there.

  It happened again, and again. He was so nervous his fingers were stiff and trembling.

  Butterworth bumped into him and apologized, using the password to let him know that he had been robbed. Why was the carving not gone? Without the theft they would not need to find the Fat Man.

  They were past the Surrey Docks and heading down the Limehouse Reach.

  Ten minutes later Monk’s pocket was empty, and he had not even felt it. Panic broke over him in a wave, the sweat hot and then cold on his skin. He had no idea who had taken it, not even whether it was man or woman. He spun around. Where was Butterworth?

  “Thin man, mustache, sad face like a rat,” Constable Jones said almost at his elbow. “Over there, by the way up to the deck.”

  Monk found himself gasping with relief, barely able to draw enough air into his lungs. Should he say he knew who had taken the statue? The lie died on his lips. Jones would see in his reaction that he had not. “Thank you,” he said instead. “He’s the one we have to watch, never mind the others.”