The Dark Assassin (3 page)

Monk could
remember the Great Stink of '58 very clearly, when the overflow of effluent had
been so serious the entire city of London became like a vast open sewer. The
Thames had smelled so vile it choked the throat and caused nausea simply to
come within a mile of it.

The new sewer
system was to be the most advanced in Europe. It would cost a fortune and
provide work, and wealth, for thousands, tens of thousands if one considered
all the navvies, brick makers, and railwaymen involved, the builders,
carpenters, and suppliers of one sort or another. Most of the sewers were to be
built by the open cut-and-cover method, but a few were deep enough to require
tunneling.

"So Mr.
Argyll was a wealthy young man?"

"Oh,
yes." She straightened up a little. "This is a very nice class o'
place, Mr. Monk. Don't live 'ere cheap, yer know."

"And Miss
Havilland?" he asked.

"Oh, she
were quality, too, poor creature," she responded immediately. "A real
lady she were, even with 'er opinions. I never disagreed wi' airin' opinions,
meself, fer all as some might say it weren't proper for a young lady."

Having married a
woman with passionate opinions about a number of things, Monk could not argue.
In fact, he suddenly saw not Mary Havilland as she was now, white-faced in
death, but instead the slender, fierce, and vulnerable figure of Hester, with
her shoulders a little too thin, her slight angularity, brown hair, and eyes of
such passionate intelligence that he had never been able to forget them since
the day they had met- and quarrelled.

He found his
voice husky when he spoke again. "Do you know why she broke off the
relationship, Mrs. Porter? Or was it perhaps a generous fiction Mr. Argyll allowed,
and it was actually he who ended it?"

"No, it
were 'er," she said without hesitation. " 'E were upset an' 'e tried
to change 'er mind." She sniffed again. "I never thought as it'd come
to this."

"We don't
know what happened yet," he said. "But thank you for your assistance.
Can you give us Mr. Argyll's brothers address? We need to inform him of what
has happened. I don't suppose you know who Miss Havilland s nearest relative
would be? Her parents, I expect."

"I wouldn't
know that, sir. But I can give you Mr. Argyll's address all right, no bother.
Poor man's goin' to be beside 'isself. Very close, they was."

Alan Argyll
lived a short distance away, on Westminster Bridge Road, and it took Monk and
Orme only ten minutes or so to walk to the handsome house at the address Mrs.
Porter had given them. The curtains were drawn against the early winter night,
but the gas lamps in the street showed the elegant line of the windows and the
stone steps up to a wide, carved doorway, where the faint gleam of brass
indicated the lion-headed knocker.

Orme looked at
Monk but said nothing. Breaking such news to family was immeasurably worse than
to a landlady, however sympathetic. Monk nodded very slightly, but there was
nothing to say. Orme worked on the river; he was used to death.

The door was
answered by a short, portly butler, his white hair thinning across the top of
his head. From his steady, unsurprised gaze, he clearly took them to be
business acquaintances of his master.

"Mr. Argyll
is at dinner, sir," he said to Monk. "If you care to wait in the
morning room I am sure he will see you in due course."

"We are
from the Thames River Police," Monk told him, having given only his name
at first. "I am afraid we have bad news that cannot wait. It might be
advisable to have a glass of brandy ready, in case it is needed. I'm
sorry."

The butler
hesitated. "Indeed, sir. May I ask what has happened? Is it one of the
tunnels, sir? It's very sad, but such things seem to be unavoidable."

Monk was aware
that such mighty excavations as were at present in progress brought the
occasional landslip or even cave-in of the sides, burying machines and
sometimes injuring men. There had been a spectacular disaster over the Fleet
only days ago.

"Quite
so," he agreed. "But this happened on the river, and I am afraid it
is bad personal news for Mr. Argyll. He needs to be informed as soon as
possible."

"Oh,
dear," the butler said quietly. "How very terrible. Yes, sir."
He took a deep breath and let it out silently. "If you will come to the
morning room, I shall bring Mr. Argyll to you."

The morning room
was very somber, in shades of browns and golds. The fire had been allowed to go
out, but it was now well into the evening, and presumably the room would not
normally be used at this hour. Monk and Orme stood in the center of the
Aubusson carpet, waiting. Neither of them spoke. Monk noted the picture of
Highland scenery over the mantelshelf and the small stuffed rodent in a glass
case on the table by the wall. They were self-conscious suggestions that
Argyll's wealth was old money, which brought to his mind that therefore it was
probably not.

The door swung
open and Alan Argyll stood in the entrance, pale-faced, his eyes dark in the
lamplight. He was of more than average height, and lean with a suggestion of
physical as well as mental power. His features were well-proportioned, but
there was a coldness in them as if he did not laugh easily.

Monk took a step
forward. "My name is William Monk, of the Thames River Police, sir. This
is Sergeant Orme. I am deeply sorry to tell you that your brother, Mr. Toby
Argyll, fell off the Westminster Bridge earlier this evening, and although we
reached him within a few minutes, he was already dead."

Argyll stared at
him, swaying a little as if he had been struck. "You were there? Why in
God's name didn't you ..." He gasped, finding it difficult to catch his
breath. He looked as if he was on the edge of collapse.

"We were in
a boat on patrol on the river," Monk answered. "I'm sorry, sir; there
was nothing anyone could have done. In such circumstances, a man drowns very
quickly. I think he probably felt nothing at all. I know that is little
comfort, but it may help in time."

"He was
twenty-nine!" Argyll shouted at him. He came further into the room and the
light shone on his face. Monk could not help seeing the resemblance to his
brother: the line of his mouth, the color of his well-shaped eyes, the way his
hair grew. "How do you fall off a bridge?" he demanded. "Was there
a crime, and you're not telling me? Was he attacked?" Rage flared in his
voice and his fists clenched.

"He wasn't
alone," Monk said quickly, before Argyll should lose control. Grief he was
used to, even anger, but there was a thread of violence just under the surface
in this man that was fast unraveling. "A young woman named Mary Havilland
was with him...."

Argyll's eyes
flew wide open. "Mary? Where is she? Is she all right? What happened? What
are you not telling me, man? Don't just stand there like an idiot! This is my
family you're talking about." Again the fists were tight, skin on his
knuckles stretched pale across the bone.

"I'm sorry,
Miss Havilland went over with him," Monk said grimly. "They went over
holding on to each other."

"What are
you saying?" Argyll demanded.

"That they
both went over, sir," Monk repeated. "They were standing together by
the railing, having what appeared to be a heated discussion. We were too far
away to hear. The next time we looked they were at the railing, and the moment
after, they overbalanced and fell."

"You saw a
man and woman struggling and you looked away?" Argyll said incredulously,
his voice high-pitched. "What at, for God's sake? What else could possibly
be-"

"We were on
patrol," Monk cut across him. "We watch the whole river. We wouldn't
even have seen that much had they not been so close to the rail. It appeared an
ordinary conversation, perhaps a lovers' quarrel then made up again. If we'd
have continued watching, it could have been intrusive."

Argyll stood motionless,
blinking. "Yes," he said at last. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry.
Toby ... Toby was my only relative. At least..." He ran his hand over his
face almost as if to steady himself, somehow clear his vision. "My wife.
You say Mary Havilland is dead also?"

"Yes. I'm
sorry. I believe she was close to your brother."

"Close!"
Argyll's voice rose again dangerously, a note of hysteria in it. "She was
my sister-in-law. Toby was betrothed to her, at least they were going to be.
She ... she called it off. She was very disturbed...."

Monk was
confused. "She would have been your sister-in-law?"

"No! She
was. Mary was my wife's sister," Argyll said with a small, indrawn breath.
"My wife will be . . . devastated. We were hoping . . ." He stopped
again.

Monk needed to
prompt him, painful as it must be for him to answer further questions. This was
an unguarded moment when he might reveal a truth that later he would, for
decency or compassion's sake, have covered. Based on the landlady's words, Mary
was a woman of spirit who had passionate opinions.

"Yes, sir?
You were hoping ... ?" he prompted.

"Oh,"
Argyll sighed, and looked away. He fumbled towards a chair and sat down
heavily. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, considerably older than his
brother. But that bore out what Mrs. Porter had said.

Monk sat as
well, to put himself on a level with Argyll. Orme remained standing,
discreetly, a couple of yards away.

Argyll looked at
Monk. "Mary's father took his own life almost two months ago," he
said quietly. "It was very distressing. Actually both Mary and Jenny, my
wife, were bitterly grieved. Their mother had died many years before, and this
was a terrible blow. My wife bore it with great fortitude, but Mary seemed to
lose her... her mental balance. She refused to accept that it was indeed
suicide, even thought the police investigated it, naturally, and that was their
finding. We... we were hoping she was..."

"I'm
sorry." Monk found he meant it with savage honesty. He imagined Mary as
she must have been when she was alive, the pale, river-wet face animated with
emotion, anger, amazement, grief. "That's a very hard thing for anyone to
bear." Like a physical blow, he remembered that Hester's father had also
taken his own life, and the pain of it was close and real in a way that no
power of words alone could have given.

Argyll looked at
him with surprise, as if he had heard the emotion through the polite phrases.
"Yes. Yes, it is." It was clear he had not expected Monk to allow his
feelings to show. "I... I don't know how poor Jenny will deal with this.
It's .. ." He failed to find the words for what he was struggling to say,
perhaps even to himself.

"Would it
be easier for Mrs. Argyll if we were here, so that she could ask us any
questions she wishes to?" Monk asked. "Or would you prefer to tell
her privately?"

Argyll
hesitated. He seemed torn by a genuine indecision.

Monk waited. The
clock on the mantel struck the quarter hour; otherwise there was silence.

"Perhaps I
should not deny her the chance to speak with you," Argyll said at last.
"If you will excuse me, I shall inform her alone, and then see what she
wishes." He took Monk's acquiescence for granted and rose to his feet. He
walked out of the room a little unsteadily, only saving himself from bumping
into the doorjamb at the last moment, and leaving the door itself gaping open.

"Poor
man," Orme said softly. "Wish we could tell 'im it were an
accident." He looked at Monk with a question in his eyes.

"So do
I," Monk agreed. It began to look as if Mary Havilland had at least
temporarily lost her mental balance, but he did not want to say so, even to
Orme.

The butler came
in and stood like a black shadow just inside the door.

"Mrs.
Argyll asked me to see if there is anything I could bring for you gentlemen.
Perhaps a glass of"-he considered-"ale?" He was not going to
offer them a glass of good sherry they would not appreciate, and certainly not
the best brandy.

Monk realized
how achingly hungry he was. Orme must be also. Perhaps that was at least in
part why he was still cold.

"Thank
you," he accepted. "We've come straight from the river. A sandwich
and a glass of ale would be very gracious of you."

The butler
looked faintly uncomfortable, as if realizing he should have thought of it
himself "Immediately, sir," he acknowledged. "Would cold roast
beef and a spot of mustard be right?"

"It would
be perfect," Monk answered.

Orme thanked him
warmly as soon as the door was closed. " 'Ope it comes afore Mr. Argyll
gets back," he added. "Wouldn't be decent to eat it in front of 'im,
specially if Mrs. Argyll comes too. Don't reckon as she will, though. Most
ladies take bad news 'ard."

The sandwiches
arrived and were consumed ravenously, just before Argyll returned. But Orme was
mistaken in his second guess: Jenny Argyll chose to see them. She came in ahead
of her husband, a handsome woman with eyes and mouth startlingly like those of
her dead sister, but darker hair and not the same high cheekbones. Now she too
was bleached of color and her eyelids were puffy from weeping, but she was
remarkably well composed, given the circumstances. She was wearing a dark red
woollen dress with a wide skirt and her hair was elaborately coiffed in a style
that must have taken her lady's maid at least half an hour to accomplish. She
regarded Monk with civility but no interest at all.