Anne Perry - Dark Assassin

"I have considered it, naturally, wondering if there was something I should have seen," Cardman admitted. He had the air of a man who has lived through a nightmare. "He seemed preoccupied, as if he was expecting something to happen, but in all honesty, I thought then that it was an irritation that plagued him, not a despair."

"Irritation?" Monk pressed. "Anger?"

Cardman frowned. "I would not have put it as strongly as that, sir. Rather more as if an old friend had disappointed him, or something was wearisome. I formed the opinion it was a familiar problem rather than a new one. He certainly did not seem afraid or desperate."

"So you were shocked the next morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Miss Mary?"

Cardman's face was pinched and his eyes were bright with tears he could not allow himself to shed. "I've never seen anyone more deeply hurt, sir. Mrs. Kittredge, the housekeeper, feared Miss Mary might meet her own death, she was so beside herself with grief. She refused to believe that he could have done it himself."

Monk refused to picture Mary Havilland's face. What in heaven's name had driven Havilland to do this to his daughter? At least with Hester's father it was the only way for him to answer the shame that had been placed upon him, through his own goodness of heart. He had been deceived, like so many others. He had considered death the only act left to an honorable man. What had Havilland feared or despaired of that had driven him to such an act?

"Why did she find it so hard to believe?" he said, more sharply than he had meant to.

Cardman started with surprise at the emotion in Monk's voice. "There was no reason," he said gravely. "That is why Miss Mary believed he had been murdered. More and more she became convinced that either he had found something in the tunneling works or he was about to, and for that he had been killed."

"What made her more convinced?" Monk said quickly. "Did something happen, or was it simply her need to clear her father of suicide?"

"If I knew, sir, I'd tell you," Cardman replied, looking directly into Monk's eyes. There was a kind of desperation in him, as if he was clinging to a last thread of hope too delicate to name. "Miss Mary read all through her father's papers, sat all day and up half the night. Over and over she searched them. Many's the time I'd go to his study and find her there at his desk, or fallen asleep in the big chair, one of his books open in her hands."

"What kind of book?" Monk did not know what he was looking for, but Cardman's emotion caught him also.

"Engineering," Cardman said, as if Monk should have understood.

Monk was puzzled. "Engineering, did you say?"

"Mr. Havilland was a senior engineer and surveyor for Mr. Argyll's company, until the day of his death. That's why they quarrelled. Mr. Argyll's company has never had a bad accident-in fact, they're better than most for safety-but Mr. Havilland believed it would happen."

"And he told Mr. Argyll?"

Cardman shifted position slightly.

"Yes, of course. But Mr. Argyll said it was just his feelings about being underground, closed in, as it were. Mr. Havilland was embarrassed to admit to them. Argyll as much as called him a coward, albeit politely. Of course he never used that word."

"Was that what Miss Havilland was doing also, enquiring into engineering, as regards the tunnels?"

"Yes, sir. I'm certain of it."

"But she found nothing, either?"

Cardman looked chagrined. "No, sir, not so far as I am aware."

"Did she continue to see Mr. Toby Argyll?"

"She broke off their agreement, but of course she still saw him socially now and then. She could hardly help it, since he was Miss Jennifer's brother-in-law, and the Argyll brothers were very close."

"Do you know Mrs. Argyll's feelings on the subject?" Monk asked. "She was surely caught in the middle of a most unfortunate development."

Cardman's lips pressed together before he spoke.

"She was loyal to her husband, sir. She was convinced that her father's fears had unbalanced his judgment, and she was annoyed with Miss Mary for pandering to him rather than encouraging him to abandon the matter." There was a wealth of anger and distress in his voice.

Monk was bitterly aware that the house in which Cardman lived was the center of a double disgrace, and there seemed no one left to care except the butler and the other servants for whom he was responsible.

"I see. Thank you very much for your honesty," Monk said, rising to his feet. "Just one more thing: Who investigated Mr. Havilland's death?"

"A Superintendent Runcorn," Cardman replied. "He was very civil about it, and seemed to be thorough. I cannot think of anything more that he could have done." He stood also.

Runcorn! That was the worst answer Cardman could have given. The past returned to Monk like a draft of cold air. How many times had he second-guessed Runcorn-gone over his work, corrected a flaw here and there, and altered the conclusion? It seemed as if he had always needed to prove himself the cleverer. Increasingly he disliked the man he had been then. The fact that he disliked Runcorn even more mitigated nothing.

"Mr. Argyll did not doubt the correctness of the verdict?" he asked aloud, his voice rasping with emotion.

"No, sir, just Miss Mary." Grief filled Cardman's face, and he seemed unashamed of it, as if at least in front of Monk he felt no need to mask it anymore. He swallowed hard. "Sir, I would be most grateful if you could inform us when… when she is… if Mrs. Argyll doesn't…" He did not know how to finish.

"I will make certain you are told," Monk said hoarsely. "But you might consider whether the female staff wish to attend. Burials can be… very arduous."

"You are telling me it will be in unhallowed ground. I know, sir. If Miss Mary was strong enough to go to her fathers burial, we can go to hers."

Monk nodded, tears in his throat, for Mary Havilland, for Hester's father, for uncounted people in despair.

Cardman saw him to the door in silent understanding.

Outside in the street Monk began to walk back down the hill towards Westminster Bridge. It would be the best place to catch a hansom, but he was in no hurry. He must face Runcorn in his own station and yet again challenge his judgment, but he was not ready to do it yet. Were it not for the thought of Mary Havilland buried in the grave of an outcast, her courage and loyalty to her father credited as no more than the dementia of a bereaved woman, he would have accepted the verdict and consider he had done all that duty required.

But he remembered her face, the white skin, the strong bones and the gentle mouth. She was a fighter who had been beaten. He refused to accept that she had surrendered. At least he could not yet.

He wanted to prepare what he would say to Runcorn, weigh his words to rob them of criticism, perhaps even gain his support. The wind was cold blowing up off the river, and the damp in it stung the flesh. It crept through the cracks between scarf and coat collar, and whipped trousers around the ankles. The magnificent Gothic lines of the Houses of Parliament stood on the far bank. Big Ben indicated that it was twenty minutes before eleven. He had been longer with Cardman than he had realized.

He hunched his shoulders and walked more rapidly along the footpath. Hansoms passed him, but they were all occupied. Should he have asked Cardman outright if he believed the Havillands had committed suicide? He thought the butler was a good judge of character, a strong man.

No. He was also loyal. Whatever he thought, he would not have told a stranger that both his master and then his mistress had committed such an act of cowardice before the law of man and of God. His own judgment might have been wiser and gentler, but he would not have left them open to the censure of the world.