Anne Perry - Dark Assassin

He would not correct himself and rephrase the question. He must retrieve the station another way. He turned to Butterworth. "Mr. Clacton seems unwilling to reveal their names. Friends of his, perhaps. Or informants. Perhaps you can be more enlightening?"

Clacton moved his mouth to protest, then looked at Monk's face and decided better of it.

"Yes, sir!" Butterworth said, barely concealing his smile. "No one else injured, sir, far as we know. No witnesses admittin', but we know 'oo they worked for. It was more likely personal. Been grumblin' on for a couple o' months since a scrap downriver a bit. Drink an' bad temper, most like."

"Do you expect any revenge?" Monk asked.

"No, sir, but we'll keep an eye."

"Good. Anything else?"

He dealt with a few other details and then the men went out- Butterworth with a grin, Clacton scowling, the other two noncommittal.

Monk found Orme in one of the small offices. He closed the door as Orme looked up from the ledger he was writing in. "Mornin', sir," he said, regarding Monk solemnly. "Got the doctors reports on Miss 'Avilland and Mr. Argyll. Nothin' we din't know about, 'ceptin' for sure she couldn't've bin with child. She was just like she should've bin. No man 'ad touched 'or." There was a deep sadness in his eyes. "They're gonna bury 'er this mornin'. 'Er sister din't even ask the church to 'elp, let alone give 'er a place. I s'pose she knows it din't do no good for 'er pa, poor soul."

Monk sat down at the other side of the small wooden table. Suddenly he felt sick. It was no use raging against the blindness, the arrogance to judge, or the lack of human pity that had ruled Mary unfit for a decent burial. None of it would do any good.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Where?"

"On the land outside St. Mary's Church on Princes Road. It's just opposite the Lambeth work'ouse." He added nothing, but his voice was thick and he lowered his eyes.

"Thank you," Monk repeated.

"Eleven o'clock," Orme added. "You'll 'ave time ter see Mr. Farnham an' then go."

"No, I won't-not if I go tell the butler and Superintendent Runcorn."

Orme looked at him gravely.

"Please tell Mr. Farnham I'll see him when I return."

"Yes, sir. Would that be Superintendent Runcorn o' the Metropolitan Police?"

"Yes. He was the one who investigated James Havilland's death." He told him what Runcorn had said, and about the superintendent's clear sadness over Mary's death as well, including his reluctance to believe it was suicide.

"But there weren't no doubt 'er father killed 'isself," Orme said quietly. His round blue eyes held no hope that Monk could be wrong, but he did not hide his disappointment.

"Couldn't find any," Monk admitted. "Except that she didn't believe it. She was certain that he was a fighter and would never have given up."

Orme's mouth tightened. "Well, she wouldn't easy think 'er own pa were the kind ter shoot 'isself, would she!" It was not a question. "Mebbe she 'eld out as long as she could, and when somethin' turned it fer 'er so she couldn't kid 'erself any longer, that was what broke 'er. Poor creature. Poor little soul."

"At the time, did you think she jumped?" Monk asked.

Orme blinked. "Funny way ter go over, backwards, like. But she was strugglin' wi' young Argyll. You mean was 'e tryin' to stop 'er, or ter make sure as she went? Why? 'Cos she turned 'im down? That's a bit…" He spread his hands, not able to find the right word.

"No," Monk said. "Because she was looking for the proof of danger that she thought her father was on the brink of finding."

"Why'd they do that? Seems daft. Nob'dy wants a cave-in," Orme pointed out. "Costs a fortune to repair. An' Argyll stands out as a man 'oo likes his pennies, every one of 'em."

"You think so?"

"Yes, Mr. Monk, I do. I done a bit of askin' about 'im. Just 'cos o' that poor girl. Does very well fer 'isself, Mr. Argyll, but all proper and careful."

"You found nothing ugly?"

"No. An I looked." He did not need to explain why. "Yer gonna go on a bit longer, sir?"

"A bit." Monk forced himself to trust Orme, hoping he was not going to regret it later. Orme might even prefer not to know the reason Monk was going to continue; keeping the distance between them might be more comfortable. But Monk disregarded it. "My wife was approached by someone concerned about the chances of a really bad cave-in." Orme did not need to know about Hester's involvement with the clinic at Port-pool Lane, or that the friend was a ratcatcher. "He took her to see one of the big tunnels, very deep. The man knew all the underground rivers and wells, and he's afraid the tunnelers are going too fast."

Orme was watching him with anxiety now, his attention complete.

"She promised to help if she could," Monk went on. "She found the member of Parliament chiefly concerned, and went to see him." He ignored Orme's amazement. "It seems Mary Havilland had been there already and had impressed both him and his wife most favorably. They were distressed about her death and keen to do all they can to assist in reform, if anyone can find proof that there is a real danger."

"Well, well." Orme sat back in his chair. "So she was really doin' summink." His face filled with a sudden pity so sharp he became conscious of it. He blinked and turned away, as if needing to shelter himself from Monk's eyes.

"I'm going to pursue it at least another day or two," Monk said tersely. "See if I can find out exactly what Havilland was looking at, and what he found. I need to know if it was real, or just his own fear of being closed in."

Orme nodded. "Mr. Farnham isn't going to like it," he warned. " 'E likes ter be tellin' us what ter do, an' there's plenty o' theft, same as always. All this diggin' o' new sewers an' tunnels is makin' folks restive. So many navvies around's makin' it 'arder ter move stolen goods, too. The Fat Man's one o' the biggest fencers o' the good stuff-jewelry, gold, ivory, silks, an' the like. 'E's un'appy with so much comin' an' goin'."

"I know."

"Jus' sayin'," Orme replied.

"Thank you. Theft is important, but murder, if it is murder, is more so."

Orme gave a little downward smile. " 'E won't say it's murder. An it's the people 'oo're stole from 'oo run the river. That's where the money is."

"You're a wise man," Monk conceded. "Remind me of that again in a day or two. Meantime, it's dead women like Mary Havilland to whom we owe justice as well."

Monk took a hansom to the burial and picked up both Runcorn and Cardman. They rode in silence to the church. They were early, but it seemed appropriate to stand on the short strip of withered grass and wait, three men united in anger and grief for a woman one had known all her life, one only the last two months of it, and the third not at all.

They stood stiff in the icy wind, each in his thoughts, oblivious of the traffic or the bulk of the workhouse black against a leaden sky.

The gravediggers had done their job; the earth gaped open. The small cortege was led by the minister, whose unsmiling countenance was like the face of doom, followed by Jenny Argyll in unrelieved black and so heavily veiled her face was invisible. Monk knew her only because it could be no one else with Alan Argyll, although she took no notice of him at all, nor he of her. They looked as isolated as if the other were not there.

Was Argyll thinking only of his dead brother? The bitterness in his face suggested it.

There was no service, nothing said of the hope of resurrection. It was without mercy. The wind whipped the mens' coattails, and the ice it carried stung the bare skin of their cheeks, making them red in contrast with white lips and hollow eyes. Monk looked once each at Runcorn and Cardman, then did not intrude further on their bereavement.

Monk turned to the minister and wondered what manner of God he believed in, whether he did this willingly or under protest because he had a wire and children to feed. Monk was overwhelmingly grateful that his own faith was not hostage to financial need, his own or anyone else's. He should pity the man his bondage, and yet there were no questions in the ministers face.