Dark Assassin Page 12

  “If she didn’t take her own life, Mrs. Plimpton, what do you think happened?” he asked. He said it gently, letting her know he took her opinion seriously.

  She looked back. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her nose pink.

  “I think she found out ’oo sent that letter to ’er father lurin’ ’im inter the stable ter be shot,” she said defiantly. “The master’d never ’ave shot ’isself, any more’n she’d go jumpin’ off bridges.” She took a deep breath. “An’ don’t yer go sittin’ there eatin’ my cake an’ tellin’ me as they would.”

  He was startled. No one else had spoken of a letter.

  “What letter, Mrs. Plimpton?” he said quietly, controlling the urgency in his voice with an effort.

  “Letter as come ter ’im the night ’e died,” she answered.

  “Mr. Cardman didn’t mention it.”

  “ ’Cos ’e didn’t know,” she replied reasonably, automatically refilling his cup from the big brown teapot. “It came ter the back door an’ Lettie took it to ’im. We didn’t find it after, so I s’pose ’e didn’t keep it. But it was right after that that ’e told Mr. Cardman as ’e’d decided ter sit up, an’ no one was ter bother waitin’ fer ’im. ’E’d lock up ’isself. It were somebody as was goin’ ter meet ’im, I’d set me life on it!” She drew in her breath in a little gasp, as if realizing suddenly that she was right: Havilland had done just that, and lost his life.

  “You are quite sure?”

  “Course I am!” She was shaking now, but her eyes did not waver.

  “May I speak to Lettie?” Monk asked.

  “Yer think I’m makin’ it up!” she accused him, her face pinched, her breathing heavy.

  “No, I don’t,” he assured her. “If I did, there would be no point in my speaking to Lettie, would there? I want to see what she remembers of it: paper, ink, handwriting. I’d like to know if she saw Mr. Havilland open it, and how he reacted. Was he surprised, afraid, alarmed, or excited, even pleased? Was he expecting it or not?”

  “Oh…yes. Well!” She could not bring herself to apologize, but she pushed the cake plate across the table to him. “Well, I’ll send for Lettie.” She walked to the door and called the kitchen maid to fetch the house-maid.

  Lettie appeared and answered his questions. She was about fifteen and stood in front of him twisting her fingers in her apron. She could not read, and had no idea about the paper or the writing, but she remembered quite clearly that Mr. Havilland was both surprised and disturbed by the letter. After reading it he had put it straight into the fire and then told her to send Cardman to him. He had written no reply.

  “Have you any idea whom the letter was from?” he asked.

  “No, sir, I ain’t.”

  “What did he say, as clearly as you can remember?”

  “Ter send Mr. Cardman straightaway, sir.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you ever seen the handwriting before?”

  “I dunno, sir. I din’t never look.”

  Monk thanked her and Mrs. Plimpton. He left the house through the scullery door and the tradesman’s yard, heading past the coal and coke sheds and up the area steps into the bitter wind slicing down the street. Who had written to Havilland, disturbing him so much? Was it to arrange a meeting in the stables that evening, or something completely different? Certainly Havilland had dismissed the servants immediately after receiving it, and apparently decided not to retire as normal. It would even explain his presence in the stables. But whom would he meet in such a place on a winter night, rather than in his house, where it was warm and dry, but presumably less private?

  Why would he need such extraordinary privacy? Was his own study not sufficiently discreet, with the servants in bed, and presumably Mary also? Had he taken the gun in order to protect himself, expecting an attack? Why? From whom? Perhaps Mary Havilland had been right. If so, then certainly she also would have been killed deliberately, and it could have been only by Toby Argyll.

  It was now impossible to turn his back on the chance that Mr. Havilland had found some real danger in the tunnels and been murdered to silence him before he could ruin the Argylls’ business by making it public.

  But the visitor had then taken the gun from him and shot him with it. A man younger and stronger, more ruthless, and with the element of surprise? Havilland was frightened, but he had come essentially to talk. The other man had come intending to kill.

  Alan Argyll?

  And was that what Mary learned, and why Toby Argyll had killed her, too?

  He bent forward into the wind, feeling the ice in it sting his face. He began to walk a little faster.

  FIVE

  When Monk arrived home that evening Hester could see that he was in some mental turmoil. He was shivering from the river crossing, and he concentrated on warming at least his hands and feet before he even attempted to say anything beyond a greeting. He ate the bowl of soup she brought him, and gradually he stopped shaking.

  She wondered yet again if they would have been wiser to have found a house on the northern bank of the Thames, even if the area was less to their liking.

  When she had gone to Portpool Lane she had taken the omnibus westwards and over whichever of the bridges was appropriate, but since they were directly opposite Wapping, it made sense for Monk to cross by ferry and be at the police station in fifteen minutes or so. Sometimes the patrol boat picked him up directly from the steps.

  But the cold was intense, and on a night like this, with its drifting sleet, she wished profoundly he did not have to be on the open water.

  She sat opposite him, looking at the red glow of the fire on his face, the soup bowl in his hands, and wondered if it had been a good idea for him to join a regular force again. She had offered to apply for a regular nursing job at one of the big hospitals, even though nursing in those circumstances was actually almost nothing to do with the care of patients. One was rather more like a domestic servant in circumstances where a usual household maid would refuse to go.

  She had tried it, before their marriage, and it had made her full of zeal to reform the practice of hospital nursing after her experience in the Crimea. She had failed spectacularly, very nearly incurring legal action against herself for insubordination, and worse. But still she would have swallowed her pride and applied again if it would have helped. Monk had refused outright.

  Now she looked at him relaxing at last in the chair opposite her, and worried that he was finding the obedience to authority harder than he had expected, and the restrictions and demands of leadership too cramping to both his nature and his abilities. She was trying to think of the words to ask him when he spoke.

  “Sixsmith, who’s in charge of the practical side of the tunneling, is certain that Havilland committed suicide when he couldn’t cope with the claustrophobia of working underground,” he said, watching her face.

  She felt herself tighten, ready to argue, but kept her temper, waiting for what else he would say.

  He smiled slightly, just an easing of the tiredness in him. “I went back to the Havilland house and spoke to the cook and one of the maids,” he went on. “They said Havilland received a note that night, hand-delivered to the back door. As soon as he read it he burnt it, and then told the butler to go to bed and he would lock up himself.”

  “He was going to meet someone in the stable!” she said instantly, sitting upright and staring at him. “Whom?”

  He looked rueful. “They had no idea. The envelope had only his name on it. The cook saw it briefly, and the maid who carried it doesn’t read.”

  “Well, who could it be?” she said eagerly. At last there was something to grasp hold of. She felt a surge of hope, which was absurd. It should not matter to her so much. She had never known Mary Havilland. She might not have liked her in the least if she had. She was remembering her own grief, the feeling of having been bruised all over, stunned by confusion, when she had first stood on the dockside at S
cutari and read the letter from her brother, telling her of her father’s suicide, and then her mother’s death from what was termed a broken heart. She could not help imagining Mary Havilland feeling the same searing pain.

  Except that Hester had believed it and Mary had not. Had Mary been wrong, making it harder for herself, and for her sister, by refusing to accept the inevitable? “Who could it be?” she repeated.

  Monk was watching her, his eyes soft with knowledge of her pain.

  “I don’t know, except that since he immediately made arrangements to meet the person, it must have been either someone he knew or at the least someone he was not surprised to hear from. Nor did he seem to need to answer it, so whoever it was knew he would come.”

  “You must find out!” she said unhesitatingly.

  It was unreasonable, and she knew it as she spoke, but he did not argue. Was that for her? Or was the anger at his loss, the sense of incompleteness, still raw inside him, too? Or worse, was it the challenge that he must be perfect at his new job, equal to his own vision of what Durban would have done?

  “William…,” she started.

  “I know.” He smiled.

  “Do you?” she asked doubtfully.

  His eyes were gentle, amused. “Yes.”

  However, in the morning Hester set out on her own path towards learning what she hoped would be both more about Mary Havilland, and something to further the cause in which she had promised to help Sutton.

  First she called at the clinic in Portpool Lane to complete the books and ledgers and pass them to Margaret.

  “That’s complete and up to date,” she said when she’d finished, suddenly finding it difficult to hide her emotion. She was going to miss the work, the struggles and victories, and most of all the people. The sense of loss was even worse than she had expected.

  Margaret was looking at her, aware for the first time that there was something new and harsh still unsaid. “What is it, Hester?” Her voice was so gentle it brought Hester to the edge of tears.

  How much could she say that it was Monk and not she who was forcing this decision?

  “I have agreed to stay at home for a while,” she began. “William’s new job is…different.” She swallowed hard. “You’re managing very well now. Claudine is excellent, and Bessie. I could never raise money as you do.”

  Margaret looked stunned. “A while? How long a while?” She bit her lip. “You mean always, don’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  Margaret stepped forward and put her arms around Hester, hugging her tightly. She did not say anything. It was as if she understood. Perhaps, knowing Monk and remembering last year, she did.

  Hester did not want to say good-bye to Bessie and the others girls, especially Claudine, but it would have been cowardly not to. She promised to call in occasionally, and she would keep her word. Monk could not object to that.

  She left into the cold, sharp morning again, not as confident or light of foot as she had come. That was foolish, even vain. She must shake herself out of it.

  She arrived at the Applegates’ house still a little early for the most civil calls, especially to someone she barely knew. However, she had been in the morning room only a matter of minutes when Rose Applegate came sweeping in. She was dressed extremely elegantly, as if she was expecting important company. Hester’s heart sank. Perhaps Rose’s original enthusiasm was more an intention of kindness than a real desire to become involved, and Hester had misread it because she wanted to. Certainly Rose’s high-necked gown with its gorgeous lace collar and tiny velvet bows on the skirt was up-to-the-minute fashion. By comparison she herself was dowdy. She was acutely aware of the social gulf between them. It seemed at the moment an uncrossable abyss.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Monk,” Rose greeted her, her curious face alight with pleasure. “Has there been news? Is there something we can do?” Then she looked a trifle self-conscious. “I’m sorry, that is most discourteous of me. How are you?” It was not customary to offer refreshment of any kind at this hour, and it seemed Rose observed the proprieties exactly. The room was formal; the maid had been immaculate in starched cap and apron. The hall was already polished and swept. Hester had smelled the pleasant, damp aroma of wet tea leaves scattered and taken up to collect the dust, and of lavender and beeswax to shine the wood.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Applegate,” she replied. “No, I’m afraid there is little fresh so far.” She had nothing to lose by telling the truth. It was probably all lost anyway. “My husband learned a bit more about Mr. Havilland’s anxieties, but if Mary’s father found out anything precise, we do not know what it was. According to Mr. Sixsmith, who is in charge, he had something of an obsession about enclosed spaces and finally became quite irrational about it. Mr. Sixsmith said that was what finally unhinged his reason and brought about his death.”

  Rose was clearly startled. “Good heavens!” She sat down rather suddenly, disregarding the crumpling of her skirt, and motioned for Hester to sit also. “That sounds so terribly reasonable, doesn’t it? But it’s not true!”

  Hester recounted what Monk had told her the previous evening—at least regarding the cook’s opinion of Mary, though not yet about the letter.

  “That is the Mary I know,” Rose agreed quickly. She leaned forward.

  “She was not a sentimental sort of person, Mrs. Monk. She was very practical and quite able to stand up to a truth she did not wish to hear, if it was indeed the truth. I don’t know where to begin, but if you have any idea at all, please let us do something to establish her innocence.”

  “Innocence…?”

  “Of having killed herself!” Rose said quickly, the emotion now clear in her face, her eyes very bright as though on the brink of tears. “And, if the account is true—God forgive me—innocent of having taken Toby Argyll with her. That is a terrible thing to think of anyone, and I refuse to let it be said by default, because it would be easier for us all to pretend it was over.”

  Hester was suddenly heartened. “What are the alternatives?” she asked. “What did happen? How can we demonstrate it so it cannot be denied?”

  “Oh, dear!” Rose sat bolt upright. “I see what you mean. If it was not suicide, then it was an accident, or it was murder. That is a very dreadful thought.”

  “It seems to me to be inescapable,” Hester pointed out.

  The door opened and Morgan Applegate came in. His eyes went immediately to his wife, then to Hester. He was polite and, to judge from the expression on his face, pleased to see her. However, there was something faintly protective in the way he went to Rose and remained standing by her chair, as if, without even giving it a thought, he would make certain Hester did not somehow distress or disturb her.

  “How are you, Mrs. Monk?” he said agreeably. “Has there been progress so soon?”

  Rose swung around to look at him. “In essence there has, Morgan,” she replied. “We came face-to-face with irrefutable logic, and we must go forward. Actually, Mr. Monk allowed the possibility of accident, but I do not. Two such accidents—it is absurd. Either Mr. Havilland and Mary both took their own lives, or Toby Argyll tried to kill Mary and fell in himself.”

  “Rose…,” he started to say, his face now heavy with concern.

  “Oh, it’s inescapable,” she said, brushing aside his interruption, and turned again to Hester. “The question is: Who killed Mary? And it must be whoever killed James Havilland.”

  “Your logic is at fault, my dear,” Applegate said gently, but his voice was quite firm. “According to the police, there was no one involved in poor Mary’s death apart from Toby Argyll, and he, poor man, went off the bridge with her. If he was responsible, then he has already paid the ultimate price.”

  Rose looked at him patiently. “You have missed the point, Morgan. I am not concerned with trying to have someone pay! I wish to clear Mary of the sin of suicide, and of Toby’s death also, if any might suppose she meant to pull him over. And I want to vindicate her father as well,
which is what she wanted above all things.”

  “But—” he started.

  “And possibly even more important,” she went on, as if he had not spoken, “I want to show that they were both right in their fear of some terrible accident, so that we can still prevent it. So you see we are anything but finished! Is that not so, Mrs. Monk?” She turned her steady, bright gaze on Hester.

  “Rose!” Applegate said exasperatedly. “You are placing Mrs. Monk in an impossible position! Please, you must not embarrass her.”

  “I am not embarrassed,” Hester lied quickly. “But if I were, it could hardly matter! We are speaking of other people’s deaths, and of the possible deaths and mutilation of scores of men, even hundreds, if there should be a major cave-in or a flood.”

  “You see?” Rose said with finality. “We must do everything we can, and we shall begin by learning whatever it was that Mary already knew.”

  Applegate looked at Hester with some desperation. “You seem to have an understanding of logic, Mrs. Monk. Either you are right or you are mistaken in this. If you are mistaken, there is no point in pursuing it, and you may damage the reputations of good men who have already suffered deeply in the loss of those they loved. I speak in particular of Alan Argyll.” He spread his hands. “But if you are right, then he has been the cause of Havilland’s death, and now of Mary’s and his own brother’s, albeit he did not intend the latter. Surely you must see that in that case he is a most dangerous man and will not hesitate to harm you if he has the chance. And please do not be rash enough to suppose you can outwit him!” He turned to his wife, touching her shoulder. “And for you, my dear, I am afraid I forbid you to endanger yourself in this way.” He smiled—a sweet, gentle gesture that lit his face, making his emotions unmistakable. “Or in any other way.”