Dark Assassin Read online

  “Good evening, ma’am,” he said gently. His voice was excellent, his diction beautiful. He had worked hard to lose the Northumbrian accent that marked his origins. He had wanted passionately to be a gentleman. That desire was long past, but the music in his voice remained.

  “Evenin’, sir,” she replied warily.

  “My name is Monk, and this is Sergeant Orme, of the Thames River Police. Is this the home of Mr. Toby Argyll?”

  She swallowed. “Yes, sir. Never say there’s bin an accident in one o’ them tunnels!” Her hand flew to her mouth as if to stifle a cry. “I can’t ’elp yer, sir. Mr. Argyll’s not at ’ome.”

  “No, ma’am, there hasn’t been, so far as I know,” Monk replied. “But I’m afraid there has been a tragedy. I’m extremely sorry. Does Mr. Argyll live alone here?”

  She stared at him, her round face paler now as she began to understand that they had come with the worst possible news.

  “Would you like to go in and sit down?” Monk asked.

  She nodded and backed away from him, allowing them to follow her along the passage to the kitchen. It was full of the aroma of dinner cooking, and he realized absently how long it was since he had eaten. She sank down on one of the hard-backed wooden chairs, putting her elbows on the table and her hands up to her face. There were pans steaming on the top of the huge black range, and the savory aroma of meat pie came from the oven beneath it. Copper warming pans glimmered on the wall in the gaslight, and strings of onions hung from the ceiling.

  There was no point in delaying what she must already know was coming.

  “I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Argyll fell off the Waterloo Bridge,” Monk told her. “Mrs….?”

  She looked at him, face blanched, eyes wide. “Porter,” she supplied. “I looked after Mr. Argyll since ’e first come ’ere. ’Ow could ’e ’ave fallen orff the bridge? It don’t make no sense! There’s railings! Yer don’t fall orff! Are yer sayin’ ’e was the worse for wear an’ went climbin’, or summink daft?” She was shivering now, angry. “I don’t believe yer! ’E weren’t like that! Very sober, ’ard-workin’ young gentleman, ’e were! Yer in’t got the right person. Yer made a mistake, that’s wot yer done!” She lifted her chin and stared at him. “Yer oughter be more careful, scarin’ folks all wrong.”

  “There’s no reason to suppose he was drunk, Mrs. Porter.” Monk did not prevaricate. “The young man we found had cards saying he was Toby Argyll, of this address. He was about my height, or perhaps a little less, fair-haired, clean-shaven except for a mustache.” He stopped. He could see by her wide, fixed eyes and the pinched look of her mouth that he had described Argyll. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  Her lips trembled. “Wot ’appened? If ’e weren’t drunk, ’ow’d ’e come ter fall in the river? Yer ain’t makin’ no sense!” It was still a challenge; she was clinging to the last shred of hope as if disbelieving could keep it from being true.

  “He was with a young lady,” he told her. “They seemed to be having a rather heated discussion. They grasped hold of each other and swayed a little, then she fell back against the rail. They struggled a little more—”

  “Wot d’yer mean?” she demanded. “Yer sayin’ as they was fightin’, or summink?”

  This was worse than he had expected. What had they been doing? What had he seen, exactly? He tried to clear his mind of all the ideas since then, the attempts to understand and interpret, and recall exactly what had happened. The two figures had been on the bridge, the woman closer to the railing. Or had she? Yes, she had. The wind had been behind them and Monk had seen the billowing skirts poking between the uprights of the balustrade. The woman had waved her arms and then put her hands on the man’s shoulders. A caress? Or pushing him away? He had moved his arm, back and up. Pulling away from her? Or making a motion to strike her? He had grasped hold of her. To save her, or to push her?

  Mrs. Porter was waiting, hugging herself, still shivering in the warm kitchen with its dinnertime smells.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “They were above us, outlined against the light, and almost two hundred feet away.”

  She turned to Orme. “Was you there too, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Orme replied, standing upright in the middle of the scrubbed floor. “An’ Mr. Monk’s right. The more I think on it, the less certain I am as to what I saw, exact. It was in that sort of darkening time just before the lamps are lit. You think you can see, but you make mistakes.”

  “ ’Oo were she?” she asked. “The woman wot went over with ’im.”

  “Was there someone you might expect it to be?” Monk parried. “If they were quarrelling?”

  She was clearly unhappy. “Well…I don’t like ter say….” Her voicetrailed off.

  “We know who it was, Mrs. Porter,” Monk told her. “We need to know what happened, so we don’t allow anyone to be blamed for something they didn’t do.”

  “Yer can’t ’urt ’em now,” she responded, the tears trickling unheeded down her cheeks. “They’re dead, poor souls.”

  “But they’ll have family who care,” he pointed out. “And burial in hallowed ground, or not.”

  She gasped and gave a convulsive shudder.

  “Mrs. Porter?”

  “Were it Miss ’Avilland?” she asked hoarsely.

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “It were ’er? Course, it would be. ’E din’t never look at no one else, not ever since ’e met ’er.”

  “He was in love with her?” Of course, that could mean many things, from the true giving of the heart, unselfishly, through generosity, need, all the way to domination and obsession. And rejection could mean anything from resignation through misery to anger or rage and the need for revenge, perhaps even destruction.

  She hesitated.

  “Mrs. Porter?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “They was betrothed, at least ’e seemed to take it they was, then she broke it orff. Not that it were formal, like. There weren’t no announcement.”

  “Do you know why?”

  She was surprised.

  “Me? Course I don’t.”

  “Was there another person?”

  “Not for ’im, an’ I don’t think for ’er neither. Least that’s wot I ’eard ’im say.” She gave a long sniff and gulped. “This is terrible. I never ’eard o’ such a thing, not wi’ quality folk. Wot would they want ter go jumpin’ orff bridges for? Mr. Argyll’ll be broke ter pieces when ’e ’ears, poor man.”

  “Mr. Argyll? His father?” Monk asked.

  “No, ’is brother. Quite a bit older, ’e is. Least I should say so.” She sniffed again and fished in her apron pocket for a handkerchief. “I only seen ’im five or six times, when ’e came ’ere fer Mr. Toby, like. Very wealthy gentleman, ’e is. Owns them big machines an’ things wot’s diggin’ the new sewers Mr. Bazalgette drew ter clean up London, so we don’t get no more typhoid an’ cholera an’ the like. Took poor Prince Albert ter die of it, an’ the poor Queen’s ’eart broke before they do it. Wicked, I say!”

  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 creat
ure,” 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 brother’s 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, palefaced, 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 though 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.