by Anne Perry
“Smelling salts,” Crow replied. “You look a bit green.”
“Smelling salts?” Monk was incredulous.
Crow grinned, all teeth and good humor. “That’s right. Good stuff. So you got the Fat Man. That’ll help your reputation no end. Nobody ever did that before.”
“Our reputation was rather in need of help,” Monk said, his eyes still stinging. “Somebody’s been spreading the word that we were not only incompetent but very probably corrupt as well. I’d dearly like to know who that was. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea?” He looked at Crow as steadily as his groggy condition would permit.
Crow shrugged and turned his mouth down at the corners. “You want the truth?”
“Of course I do!” Monk said tartly, but with a touch of fear. “Who was it? I can’t survive blind.”
“Actually, it wasn’t so much the whole River Police as you personally,” Crow answered. “Everybody that matters knows it was never Mr. Durban. And Mr. Orme’s pretty good.”
“Me?” Monk felt dizzy again, and the wound in his arm throbbed violently. It was hard to believe it was only a cut—nothing to worry about, Crow had insisted. It would heal up nicely if he gave it a chance.
“You’ve got enemies, Mr. Monk. You’ve upset somebody with a lot of power.”
“Obviously!” Monk snapped. He clenched his fist, then wished he hadn’t.
Crow gave him a sudden, dazzling smile. “But you’ve got friends as well. Mr. Orme made sure you all stood together.”
“Crow…,” Monk began.
Crow blinked, and the smile remained. “You look after Mr. Orme; he’s a good one. Loyal. Worth a lot, loyalty. I’ll get a cab to take you home. You’ll only fall on your face, and you don’t want to have to explain that—you a hero an’ all.”
Monk glared at him, but actually he was grateful—for the ministration, for the cab, but above all for knowing of Orme’s loyalty. He made up his mind that from now on he would try harder to deserve it.
But who had spread the word that he was corrupt personally? Argyll again?
NINE
It was well into February when Aston Sixsmith came to trial. He had been free on bail since shortly after his arrest, having been charged only with bribery.
“But you are going to be able to prove Argyll’s complicity, aren’t you?” Monk said to Rathbone the evening before testimony began. Monk’s wound was healing well, and they were comfortable before a brisk fire in Rathbone’s house. Rain was beating against the windows, and the gutters were awash. They still had not found the actual assassin, in spite of every effort, and River Police duties had consumed most of Monk’s time since the death of the Fat Man. It had been a hideous job catching grapples into the corpse and hauling it up through the jagged hole in the pier. But the carving had been retrieved—to Monk’s intense relief, and to mixed emotions in Farnham’s case. If it had been lost, Farnham would have blamed Monk, not himself.
As it was, Monk was now more firmly entrenched in his new position than was entirely comfortable for him, and Clacton was inexplicably subdued. He obviously loathed Monk, but something compelled him to treat his new commander with respect. Monk had yet to learn what this new element was.
“Argyll’s guilty of murder,” Monk insisted to Rathbone. “And more important than that, there is still the danger of the disaster in the tunnels that Havilland feared.”
“But you can’t tell me what it is!” Rathbone pointed out. “They are using the same engines as before, and nothing has happened.”
“I know,” Monk admitted. “I’ve searched everything I can find, but no one will talk to me. All the navvies are afraid for their jobs. They’d rather face a possible cave-in sometime in the future than certain starvation now.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Rathbone promised. “But I have no idea yet how to disentangle the guilty Argyll from the relatively innocent Sixsmith. Not to mention Argyll’s wife, who is no doubt afraid to face the truth about him, not to mention public disgrace and the loss of her home. Plus there’s the M.P., Applegate, who gave Argyll the contract, and the totally innocent navvies who operate the machines. And there’s also Superintendent Runcorn who conducted the original enquiry into Havilland’s death. He will be blamed for having called it suicide and closing the case. Are you prepared for all of them to go down as well, tarred with the same brush? Guilty by association!”
“No,” Monk said flatly. “No, I’m not.” The thought was so ugly it twisted inside him.
“Well, it might be a choice between having them all, to be sure of getting the guilty one, or letting them all go, to be sure of saving the innocent,” Rathbone told him.
“If it comes to that, then I’ll let them go,” Monk said harshly. “But not without damn well trying!”
Rathbone looked at him sadly. “Accusation without proof will damn the innocent and let the guilty go free.”
Monk had no argument. What Rathbone said was true, and he understood it. “We’re too late to back out now.”
“I could drop the charge against Sixsmith.”
Driven by something more than anger at Argyll or the need to win, Monk said aloud, “We have to do everything we can to find out if Havilland was afraid of a real disaster, or just of tunneling in the dark. And if Mary learned it, too, and was killed for it, then we can’t walk away.” He knew as he said it that that was not entirely what was impelling him. It was Mary Havilland’s white face smeared with river water that haunted his mind. Even if all those other elements were solved, it would never be enough until her name was cleared and she and her father were buried as they would have wished. But Rathbone did not need to know that. It was a private wound, deep inside him, inextricably wound into his love for Hester.
Rathbone was looking at him. “I’ve investigated the Argylls’ engines. They’re pretty much the same as everyone else’s. Better, because they’ve been modified with great skill and considerable invention, but no more dangerous.”
“There’s something!” Monk insisted.
“Then bring it to me,” Rathbone said simply.
In the Old Bailey the next morning, after the jury was appointed and the opening addresses were delivered, Oliver Rathbone began the case for the prosecution. His first witness was Runcorn.
Monk sat in the public gallery, with Hester beside him. Neither of them was a witness, so it was permissible for them to attend. He glanced at her grave face. It was pale, and he knew she was thinking of Mary Havilland. He imagined what she must be remembering of her own grief, and the sense of helplessness and guilt because she had not been there for her father and mother. With such events, Monk knew, there was always the belief, however foolish, that there was something one could have said or done that would have made a difference. But he had not seen anger in her, or heard her blame her brother, James, for not somehow preventing it. She had never lashed out at him that Monk knew of. How did she keep at bay the bitterness and the sense of futility?
Then a sudden thought struck him. How incredibly stupid he was not to have seen it before! Was her need to throw herself into fighting pain, injustice, and helplessness her way of making the past bearable? Was her readiness to forgive born of her own understanding of what it was to fail? She worked with all her strength at Portpool Lane not only to meet a fraction of the women’s needs but to answer her own as well. Anything short of her whole heart in the battle could never be enough for her. He was guarding her from the danger without because he was afraid for himself—afraid of what losing her would mean. He was thinking of his own sleepless nights, his imagination of her danger. All the time he was increasing the danger within.
Impulsively he reached across and put his hand over hers, holding her softly. After a moment her fingers responded. He knew what that moment meant. It was the loss of something inside her, which he had taken away. He would have to put it back as soon as he could, however afraid he was for her or for himself without her.
Right now Runcorn was climbing the tw
isting steps to the high, exposed witness stand. He looked uncomfortable, in spite of the fact that he must have testified in court countless times over the years. He was neatly dressed, even excessively soberly, as if for church, his collar starched and too tight. He answered all Rathbone’s questions precisely, adding nothing. His voice was uncharacteristically touched with grief, as if he too was thinking not of James Havilland but of Mary.
Rathbone thanked him and sat down.
Runcorn turned a bleak face towards Mr. Dobie, counsel for the defense, who rose to his feet, straightened his robes, and walked forward into the well of the court. He looked up at the high witness stand with its steps and squinted a little at Runcorn, as if uncertain exactly what he saw. He was a young man with a soft face and a cloud of curly dark hair.
“Superintendent Runcorn—that is your rank, isn’t it?” he asked. His expression was bland, almost timid.
“Yes, sir,” Runcorn replied.
“Just so. That implies that you are considerably experienced in investigating violent deaths—accidental, suicidal, and murderous?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are good at it?”
Runcorn was startled.
“I apologize.” Dobie shook his head. “That was an unfair question. Modesty forbids that you reply honestly. I will accept that you are.” He glanced momentarily at Rathbone, as if half expecting an objection.
Rathbone would not object, and they both knew it. “I have no quarrel with Mr. Dobie’s conclusion, my lord, even if it seems a little premature.”
The judge’s face tightened in appreciation of his predicament.
In the dock, high above the proceedings and where those in the gallery had to crane their necks sideways to see him, Aston Sixsmith sat gripping the rails with his hands. His knuckles were white, his eyes unmoving from Dobie’s figure.
Dobie looked at Runcorn. “May we assume that you took the death of James Havilland very seriously?”
“Of course.” Runcorn could see where this question was leading, but still he could not avoid the trap. He had long since learned not to add anything he did not need to.
“And you concluded that he had taken his own life?”
“Yes, sir—the first time.” Runcorn was forcing himself not to fidget. He stood as if frozen.
Dobie smiled. “I will ask you in due course why you judged it necessary to consider it a second time. You did judge it necessary, didn’t you? It was not some other sort of reason that drove you to go back again to a closed case—a favor owed, or a sense of pity, for example?”
“No, sir.” But Runcorn’s face betrayed that the answer was less than the whole truth.
Monk moved uncomfortably in his seat. He ached to be able to help Runcorn, but there was nothing at all he could do.
“What made you conclude that Havilland had killed himself? The first time, that is?” Dobie asked with gentle interest.
“The gun beside him, the fact that nothing was stolen, and no sign of a break-in,” Runcorn said miserably.
“Was there anything of value a thief could have taken?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you find any evidence that Mr. Havilland had been anxious or distressed recently?”
“No one expected him to take his own life,” Runcorn insisted.
“People seldom do.” Dobie gave a slight shrug. “It is always difficult to imagine. Whose gun was it that he used—I’m sorry, that was used, Superintendent?”
Runcorn’s face was tight, his jaw clenched. His large hands gripped the rail of the stand. “His own.”
“And of course you verified that?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court what on earth made you go back two months later and question your first decision. That initial decision seems eminently sensible—in fact, the only decision you could have reached.”
Runcorn’s face was deep red, but his gaze back at Dobie did not waver. “His daughter also died in tragic and questionable circumstances,” he replied.
“Questionable?” Dobie’s eyebrows rose, and his tone was one of disbelief. “I thought she also took her own life. Have I misunderstood? Is she not also buried in a suicide’s grave?”
It was Dobie’s first tactical error. Beside Monk, Hester closed her eyes, and the delicate corners of her mouth tightened. She sat motionless, old memories clearly raw inside her. In the rest of the gallery there was a slight sigh. Monk turned to see the jurors’ faces and found pity and distaste. They might not disagree, but they found the reference cruel.
Dobie had not realized it yet. He was waiting for Runcorn to answer.
Runcorn’s face was bleak, his voice soft and startlingly full of emotion. “It was the haste and possible injustice of that decision that made me look at Mr. Havilland’s death again,” he replied. “I knew Mary Havilland because of her father’s death. She was always certain he was murdered. I didn’t believe her then, but her own death drew me to go back and look at her father’s once more.”
There was a flush of anger on Dobie’s lineless face. “Are you being strictly honest with us, Superintendent? Was it not actually a visit from a certain Mr. Monk that caused you to look at it again? He is a friend of yours, is he not? And please do not be disingenuous.”
Runcorn was tight-lipped. “Monk and I served together some years ago,” he answered. “He’s now with the River Police, and since he was investigating Mary Havilland’s death and heard about her father, yes, of course he came to me to find out in more detail what had happened.”
“And you told him what you had originally concluded, that Havilland shot himself?”
“I told him the details of our investigation. In light of the daughter’s death as well, we looked into it again,” Runcorn said doggedly.
“In case you were mistaken, Superintendent?”
“I hope not. But if I am, I’m man enough to own it!”
A second tactical error. There was a rumble of applause in the gallery.
Hester smiled, her eyes bright with approval.
Dobie ridiculed Runcorn a little further, then realized he was doing his case more harm than good and let him go.
The police surgeon gave a very wide range for the time of Havilland’s death, in answer to Rathbone’s questions. Dobie picked it out but did not argue.
Rathbone called Cardman, who stood in the witness box ramrod stiff, like a soldier facing a firing squad; his lips were tight and his skin almost bloodless. Monk could only imagine how he must loathe this. In as few words as possible he answered Rathbone’s questions about the letter that had been delivered and given to Havilland. He described Havilland’s response dismissing the servants to retire, and expressing the intention to stay up late and secure the house for the night himself. He identified the handwriting on the envelope as that of Havilland’s elder daughter, Mrs. Argyll. Rathbone thanked him.
Dobie rose to his feet, a slight smile on his face. “This must be very unpleasant for you.”
Cardman did not answer.
“Did you see the contents of the envelope?”
Cardman was startled. “No, sir, of course not!” The suggestion that he would read his master’s mail was clearly repugnant to him.
“Did Mr. Havilland tell you what was in it, perhaps?”
“No, sir.”
“So you have no idea as to its contents?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know where this letter is now?”
“Mr. Havilland destroyed it, I believe.”
“You believe?”
“That is what the maid said who took it to him!”
“Destroyed it? I see.” Dobie smiled. “Perhaps that accounts for why Sir Oliver has not given us the privilege of reading it. Mr. Cardman, have you any reason whatever to believe that this…letter…had anything whatever to do with Mr. Havilland’s death?”
Cardman took a deep breath and let it out soundlessly. “No, sir.”
; “Neither have I,” Dobie agreed. He gave a little shrug and turned out his hands, palms upwards. “Neither has anyone!”
The first witness of the afternoon was Melisande Ewart. Runcorn, having given his own evidence, was free to remain in the courtroom. He sat on the other side of the aisle in the gallery. Monk was acutely conscious of his stiff shoulders, clenched hands, eyes never moving from Melisande’s face.
She stood in the witness box, calm but for two spots of color high in her cheeks.
Rathbone was gentle with her, drawing from her bit by bit the account of Runcorn and Monk’s visit to her and exactly what she had told them. Finally he had her describe the man who had emerged from the mews and bumped into her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ewart,” he concluded. “Please remain where you are in case Mr. Dobie wishes to speak to you.”
Monk looked again at the jury and saw sharp interest in their faces, and approval also. She was a woman of gentleness and considerable beauty, and she had conducted herself with quiet grace. Dobie would be a fool to attack her. Nevertheless he did.
“You were returning from the theater, you said, ma’am?” he began.
“Yes,” she agreed.
“At about midnight?”
“Yes.”
“A little late. Did you attend a party after the final curtain?”
“No. The traffic was very heavy.”
“It must have been! What play did you see?” Obviously he already knew the answer.
“Hamlet,” she answered.
“A great tragedy, perhaps the greatest, but full of violence and unnatural death,” he observed. “Murder after murder. Including Hamlet’s own father, as he finally succeeded in proving.”
“I am familiar with the plot,” she said a little coldly.
Runcorn’s knuckles were white, and his big hands clenched and unclenched slowly.
“And just as you arrived home,” Dobie went on, “late and emotionally drained by one of the most powerful plays in the English language, you see a man emerge from the mews near your home.” He sounded reasonable, even soothing. “It is dusk, he almost bumps into you. He apologizes for being clumsy and a little drunk, and goes on his way. Have I summarized correctly what actually happened, Mrs. Ewart?”