by Anne Perry
The bedroom door was open, and Scuff was sitting up staring at them. He looked unnaturally pink. His hair was actually much fairer than Monk had supposed. He seemed to have forgotten about the lace on his nightgown, or even that it was Hester’s. His shoulder must hurt him, but he was making little of that, too. Now his eyes were bright with expectation, longing to be told all there was to hear.
Hester led Monk into the room and sat on the bed herself so that he could recount it to them both.
“Yer won!” Scuff said excitedly. “They gonna get Argyll fer killin’ poor ’Avilland, an’ Miss Mary as well? Yer gonna bury ’em proper?”
“Yes,” Monk said simply.
Scuff’s eyes were shining. He was sitting close to Hester, quite naturally. Both of them seemed to be unaware of it. “ ’Ow d’yer do it?” he said, hungry for any piece of information. He had sorely missed being there to see it himself.
“Would you like a cup of tea before we begin?” Hester asked.
Scuff looked at her with total incomprehension.
Monk rolled his eyes.
She smiled. “Right! Then you get nothing until it’s all told, every last word!”
He began with the day’s proceedings, recounting it as a story of adventure with all the details, looking at their faces, and enjoying himself. He described the courtroom, the judge, the jurors, the men and women in the gallery, and every witness. Scuff barely breathed; he could hardly bring himself even to blink.
Monk told them how he had climbed the steps to the witness box and stared at the court below him, how Sixsmith had craned forward in the dock, and how Rathbone had asked the questions on which it all turned.
“I described him exactly,” he said, remembering it with aching clarity.
“There wasn’t a sound in the whole room.”
“Did they know ’e was the man wot killed Mr. ’Avilland?” Scuff whispered. “D’yer tell ’em wot the sewer were like?”
“Oh, yes. I told them how we met him the first time, and how he turned around and shot you. That horrified them,” Monk answered honestly. “I described the dark and the water and the rats.”
Scuff gave an involuntary little shiver at the memory of the terror. Without realizing it, he moved a fraction closer to Hester, so that he was actually touching her. She appeared to take no notice, except that there was a slight softening of her lips, as if she wanted to smile but knew she should not let him see it.
“Did Jenny Argyll give evidence?” she asked.
“Yes.” Monk met her eyes for a moment of appreciation, and an acknowledgment of what it had cost Rose Applegate. “She told it all. Argyll denied it, of course, but no one believed him. If he’d looked at the jurors’ faces, he could have seen his own condemnation then.” He realized suddenly what a final thing he had said. They had accomplished it, the seemingly impossible. Sixsmith was free and the law knew that Alan Argyll was guilty. It would be only a matter of time before he was on trial himself.
“Funny,” Hester said aloud. “We’ll never know his name.”
“The man who actually shot James Havilland? No,” he agreed. “But he was only a means to an end, and he’s dead, anyway. The thing that matters is that the man behind it will be punished justly, and perhaps there will even be more care taken in the routing of new tunnels, or at least in the speed with which they’re done.”
“But Argyll will be charged?” Hester insisted. “So Mary Havilland can be buried properly and…and her father, too?”
“I’ll make certain.” He meant it as a promise. Seeing the warmth in her eyes, he knew that she understood.
“Did Sixsmith give evidence?” she asked. “Explain it all? He seemed like a decent man—a bit rough, perhaps, but it’s a rough profession. He…he felt things deeply, I thought.”
He smiled. “Oh, yes. It’s always a risk putting an accused man into the dock, but he was excellent. He described exactly what happened, how Argyll gave him the money and what he told him it was for, which was to bribe the toshers who were making trouble. It made sense and you could see that the jury believed it.”
He remembered Sixsmith’s face in the witness box as he told it. “He said he had not known what the man looked like, and he sat waiting for him. The man recognized him immediately and came over. He was fairly tall, lean, with long black hair onto his collar, and…” He stopped. The room swayed around him, and his limbs suddenly felt far away and cold, as if they belonged to someone else. Sixsmith had described the assassin as he had been when he was killed! Not when Melisande Ewart had seen him on the night of Havilland’s death, or two days before.
“What is it? William, what’s wrong?” It was Hester’s voice calling from a great distance, fuzzy at the edges. She sounded frightened. Scuff was pressed up next to her, his eyes wide, picking up her emotion.
When Monk spoke, his mouth was dry. “Sixsmith said his hair was long. He swore he saw him only once, two days before Havilland’s death. But in fact his hair was shorter then, much shorter. Mrs. Ewart said only a little longer than most men’s. But it was over his collar when I found him dead.”
Hester stared at him, horror slowly filling his eyes. “You mean Sixsmith saw him…just before he was killed? Then…” She stopped, unable to finish the thought.
“He killed him.” Monk said it for her. “Argyll was telling the truth. He probably gave Sixsmith the money to bribe the toshers, exactly as he told us. It was Sixsmith who gave the order to kill Havilland, and possibly Mary as well.”
“But Argyll couldn’t be innocent,” Hester argued. “It was he who had Jenny write…” She tailed off. “Or perhaps it wasn’t? Perhaps she lied, and it was Sixsmith who told her to. But why?”
Scuff was looking at her anxiously, his mouth twisted down at the corners. He might be only nine or ten, but he had lived on the streets. He had seen violence, beatings, revenge. “She ’ate ’im that much?” he asked wonderingly. “That’s daft! Less ’e knocked ’er ’alf senseless.”
“So she would lie to incriminate her husband and get Sixsmith free?” Hester said with awe and disgust. “Argyll might be cold, and bore her to death, but could she really be in love with Sixsmith to that degree, knowing what he did? Oh, William! He murdered her father and her sister! Has she lost her wits completely? Or…” Her voice dropped. “Or is she now too afraid of him to do anything else?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I…I don’t know.” His mind raced to the memory of Jenny Argyll’s eyes in court, the power in Sixsmith, and the way she had looked at him. It had not felt like fear then; more like hunger.
Scuff looked from one to the other of them. “Wot yer gonna do?” he asked. “Yer gonna let ’im get away wi’ it?” There was incredulity in his face. It was impossible to believe such a thing.
“You can’t be tried twice for the same crime,” Monk explained bitterly. “The jury found him not guilty.”
“But they in’t right!” Scuff protested. “ ’E done it! ’E paid the man wot shot Mr. ’Avilland! It wasn’t Mr. Argyll arter all! Yer can’t let ’im get topped fer it! It in’t right, even if ’e is a greedy sod.”
“But he wasn’t tried for shooting the assassin,” Hester pointed out eagerly. “Nobody was.”
It was true. No one had specifically made any charge about the murder of the assassin; it had simply been implicit that it was Argyll, because he had the motive. But Sixsmith could be charged with that. Legally it was perfectly possible; in fact, it was absolutely imperative that he must be, for only then would the charges against Argyll be dropped.
Monk stood up slowly, oddly stiff. “I must go and tell Rathbone.”
Hester stood also. “Tonight?”
“Yes. I can’t leave it. I’m sorry.”
She nodded slowly. She did not explain that she wanted to come, but could not.
Scuff understood, however. “I’m all right!” he chipped in.
“I know,” Hester agreed quickly. “But I’m not leaving you anyway, so don
’t bother arguing with me.”
“But—”
She froze him with a look, and he subsided, wide-eyed, his lips quivering between tears and a smile, refusing to let her see how much her caring mattered to him.
Monk looked at them for a moment longer, then turned and left.
The hansom dropped him outside Rathbone’s house. He told the driver to wait. Although the lights were on, it might only mean that the manservant was in, but at least he would probably know where Rathbone could be found.
As it was, Rathbone was at dinner, as Monk had expected, with Margaret Ballinger. Mr. and Mrs. Ballinger were present also, as chaperones at this delicate stage in the younger couple’s betrothal. Too, they were delighted to be included in what was also the celebration of a victory. They did not in the least understand its nature, but they were aware of its importance.
“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized to the butler in the hall, “but it is imperative that I speak to Sir Oliver immediately, and in private.”
“I’m afraid, sir, that Sir Oliver is dining,” the manservant apologized.
“The soup has just been served. I cannot interrupt them at present. May I offer you something in the morning room, perhaps? That is, if you would care to wait?”
“No, thank you,” Monk declined. “Please tell Sir Oliver that I have discovered a fact of devastating importance regarding the Sixsmith case. The verdict cannot be allowed to stand as it is. His attention cannot wait.”
The manservant hesitated, looked more earnestly at Monk, then decided to obey.
Five minutes later Rathbone appeared, elegantly dressed in evening clothes. “What is it?” he asked as he closed the door on the glittering dining room behind him, shutting out the voices, the laughter, and the clink of glasses. “I am in the middle of dinner and have guests. You are welcome to join us if you wish. Heaven knows, you did more than anyone else to bring about our victory.”
Monk took a deep breath. “It was not a victory, Rathbone. Do you remember Sixsmith describing the assassin when he passed him the money?”
Rathbone frowned. “Of course. What of it?”
“Do you remember Melisande Ewart’s description of him when he came out of the mews after he had just shot Havilland, two days after that?”
“Yes. It was obviously the same man. There can’t be two looking like that!” Rathbone’s face was puzzled, and on the edge of losing patience.
“Hair,” Monk said simply. “I saw him when he was dead, and his hair was long over his collar. So did Sixsmith. That was what he was describing on the stand.”
Rathbone blushed. “Are you saying that he didn’t pay him the money? What…” His eyes widened. Suddenly he understood, and the color died from his face. “Sixsmith shot him! God in heaven—he was guilty all the time! We got him off! I got him off!”
“But not for killing the assassin!” Monk said quietly.
Rathbone stared at him with dawning comprehension.
There was a knock on the door.
Rathbone turned around slowly. “Come,” he answered.
Margaret entered. She glanced at Rathbone, then at Monk, a question in her eyes. She was dressed in extravagant oyster satin with pearls at her ears and throat, and there was a warmth in her face that no artifice could lend.
Rathbone went to her immediately, touching her with intense gentleness.
“We were wrong,” he said simply. “Monk has just pointed out that Sixsmith must have shot the assassin, and more essentially, that we have accused the wrong man. To save him, we must at the very least prove Sixsmith’s guilt of the assassin’s death, and if possible convict him of it.”
Margaret turned to Monk to verify from his face if that could possibly be true. She needed only an instant to see that it was. “Then we must do it,” she said quietly. “But how? The trial is finished. Would taking his testimony to anyone be sufficient?”
“No,” Monk said with certainty. “We must prove the whole line of connection, the fact that he knew the man all the way through.” He saw in her face that she did not understand. “If we charged Sixsmith now,” he explained, “on the strength of his description of the assassin, he could say he heard it from Argyll, or anyone else. He might slip away again.” He smiled bleakly. “We must be right this time.”
“I see.” Her answer was simple. She was not a beautiful woman, her looks being rather more individual, but at this moment there was a true beauty in her face as she turned back to Rathbone. “We’ll celebrate when we have it right,” she said calmly. “I shall explain to Mama and Papa, and we can finish dinner quite pleasantly, and then go home. Please do what is necessary. It cannot wait. Whatever time it takes, however difficult it is, it must be accomplished before Argyll is charged and tried. They would hang him for James Havilland’s death. Perhaps for Mary’s as well, although I suppose it could have been Toby who was to blame for that. Do you suppose Toby did that for Sixsmith?”
Rathbone was thoughtful, but he did not take his eyes from her face. “Possibly, but he might not have realized all the implications. Sixsmith could have asked him to speak to her, try to persuade her that her father’s death was suicide after all, and that she was only making it worse by continuing to probe it. Almost certainly he would try to persuade her that there was no danger in the tunnels.”
“Was that what James Havilland was afraid of, uncharted underground rivers?” She turned to Monk.
“Yes, I think so. Toby seems to have spoken to toshers a lot, too, but that could have been to try to stop them from interfering with the work. That’s what I thought to begin with. I don’t think we’ll ever know if he meant to kill Mary. Probably not. Not unless there was far more between him and Sixsmith than we know.” He tried to visualize again what he had seen on the bridge. “I think it was an accident. She was frightened of him. Perhaps she thought Alan Argyll was behind her father’s death and that Toby was going to kill her, too. She tried to get away from him, and whether she meant to or not, she took him with her.” As he said it, he was not sure if that was what he really believed. Could Sixsmith deliberately have corrupted Toby Argyll? He remembered Alan Argyll’s grief when he had heard of his brother’s death. Grief, or guilt?
“We won’t know, will we?” Margaret said sadly.
“Probably not,” he admitted.
“And Mrs. Argyll?” she persisted. “She swore it was her husband who told her to write the letter.”
“I know,” Rathbone answered her. “There are a lot of things we still have to learn, and to prove. But we can’t afford to wait. I’m sorry.”
“I understand.” She gave him a smile that was intimate and a little sad, but only for the moment missed, no more. She excused herself and left.
Rathbone looked at Monk. For the first time since Rathbone had realized he was in love with Hester, there was no envy in his eyes, only a deep happiness. He smiled at Monk.
Monk smiled back at him, surprised how pleased he was. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Where are we going to start?” Rathbone asked him.
Monk looked Rathbone’s elegant figure up and down. “With rather older clothes, I think. We need to find and prove the connection between Sixsmith and the assassin.”
Rathbone’s eyes widened. “For God’s sake, Monk! How? Sixsmith worked in the sewer excavations. He could have been anywhere when he was out on bail. It was only a bribery charge! And no one has the faintest idea where the assassin was. We don’t even have a name for him!”
“You’ve summed it up perfectly,” Monk said with a smile that was more like a baring of teeth. “I plan on enlisting all the help I can. I’ll start with Runcorn, Orme, and as many of my own men as I can spare, then the doctor, Crow. He’ll be happy to help because the assassin shot Scuff. Then I’ll get as many navvies as’ll help. Toshers, gangers, and watermen, too. And I’ll try to get Sutton, the ratcatcher. He knows the hidden rivers and wells that very few other people do, all the hiding places. People who won’t spe
ak to us will speak to him.”
There was horror, disgust, and self-mockery in Rathbone’s face. “And what is it you imagine I can do in this…this pursuit of the unspeakable?”
Monk grinned now. “Oh, you are in command,” he assured him. “You will tell us what is proof and what is not.”
Rathbone gave him a dark, twisted look and excused himself to change his clothes.
They went first to Runcorn, as a matter of geographical simplicity. He was horrified, as they had known he would be. Even more than that, he was angry with himself for not having seen the difference in the two descriptions of the assassin.
“No one did,” Monk assured him honestly. “It was only when I was telling Hester about it and repeating it myself that I realized. That one detail too much was his only slip.”
Runcorn’s face was hard and bleak. “I’ll trace each step of that bastard’s way,” he promised, “if I have to climb or crawl through every sewer in London and question the bloody rats!”
At the thought, Mark’s face pulled tight, his mouth in a downward turn, but he did not argue.
Next they got Orme out of his bed with an apology for the hour, as he could just barely have gone to sleep after a hard day. He made no complaints, not even by change of expression on his face. Monk hoped profoundly that it was not because he did not dare to. Orme had earned the right to respect and consideration for his feelings, his well-being, and the fact that he might have other cares and occupations in life than serving the demands of the River Police in general, or Monk in particular.
“I can’t do it without you,” Monk said frankly.
“That’s all right, sir. ’Ow’s the boy?” Orme replied, dashing cold water on his face to wake himself up. They were standing in the kitchen of his small home, where Monk had never before been. He was uncomfortably aware that not only had he intruded, uninvited, on the one place where Orme had privacy, mastery, but also he had brought others who were strangers in all but name.