Authors: Anne Perry
"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.
It was over
almost before Monk realized it. Without a word, the cortege departed. In
silence, Runcorn, Cardman, and Monk left, in opposite directions.
"Suicide,"
Monk's superior said brusquely when Monk went into his office early in the
afternoon. "For God's sake, man! She jumped right in front of you, and
took with her the poor devil who was trying to save her! Don't make it even
worse for the family by drawing it out!" Farnham was a big man,
broad-shouldered and heavy-bellied. His long-nosed face could break into a
sudden smile, and there were those who spoke of certain acts of kindness, but
Monk felt uneasy in his presence, as if never certain he would be true to the
best in himself. Farnham had sought authority and won it, and now he wore it
with intense pleasure.
Arguments of
belief or intuition would only be mocked. Anything Monk put forward would be
seen as enlightened self-interest for the River Police. "It probably is
suicide, sir," he agreed aloud. "But I think we should make
certain."
Farnham's eyebrows
rose. He had trusted Durban and known where he was with him, or at least he had
assumed he did. He resented the fact that now he had to learn the strengths and
weaknesses of a new man. He was sufficiently aware of what had really happened
not to hold Monk accountable for Durban's death. But Monk had survived, and
Farnham blamed him for that.
"Not much
is ever sure in police work, Monk," he said sourly. "Thought you
would have known that!" The criticism was implicit.
Monk swallowed
his impatience. "Not about what happened on the bridge, sir. I'm thinking
of what she was investigating to do with the sewer tunnels and their
construction."
"Not our
concern!" Farnham snapped. "That's the Metropolitan Police." The
distaste with which he said that was exactly what Monk had expected, had
already seen in him in the few weeks he had been here. It was part of what
Farnham disliked in Monk himself, and the fact that he had been dismissed from
the Metropolitan Police was conversely a point in his favor.
"Yes,
sir," Monk agreed with difficulty. "But if there is something, and it
causes a real disaster and we knew about it, or at least had a chance to find
out, do you think they'll see it that way?"
Farnham's eyes
narrowed. "You can have a couple of days," he warned. "If you
find something worth pursuing, then give it to them, on paper, and keep a
record of it here! Understood?"
"Yes,
sir." Monk thanked him and left before Farnham could change his mind or
add any further restrictions.
He began by
learning as much as he could about the vast network of new and old sewers and
how they interconnected. It was an immense complex, intended to take the ocean
of waste from London's three million people eastwards away from the city and
its present egress into the river, and instead process it through large
purification works closer to the sea. Then the surplus water could be released,
comparatively clean, and the solid waste otherwise disposed of. It was a
brilliant feat of engineering, costing a king's ransom of money, but for the
capital of the Empire and the seat of government for a quarter of the world, it
was absolutely necessary.
It took more
time to find the exact place of the Argyll company in it, and he was surprised
how large it was. It must have cost a considerable effort and influence to
obtain it, and no doubt would not be easily forfeited. They had three sites
close to one another. Two were cut-and-cover, like the crevasse that Hester had
described, but one was too deep for that method. They were actually tunneling,
burrowing like rabbits under the ground, scraping out the earth and rock and
carrying it back to the entrance to get rid of it. The necessity for this was
created not only by the depth but also by the fact that other rivers and gas
lines crossed above it in several places and could have collapsed had they been
exposed by the more open method.
He searched but
could find no adequate map that charted all of London's old wells, springs, and
submerged rivers or the old gutters, drains, and waterways that had altered
over the course of the centuries. Clay slipped. Some earth absorbed water; some
rejected it. Some old drains, dating back to the Roman occupation, had
survived. Some had been broken or had caved in, and the land had subsided,
diverting them deeper or sideways. The earth was a living thing, changing with
time and usage. No wonder Sutton, whose father had been a tosher and knew all
the waterways large and small, was now frightened by the vast steam engines
that shook the ground, and by the knowledge that men were digging, shoveling,
and moving earth, disturbing what was settled.
Monk was
circumspect about mentioning the Havillands' name, but he would not learn
anything further of use if he did not. It gave him a wry, half-sour pleasure
that it was far easier now than in his independent days because he could use
the power of the River Police to ask for what he wanted. He was cramped by
rules, hemmed in and robbed of freedom by the necessity of answering both
upwards to Farnham and in a sense downwards to Orme and the other men. He could
not lead if he could not inspire men to follow him. The mere holding of office
could force obedience for a while, but it could not earn the respect or the
loyalty that were what mattered. He would not replace Durban anywhere except in
the records on paper.