The Dark Assassin (25 page)

Melisande
smiled. "Thank you," she said quietly. "And he did come out of
the mews. He staggered around a little as if he was drunk, and he said he
was."

"He said he
was?" Runcorn was startled. "What did he say, exactly?"

"He had a
stain on his jacket." She touched her shoulder, about the place where she
would have pinned a corsage. "About here. Quite a large stain, three or
four inches across, dark, as if it was wet. He saw me looking at it, only
briefly. I suppose that was rude, but it was such an odd place to have a stain
so large. He said he had tripped and fallen in the mews. He"-she made a
slight gesture as if brushing herself down-"he said he didn't know what he
fell in, and would prefer not to think of it. Then he apologized and went on
down the road." She glanced at her brother. "If he fell in the mews,
then he should have smelled of horse manure."

Barclay's eyes
showed not only his disgust but also his impatience. "I daresay he did,
Mel!" he said sharply. "Dirt and horse dung." He made a guttural
sound in his throat. "I'm perished standing out here. There really isn't
anything more to say. Good night, officers."

Melisande
refused to move, disregarding his growing anger. "But he didn't!" she
insisted. "He didn't smell at all. He was very close to me. He passed only
a foot away, and he didn't smell of anything except. . . sweat, and something a
little sickly, and . . . something else quite strong, but I didn't recognize
it." Again she was looking at Runcorn.

Monk felt a
tingle of excitement, the first scent of meaning. He glanced at Runcorn and had
to bite his lip to keep silent.

Runcorn let out
his breath slowly. "What kind of smell, ma'am?" He was achingly
careful not to suggest anything to her. "Can you describe it?"

"Really!"
Barclay lost his temper. "What's the matter with you, man? Asking a lady
to describe the precise stink of a beggar! I don't know what kind of person you
are used to...."

The color washed
up Melisande's cheeks. Her brother's rudeness clearly embarrassed her far more
than the nature of the question.

Runcorn blushed
also-for her, not for himself. Monk could see that in the anger and confusion
in his eyes. He longed to help her, and he had no idea how to. Something in her
manner, her particular kind of loneliness, had found his sympathy, and he was
utterly and wholly in her defense.

Runcorn stared
at Barclay with cold dislike. "It matters, sir," he said. His voice
was shaking a little, but that could have been attributed to the cold. They
were shuddering now, their feet almost numb. "This man may have seen a
murder. I don't willingly distress anybody, but it sometimes happens that those
who can help the most are also those who are sensitive to the ... unpleasant
details."

"Please,
John, don't try to protect me from doing my duty. That would not be a service
to me." Melisande looked at Runcorn, gratitude in her smile. "It was
rather an acrid, smoky kind of smell. Not very pleasant, but not sour or dirty."

"Probably
picked up someone's old cigar end." Barclay wrinkled his nose.

"No,"
she replied. "I know tobacco smoke. It definitely wasn't that, but it was
rather smoky." She paled suddenly. "Oh! You mean it was
gun-smoke?"

"It might
have been," Runcorn agreed.

"You can't
base a charge of murder on that!" Barclay protested.

"I
don't." Runcorn could not conceal his dislike again. He looked at Barclay
coldly. "There are other reasons for believing that Mr. Havilland might
not have shot himself." He turned back to Melisande and his eyes softened.
"Do you recall anything of this man's appearance, ma'am? Of what height
was he? A big man or a small man? Anything about his face?"

She took a
moment to bring it back to her mind. "He was very lean," she replied.
"His face was thin, what I could see of it. He had a scarf"- she made
a gesture around her throat and chin-"and a hat on. His hair was long-long
onto his collar. I think he was very dark."

"It was the
middle of a winter night!" Barclay said with an obvious effort to be reasonable
in spite of everyone else's unreason. "He was of very average height and
build and he had a dirty old coat on, with his collar turned up, as anyone
would on such a night. That's all!"

"If his
coat was dark, how did you see the wet stain on it?" Runcorn asked.

"Then it
wasn't dark!" Barclay snapped. "It was a light coat, but it was still
dirty. Now we've told you everything we can, and you have kept my sister
standing here in the cold for more than long enough. Good night!"

Melisande drew
in her breath, perhaps to point out that it was he who had chosen to remain on
the step. She had tried to invite them inside. But she might have remembered it
was Barclay she was dependent upon, not Runcorn or Monk.

"Good
night," she said with a swift, apologetic glance, then turned to go
inside.

The door closed,
leaving them in sudden darkness. They were so numb from the icy wind that their
first few steps were almost stumbling.

Runcorn walked
in silence for almost a hundred yards, still lost in his own thoughts.

"Better see
if anyone else saw him," Monk said at last. "Might be a groom from
one of the houses."

Runcorn gave him
a sideways look. "Might be," he agreed dryly. "I'm betting it
was an assassin, hired by one of the Argyll brothers to get rid of Havilland.
But we've got to rule out everything else, so tomorrow we'd best ask all
around. I can put my men on that. I suppose you've got river things to attend
to?"

Monk smiled. The
sudden appreciation of his position was an oblique way of thanking him for not
showing off in front of Melisande Ewart. "Yes. Spate of robberies,
actually. Thank you."

Runcorn stared
at him for a moment, as if to make sure there was no mockery in his eyes. Then
he nodded and began walking again.

Monk was late to
Wapping station again in the morning. He had not meant to be, but he had fallen
asleep again after Hester had wakened him, and even her noisy riddling of the
ashes from the stove had not wakened him. It was nearly ten o'clock when he
climbed the steps from the ferry. They were slicked over with ice and
dangerously slippery. He reached the top and saw Orme coming out of the station
door. Had he been waiting for him? Why? Another warning that Farnham was after
him? He felt cold inside.

Orme came
towards him quickly, his coat collar up, wind tugging at his hair.

"Mornin',
sir," he said quietly. "Like to walk that way a bit?" He
inclined his head to indicate the stretch southwards.

"Good
morning, Orme. What is it?" Monk took the hint and turned to keep in step.

"Did a good
bit of lookin' around yesterday, Mr. Monk. Asked a few questions, collected a
favor or two," Orme answered in a low voice. He led Monk away from the
station and, within a few moments, out of sight of it. "It's right enough
there's been a lot more thievin' in the last month or two-neat like, all tidy.
Passenger standin' talkin', then a piece goes, watch or bracelet or whatever it
is. Like as not it isn't noticed fer a little while, then o' course it's too
late. Could be anywhere. There's always someone beside you as couldn't 'ave
done it, an' they always say as they saw nothin'."

"Several
people working together," Monk judged. "One to distract, one to take
it, a passer, another to block the way with offers of help, and maybe a fifth
to take it and disappear."

"Yer right.
An' from what I 'eard, I'm pretty certain at least one of 'em was a kid, ten or
eleven, each time."

"Not the
same child?"

"No, just
that sort of age. People take 'em for beggars, mudlarks, just strays 'anging
around for a bit of food, likely, or to keep warm. Better in a boat than on the
dockside in the wind."

Monk thought of
Scuff. He would probably rather work than steal, but what was there for a child
to do on the river in midwinter? The thought of hot food, a dry place out of
the wind, and a blanket would be enough to tempt anyone. He was brave,
imaginative, quick-the ideal target for a kidsman, one of those who took in
unwanted children and made thieves of them. It was afar from ideal life, but in
return the children ate and were clothed, and to some extent protected. The
thought of Scuff ending like that sickened him. There was no leniency in the
courts for children. A thief was a thief.

"Any idea
who?" He found the words difficult to say.

Orme must have
heard the emotion in his voice. He looked at him quickly, then away again.
"Some. Only the arms and legs o' the gang, so to speak. Need to catch the
'ead to be any use. Won't be easy."

"We'll have
to plan," Monk replied. "See if there's any pattern in the reports of
theft. Any of the goods turn up? Who'd take that kind of stuff? Opulent
receivers?" They took the valuable things and knew where and how to
dispose of them. Durban would not have had to ask; he would have known their
names, their places of business and storage, the goods in which they
specialized.

"Yes,
sir." Orme did not add anything.

Monk realized,
as if he had suddenly come to a yawning hole in the earth in front of him, how
much Orme missed Durban, and how far short Monk still was of filling that space.
Perhaps he could never earn that loyalty or give the men cause to accept him as
they had Durban, but he could earn their respect for his skill, and in time
they would come to know that they could trust him.

For now it was
Orme they trusted, Orme they would be loyal to and obey. Monk would get no more
than lip service, and less than that from Clacton. That was a problem that
still had to be addressed, and they would all be waiting to see how Monk
handled it. Sooner or later Clacton himself would provoke a confrontation, and
Monks authority would hang on whether he won, and how.

He tried to
think of other plans he had used in the past to catch rings of thieves, but
since the accident that had taken his memory he had worked largely on murder
cases. Petty thieving belonged to a past before that-in the early years, when
he and Runcorn had worked together, he thought wryly, not against each other.
He had had flashes of going into the rookeries, those vast slums, which were
part underground tunnels, part sagging tenements. There were passages,
trapdoors, sudden drops, and blind ends-a hundred ways to get caught, and to
get your throat cut. Your corpse would possibly go out on the tide, or if it
finished in the sewer, most of it would be eaten by rats.

That world was
violent and ugly. The poverty in it was so absolute that only the strongest and
the luckiest survived. Police seldom went there at all, but if they did, they
took with them someone they trusted not only in loyalty but in skill, speed,
and nerve as well, and above all courage. He and Runcorn had trusted each other
like that once.

In the rotting
tenements of the waterlogged patch on the south bank known as Jacob's Island,
there could be a hundred men hidden in the wrecks of buildings sinking slowly
into the mud. The same was true of the teeming slums of the docks, the
ever-shifting tides of the Pool of London with its great ships, its cargoes
here one day and gone the next. The opium dens of Limehouse or the wrecks on
the long stretches towards the sea might conceal anything. He would need to
trust Orme with his life, as Orme would have to trust him. It would not come
quickly or without testing.

"I'll work
on a plan," he said aloud at last. "If you've got one, tell me."

"Yes, sir.
I was thinkin'..." Orme stopped.

"Go
on," Monk prompted.

"I'd like
to catch the Fat Man," Orme said thoughtfully. "Owe 'im a lot, that
one, over the years."

"I assume
you mean a lot of harm, not a lot of good?"

"Oh, yes,
sir, a lot o' harm indeed." There was an edge of emotion in Orme's voice
that was extraordinarily sharp, as if from an accumulation of pain.

Monk was
overwhelmed by how much he did not know about these men. Orme seemed not to
resent him. In fact, he had deliberately steered him away from the station just
now so that Farnham would not see him come in late. He had covered for him
yesterday so that he could pursue the Havilland case.

An icy thought
passed through Monk's mind: that Orme was deliberately allowing him to do those
things in order to betray him to Farnham, giving him enough rope to hang
himself. Why had Orme himself not got Durban's job? He was extremely able, and
the men trusted him and admired him. He was far better qualified for it than
Monk. Why had Durban suggested Monk? Was that a betrayal, too?

He was
floundering. His ignorance was like a vast black tide carrying him towards
destruction.