The Dark Assassin (27 page)

Cardman
answered, and five minutes later they were in James Havilland's dressing room.
The clothes he had been wearing at his death were piled neatly on one of the
shelves in the tallboy. It was obvious that Mary had never had the stomach to
come into the room since that night, and had not permitted the servants to
either. Perhaps she would have done so after she had proved that he was not a
suicide. Everything seemed to be waiting.

The trousers
were marked only by dust and a few pieces of hay. The jacket was quite heavy-a
natural enough choice for a man going out to the stables in the middle of a winter
night, possibly to wait a little while until someone arrived.

The question
rose again: Why the stables? If Havilland wished to be private, it was easy
enough to send the servants to bed and open the front door for the guest
himself. Monk had a crowding sense that there was some major fact that had
escaped him completely.

Runcorn was
waiting, watching him.

He unrolled the
jacket and laid it on the dresser. There was blood thick and dark on the left
lapel and over the shoulder. It was completely dried now and stiff. A few spots
had fallen on the sleeve, though not a great deal. After all, it had been a
shot to the head, and Havilland must have died almost instantly.

"Look,"
Runcorn instructed.

Without hope of
finding anything, Monk pushed his hands into the inside pocket. His fingers
closed on paper, and he pulled it out. It was folded up but unmarked. An
envelope. On the back a word-Tyburn-was scrawled, and some figures, and then no
name and some more figures in the same grouping. He turned it over. On the
front was his name, Mr. James Havilland. There was no address. It had been
hand-delivered. He looked up at Runcorn.

Runcorn's eyes
were bright. "That's it!" he said, excitement making his voice
tremble. "That's the envelope from the note he got!" He held out his
hand.

Monk passed it
to him.

"Woman's
writing," Runcorn said after only a second or two, disappointment so keen
he could not mask it. He looked up at Monk, pain and confusion naked. "Was
it an assignation after all? Who the devil shot him? A husband? Did the man in
the two cabs have nothing to do with it?"

Monk was
unhappy, too, but for an entirely different reason. "Jenny Argyll,"
he said. "If it was she who wrote, he would go out there to meet her.
Don't forget Mary was in the house. Maybe he wanted to speak with Jenny without
Mary knowing, or Jenny with him."

Runcorn looked
around for the bell. He found it and rang it, and Cardman answered a few
moments later.

Runcorn held out
the envelope. "Do you know whose handwriting that is?" he asked.

Cardman looked
stiff and miserable, his eyes haunted, but he did not hesitate. "Yes, sir.
That is Miss Jennifer's handwriting-Mrs. Argyll, that is."

"Thank
you," Monk acknowledged. Then he realized what Cardman might think.
Possibly Runcorn would disapprove, but he intended to tell Cardman anyway.
"There was a man seen leaving the mews at about the time Mr. Havilland was
shot. He passed two people returning from the theater who say he smelled of gunsmoke.
We traced his movements. He took a cab as far as Piccadilly, then changed cabs
and went east. It seems very possible it was he who actually killed Mr.
Havilland."

Cardman's voice
was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Thank you, sir." He blinked, gratitude
showing in his eyes.

Jenny Argyll
greeted them far more coolly. At this time of the day her husband was either at
his office or at one of the sites.

"The matter
is closed," she said bluntly. She had received them in the withdrawing
room because the morning room fire was not lit. After such a double bereavement
they were still not receiving callers. Everything was draped in black. There
were wreaths on the doors leading into the hall, the mirrors were covered, and
the clocks were stopped. Presumably in this house the state of mourning was
more for Toby Argyll than for Mary, although Jenny might well grieve privately
for her sister. Monk had not forgotten Argyll's rage on hearing the news of
their deaths, and his instant blaming of Mary. If Toby had killed her, had it
been at his brother's command?

This time
Runcorn allowed Monk to take the lead.

"I am
afraid the matter is not closed, Mrs. Argyll," Monk said firmly. She was
wearing black. It was completely unrelieved, and it drained from her what
little color she might have had. He judged that she would normally be an
attractive woman, but she had not the strength or the passion he had seen in
Mary's face, even when it had been lifeless and wet from the river. There had
been something in the bones, the curve of her mouth, that had been unique.

"I cannot
help you," she said flatly. She was standing, staring away from them out
of the window into the flat winter light. "And I cannot see what good
turning our pain over and over can do. Please allow us to grieve in peace-and
alone."

"We are not
at the moment concerned with the deaths of Miss Havilland and Mr. Argyll,"
Monk replied. "It is the events on the night your father died that we are
investigating."

"There is
nothing more to say." Her voice was quiet, but the hurt and the anger were
plain in her face. Her shoulders were stiff, straining the shiny black fabric.
"It is our family's tragedy. For pity's sake, leave us alone! Haven't we
suffered enough?"

Monk hated
having to continue. He was aware of the same distress in Runcorn, standing near
him. But he could not let it go.

"You wrote
a letter to your father and had it hand-delivered the night of his death, Mrs.
Argyll." He saw her start and draw in her breath with a little gasp.
"Please don't embarrass us all with a denial. The letter was seen, and
your father kept the envelope. I have it."

She was ashen,
and she turned to face him angrily. "Then what do you want from me?"
Her voice was so stifled in her throat that it was barely audible. Her eyes
burned hot with hatred of them for the shame they were inflicting on her.

"I want to
know what was in the letter, Mrs. Argyll. You arranged for your father to go to
the stables-alone-after the middle of the night. He did so, and was
killed."

"He killed
himself!" she burst out, her tone rising dangerously. "For the love
of heaven, why can't you leave it alone? He was mad! He had delusions! He was
terrified of closed spaces, and at last he couldn't face it anymore. What else
do you need to know? Do you hate us so much that you gain some kind of pleasure
from seeing us suffer? Do you have to open the wounds again, and again, and
again?" She was almost out of control, her voice shrill and loud.

"Sit down,
Mrs.-" Monk started.

"I will not
sit down!" she snapped back. "Do not patronize me in my own home, you
..." She gasped in a breath again, lost for a word she might dare use.

There was
nothing for Monk to do but tell her the truth before she became hysterical and
either fainted or left the room and refused to see them again. He had little
enough authority to be here. Farnham would not back him up.

"A man was
seen leaving the mews just after your father was shot, Mrs. Argyll. He smelled
of gunsmoke. He was a stranger in the area and left immediately, traveling in
several cabs back to the East End. Do you know who that man was?"

She stared at
him incredulously. "Of course I don't! What are you saying-that he shot my
father?"

"I believe
so."

She put her
hands up to her mouth and sank rather too quickly into the chair, as if she had
lost her power to remain standing. She stared at Monk as if he had risen out of
the carpet in a cloud of sulfur.

"I'm
sorry," he said, and meant it more than he had thought he could.
"What did you write in your letter that sent your father out into the
stable at midnight, Mrs. Argyll?"

"I...
I..."

He waited.

She mastered
herself with intense difficulty. The struggle was naked and painful in her
face. "I asked him to meet my husband to allow a proper discussion of the tunnels
they were building, without Mary knowing and interrupting. She was very
excitable."

"At
midnight?" Monk said with surprise. "Why not in the offices in the
morning?"

"Because
Papa was concerned there was going to be an accident, and he would not come
into the offices to discuss it anymore," she said immediately. "He
was going to speak to the authorities. They would have had to close down the
works until they had investigated, and of course discovered that it was
completely untrue. But they could not afford to take my husband's word for it,
when men's lives are at risk. My father was mad, Mr. Monk! He had lost all
sense of proportion."

"So you
arranged this meeting?"

"Yes."

"But your
husband didn't go!" Monk pointed out. "He was at a party until long after
midnight. You told the police that you attended it with him. Was that not
true?"

"Yes, it
was true. I... I thought my father must have refused to meet Alan. He was ...
stubborn." Her gaze did not waver from his.

"Is that
what Mr. Argyll said?" he asked.

She hesitated,
but only for a moment. "Yes."

"I
see." He did see. He had never supposed that Alan Argyll intended to shoot
Havilland himself. He had paid the assassin with the black hair and the
narrow-bridged nose to do that. "Thank you, Mrs. Argyll."

"Do you
suppose he paid the money himself, or had someone else whom he trusted do
it?" Monk asked when they were outside, matching his step to Runcorn's on
the icy pavement.

"Toby?"

"Probably,
but not necessarily. Who would even know where to find an assassin for
money?"

Runcorn thought
for a while, walking in silence. "Whom else would he trust?" he said
at last.

"Can you
trace the funds?" Monk asked him.

"Unless
he's been saving it up penny by penny over the years, certainly I can.
Havilland found something and Alan Argyll couldn't wait. He had to have got the
money out of the bank, or wherever he kept it, and paid the assassin within a
day or two of the actual murder. It's my case, Monk. I've got the men to put on
it, and the authority to look at bank accounts or whatever it takes. I'll find
out where Argyll was every minute of the week before Havilland was shot. And
after. Unless he's a fool, he won't have paid all of it until the deed was
done."

"What do
you want me to do?" The words were not easy for Monk to say, but Runcorn's
plan made sense. He could deploy his men to search, to question, to force out
answers that Monk could not. And Monk needed to return to Wapping and start
earning some of the loyalty he was going to need from his own men. Havilland's
death was nothing to do with them.

Runcorn smiled.
"Go back to your river," he replied. "I'll send you a
message."

After two days
the letter came, written in Runcorn's careful, overly neat hand. It was brought
by a messenger and given to Monk personally.

Dear Monk,

Traced the
money. Came from Alan Argyll's bank, but be gave it to Six-smith for expenses.
Argyll can account for all his time, both before and after the event. Clever
devil. No second sum paid. Could be lots of reasons for that-but if Sixsmith
cheated him, then he's a fool!

I am sure Argyll
is the man behind it, but it was Sixsmith who actually handed it over, whatever
he believed he was paying for. Followed his movements, found where he did it. I
have no choice but to arrest him straightaway. I am not happy. We have the
servant, not the master, but I have to charge him. We still have work to do.

Runcorn

Monk thanked the
messenger and scribbled a note of acknowledgment back.

Dear Runcorn,

I understand,
but we damned well do have work to do! Everything I can do, I will. Count on
me.

Monk

He gave it to
the messenger. Then when the door was closed, he swore with a pent-up fury that
shocked him.

Argyll had
cheated them. They had followed the trail, and ended by being forced to arrest
a man they knew was innocent, while Argyll watched them and laughed. Damn him!

EIGHT

Wt was three
days before Monk had time to consider the Havilland \^S case again. There was a
large fire in one of the warehouses in the Pool of London, and the arsonists
had attempted to escape by water. It was brought to a successful conclusion,
but by the end of the second day Monk and his men were exhausted, filthy, and
cold to the bone.