The Dark Assassin (6 page)

"What was
she like? Retiring or opinionated? Intelligent or not?" Monk was
determined to get a meaningful answer from the man, not the bland words of
praise a servant would normally give his employer, or anyone would accord to
the dead. "Was she pretty? Did she flirt? Was she in love with Mr. Argyll,
or did she perhaps prefer someone else? Might she have felt trapped in a
marriage to him?"

"Trapped?"
Cardman was startled.

"Oh, come
now," Monk retorted. "You know as well as I do that not all young
women marry for love! They marry suitably, or as opportunity is offered
them." He knew this from Hester, and from some of the cases he had taken
in his private capacity. The pressure and the humiliation of it barely touched
the edges of his experience, but he had seen the marriage market at work, young
women paraded like bloodstock for farmers to bid on.

Cardman was
caught in an impossible situation. His expression registered his embarrassment
and his understanding. Perhaps grief, and the knowledge that he no longer had a
mistress to serve, broke down his resistance.

"Yes,
sir," he admitted uncomfortably. "I think Miss Havilland did feel
rather that she was taking the best offer that she had, and it would be the
right thing to do in accepting Mr. Toby."

Monk had
expected that answer, and yet it grieved him. The young woman with the
passionate face whom he had pulled from the river deserved better than that,
and would have hungered for it more than some. "And she broke the
agreement after her fathers death?"

"Yes,
sir." Cardman's voice dropped and there was a huskiness that once again
betrayed his emotion. "She was very distressed by his death indeed. We all
were."

"How did it
happen?"

Cardman
hesitated again, but he seemed to know that Monk would not allow him to go
without first answering the question. Like Monk, Cardman was a leader in a
tightly knit, hierarchical community with some of the most rigid rules on
earth. And perhaps there was something in him that wanted to share his
bewilderment and his pain with at least one other person.

"Mr.
Havilland was a gentleman in the old sense of the term, sir," he began.
"Not titled, you understand, and not with great wealth. He was fair to everybody,
and he never carried a grudge. If any man wronged him and apologized, Mr.
Havilland forgot the thing entirely. He was a good friend, but he never put
friendship above what he thought was right, and he respected a poor man as much
as a rich one, if that man was good to his word."

Monk was aware
that Cardman was watching him, to see if he caught the unspoken thread bright
between the words.

"I
see," Monk acknowledged. "Much to be admired, but not one to take the
way of many in society, or in business, either." He did not remember his
days in merchant banking-they were gone with all the rest of his memory-but he
had learned, piece by piece, much about the cost and the dishonor of some of
his own acts, and those of people he had loved who had been ruined.

"No, sir,
I'm afraid not," Cardman agreed. "He had many friends, but I think
perhaps he had enemies as well. He was much worried before his death that the
rebuilding of the sewers to Mr. Bazalgette's plans was going ahead rather too
hastily, and the use of the big machines was going to cause a bad accident. He
became most concerned about it and spent all this time looking into matters,
trying to prove he was right."

"And did he
prove it?" Monk asked.

"Not so far
as I know, sir. It caused some unpleasantness with Mr. Alan Argyll, and Mr.
Toby as well, but Mr. Havilland wouldn't stop. He felt he was right."

"That must
have been very difficult for him, with both his daughters concerned with the
Argyll brothers," Monk observed.

"Indeed,
sir. There was some unpleasantness. I'm afraid feelings ran rather high. Miss
Mary sided with her father, and that was when matters between her and Mr. Toby
became strained."

"And she
broke off her arrangement?"

"No, sir,
not then." Cardman was obviously wretched speaking about it, and yet Monk
could feel the weight of it inside like a dam needing release before the
pressure of it burst the walls.

"Mr.
Havilland was very concerned," Monk prompted. "You must have seen him
frequently, even every day. Did he seem to you on the edge of losing his grip
on self-control?"

"No, sir,
not in the slightest!" Cardman said vehemently, his lean face alive with
sudden, undisguised emotion. "He was not in a mood anything like despair!
He was elated, if anything. He believed he was on the brink of finding proof of
what he feared. There had been no accident, you see. Rather, he felt one might
occur-something appalling, costing scores of lives-and he wanted above all
things to prevent it." Admiration shone in his eyes, admiration that was
deeper than mere loyalty.

"Have you
always been in service, Cardman?" Monk said impulsively.

"I beg your
pardon?" Cardman was taken by surprise.

Monk repeated
the question.

"No, sir. I
served for six years in the army. I don't see what that has to do with Mr.
Havilland's death."

"Only your
judgment of men under pressure."

Cardman was
embarrassed and did not know how to accept what he realized was a compliment.
He colored faintly and looked away.

"Were you
surprised that Mr. Havilland took his life?" Monk asked.

"Yes, sir.
Especially . . ." Cardman took a moment to master himself. He sat
perfectly still, his knuckles white. "Especially in his own house, where
Miss Mary was bound to know about it. A man can make such things look like an
accident." He breathed in and out slowly. "It broke her heart. She
was never the same afterwards." There was anger in his face now. A man he
admired had inexplicably let him down; more than that, he had let them all
down, most of all the daughter who had trusted him.

"But you
did believe it nonetheless?" Monk asked. He felt like a surgeon cutting
open a man still conscious and feeling every movement of the knife. He thought
of Hester's battlefield surgery. She had steeled herself to do it, knowing the
alternative was to let the men die.

"I had no
choice," Cardman said quietly. "The stable boy found him out there in
the mews in the morning, a bullet through his brain and the gun by his hand.
The police proved he'd bought it himself, from a pawn shop just a few days
before." There was obviously a great deal more he could have said-the
feelings were naked in his eyes-but a lifetime's discretion governed him.

"Did he
leave a note as to why he had done such a thing?" Monk asked.

"No,
sir."

"And he
said nothing to you or any of the other servants?"

"No, sir,
simply that he wanted to wait up that night, and we should not concern
ourselves, but retire as usual."

"And you
detected nothing out of the ordinary in his manner? Even with the wisdom of
knowing now what happened?"

"I have
considered it, naturally, wondering if there was something I should have
seen," Cardman admitted. He had the air of a man who has lived through a
nightmare. "He seemed preoccupied, as if he was expecting something to
happen, but in all honesty, I thought then that it was an irritation that
plagued him, not a despair."

"Irritation?"
Monk pressed. "Anger?"

Cardman frowned.
"I would not have put it as strongly as that, sir. Rather more as if an
old friend had disappointed him, or something was wearisome. I formed the
opinion it was a familiar problem rather than a new one. He certainly did not
seem afraid or desperate."

"So you
were shocked the next morning?"

"Yes,
sir."

"And Miss
Mary?"

Cardman's face
was pinched and his eyes were bright with tears he could not allow himself to
shed. "I've never seen anyone more deeply hurt, sir. Mrs. Kittredge, the
housekeeper, feared Miss Mary might meet her own death, she was so beside
herself with grief. She refused to believe that he could have done it himself."

Monk refused to
picture Mary Havilland's face. What in heaven's name had driven Havilland to do
this to his daughter? At least with Hester's father it was the only way for him
to answer the shame that had been placed upon him, through his own goodness of
heart. He had been deceived, like so many others. He had considered death the
only act left to an honorable man. What had Havilland feared or despaired of
that had driven him to such an act?

"Why did
she find it so hard to believe?" he said, more sharply than he had meant
to.

Cardman started
with surprise at the emotion in Monk's voice. "There was no reason,"
he said gravely. "That is why Miss Mary believed he had been murdered.
More and more she became convinced that either he had found something in the
tunneling works or he was about to, and for that he had been killed."

"What made
her more convinced?" Monk said quickly. "Did something happen, or was
it simply her need to clear her father of suicide?"

"If I knew,
sir, I'd tell you," Cardman replied, looking directly into Monk's eyes.
There was a kind of desperation in him, as if he was clinging to a last thread
of hope too delicate to name. "Miss Mary read all through her father's
papers, sat all day and up half the night. Over and over she searched them.
Many's the time I'd go to his study and find her there at his desk, or fallen
asleep in the big chair, one of his books open in her hands."

"What kind
of book?" Monk did not know what he was looking for, but Cardman's emotion
caught him also.

"Engineering,"
Cardman said, as if Monk should have understood.

Monk was
puzzled. "Engineering, did you say?"

"Mr.
Havilland was a senior engineer and surveyor for Mr. Argyll's company, until
the day of his death. That's why they quarrelled. Mr. Argyll's company has
never had a bad accident-in fact, they're better than most for safety-but Mr.
Havilland believed it would happen."

"And he
told Mr. Argyll?"

Cardman shifted
position slightly.

"Yes, of
course. But Mr. Argyll said it was just his feelings about being underground,
closed in, as it were. Mr. Havilland was embarrassed to admit to them. Argyll
as much as called him a coward, albeit politely. Of course he never used that
word."

"Was that
what Miss Havilland was doing also, enquiring into engineering, as regards the
tunnels?"

"Yes, sir.
I'm certain of it."

"But she
found nothing, either?"

Cardman looked
chagrined. "No, sir, not so far as I am aware."

"Did she
continue to see Mr. Toby Argyll?"

"She broke
off their agreement, but of course she still saw him socially now and then. She
could hardly help it, since he was Miss Jennifer's brother-in-law, and the
Argyll brothers were very close."

"Do you
know Mrs. Argyll's feelings on the subject?" Monk asked. "She was
surely caught in the middle of a most unfortunate development."

Cardman's lips
pressed together before he spoke.

"She was
loyal to her husband, sir. She was convinced that her father's fears had
unbalanced his judgment, and she was annoyed with Miss Mary for pandering to
him rather than encouraging him to abandon the matter." There was a wealth
of anger and distress in his voice.

Monk was
bitterly aware that the house in which Cardman lived was the center of a double
disgrace, and there seemed no one left to care except the butler and the other
servants for whom he was responsible.

"I see.
Thank you very much for your honesty," Monk said, rising to his feet.
"Just one more thing: Who investigated Mr. Havilland's death?"

"A
Superintendent Runcorn," Cardman replied. "He was very civil about
it, and seemed to be thorough. I cannot think of anything more that he could
have done." He stood also.

Runcorn! That
was the worst answer Cardman could have given. The past returned to Monk like a
draft of cold air. How many times had he second-guessed Runcorn-gone over his
work, corrected a flaw here and there, and altered the conclusion? It seemed as
if he had always needed to prove himself the cleverer. Increasingly he disliked
the man he had been then. The fact that he disliked Runcorn even more mitigated
nothing.

"Mr. Argyll
did not doubt the correctness of the verdict?" he asked aloud, his voice
rasping with emotion.

"No, sir,
just Miss Mary." Grief filled Cardman's face, and he seemed unashamed of
it, as if at least in front of Monk he felt no need to mask it anymore. He
swallowed hard. "Sir, I would be most grateful if you could inform us when
... when she is ... if Mrs. Argyll doesn't..." He did not know how to
finish.

"I will
make certain you are told," Monk said hoarsely. "But you might
consider whether the female staff wish to attend. Burials can be ... very
arduous."

"You are
telling me it will be in unhallowed ground. I know, sir. If Miss Mary was
strong enough to go to her fathers burial, we can go to hers."