William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

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 speak 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.
    “Recovering well,” he replied. “Can I make you a cup of tea while you dress?”
    Orme stared at him. “I’ll make it, sir. If you just like—”
    “I’ll do it,” Monk insisted. “I’m not asking for instructions, just permission.”
    “Yes…sir. The tea’s in the caddy up there.” He pointed to an Indian-style tin at the back of the tidy kitchen shelf. “The kettle’s beside the stove, and there’s milk in the pantry cupboard. Water’s already pumped for the morning.