William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

thought it could be,” Orme contradicted him. He was visibly irritated by Clacton’s attitude as well. His blunt, weathered face showed a quiet anger.
    “If ’e was goin’ to push ’er in, why wouldn’t ’e wait ’alf an ’our, until dark?” Clacton demanded, his expression tightening. He moved a little closer to the stove, blocking it from Orme. “Don’ make sense. An’ with a police boat right in front of ’im! No, she jumped, and ’e tried to stop ’er and lost ’is own balance. Clear as day.”
    “Don’ suppose ’e saw us,” Jones answered him. “ ’E’d a’ bin lookin’ at ’er, not at us was on the water below.”
    “Still make more sense ter wait until dark,” Clacton retorted.
    “Wot if she weren’t goin’ ter stand there on the bridge waitin’ until it were dark?” Jones countered. “Mebbe she weren’t that obligin’.” He helped himself to more tea, deliberately taking the last of it.
    “If ’e planned to push ’er over, ’e’d ’ave planned to get there at the right time!” Clacton said angrily, looking at the teapot, then moving to block the fire from Jones rather than from Orme.
    “And o’ course plans always go exactly right,” Jones added sarcastically. “I seen ’at!”
    There was a guffaw of laughter, probably occasioned by some failure of Clacton’s in the past. Monk was still trying to learn not only the job itself but, at times even more important, the relationships between the men, their strengths, and their weaknesses. Lives could depend on it. The river was a more dangerous place than the city. Even the worst slums—with their creaking, dripping tenement houses, blind alleys, and occasional trapdoors—gave you ground to stand on and air to breathe. It had no tides to rise, to slime the steps, to carry things up- or downstream. It was not full of currents to pull you under and drifting wreckage just beneath the surface to catch you.
    “We don’t know,” Monk said to all of them. “Mary Havilland’s father died recently, and according to her sister, Mary was convinced that he was murdered. I have to investigate that possibility. If he was, then perhaps she was murdered also. Or her death and Toby Argyll’s may have been a quarrel that ended in a tragic accident, not suicide by either one of them.”
    Kelly put down the final pieces of paper. “And then we could have them buried properly. Their families’d want that.”
    “Very much,” Monk agreed.
    “But if she wasn’t murdered, it’s not our job.” Clacton looked at Kelly, then at Monk.
    Monk felt his temper rising. One day he was going to have to deal with Clacton.
    “It’s my job now,” he replied, an edge to his voice that should have been a warning to Clacton, and anyone else listening. “When I’ve done it, I’ll give the results to whomever needs them—family, church, or magistrate. In the meantime, attend to the theft on Horseferry Stairs, and then see if you can trace the lost barge from Watson and Sons.”
    “Yes, sir,” Clacton said unhesitatingly.
    With that, Monk departed on the long cab journey from Wapping to Mary Havilland’s address in Charles Street, just off Lambeth Walk.
    The house was not ostentatious, but it was handsome enough, and had an appearance of considerable comfort. There was a mews behind for the keeping of carriages and horses, so presumably the residents were accustomed to such luxuries. As he expected, the curtains were drawn and there was a wreath on the door. Someone had even laid sawdust in the street to muffle the sound of horses’ hooves.
    The door was opened by a footman of probably no more than eighteen years. His face was so white his freckles stood out, and his eyes were pink-rimmed. It took him a moment or two to collect his wits when he saw a stranger on the step. “Yes, sir?”
    Monk introduced himself and asked if he might speak to the butler. He already knew there was no other family resident. Jenny Argyll had said that Mary had been her only relative.
    Inside, the house was in traditional mourning. The mirrors were covered, the clocks stopped, lilies in vases giving off a faint hothouse perfume. Their very unnaturalness in January was a reminder that familiar life had ended.
    The butler came to Monk in the formal morning room. It was bitterly cold, no fire having been lit, and the glass fronts of the bookcases reflected the cold daylight that came under the half-drawn curtains like ice on a deep pond.
    The butler,