William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

Cardman, was a tall, spare man with thick iron-gray hair and a bony face that might have been handsome in his youth but was now too strong in the planes of his cheek and nose. His light blue eyes were intelligent, and—unlike the footman—he had mastered his emotions, so they barely showed.
    “Yes, sir?” he said, closing the door behind him. “How may I help you?”
    Monk began by expressing his sympathy. Not only did it seem appropriate, even to a butler, but it was natural.
    “Thank you, sir,” Cardman acknowledged. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.
    “We are not certain what happened,” Monk began. “For many reasons, we need to know a great deal more.”
    A shadow of pain crossed Cardman’s impassive face. “Mr. Argyll told us that Miss Havilland took her own life, sir. Is it necessary to intrude further into her unhappiness?”
    His delicacy was admirable, but this was an enquiry that could either define guilt or pronounce innocence, and even to the dead, that was important. Monk could not afford to leave anything unprobed or go about his questions in the least offensive way if it was also the least efficient.
    “You were aware of her unhappiness?” he asked as gently as he could.
    “Mr. Havilland died less than two months ago,” Cardman said stiffly. “Grief does not heal so soon.”
    It was a socially correct answer, giving away nothing and delivered with as much disapproval as a butler dared show.
    Monk was brutal. “Is your father still alive, Mr. Cardman?”
    Cardman’s face tightened, the light of understanding flaming in his eyes, bright and angry. “No, sir.”
    Monk smiled. “I’m sure you grieved for him, but you did not despair.” He thought briefly that part of the loss of his memory from the accident included complete obliteration of anything about his own father, or mother, for that matter. He knew only his sister, Beth, and that only because she had tried to keep in touch. He wrote seldom. The shame of that bit into him without warning, and he felt the heat in his face.
    “No, sir,” Cardman said stiffly.
    Monk sat down in one of the big leather armchairs and crossed his legs. “Mr. Cardman, I mean to find out whether this was suicide or something else,” he said levelly. “I have investigated deaths of many kinds, and I do not give up until I have what I seek. You will assist me, willingly or not. You can remain standing if you wish, but I prefer that you sit. I don’t like staring up at you.”
    Cardman obeyed. Monk noticed a rigidity in his movement, as if he were unused to sitting in the presence of a guest, and certainly not in this room. He had probably been a servant all his life, perhaps starting as a boot boy forty years ago, or more. Yet he could have spent time in the army. There was a ramrod stiffness to him, a sense of dignity as well as self-discipline.
    “Were you surprised?” Monk asked suddenly.
    Cardman’s eyes widened. “Surprised?”
    “That Miss Havilland should throw herself off Waterloo Bridge?”
    “Yes, sir. We all were.”
    “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