William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

from the river deserved better than that, and would have hungered for it more than some. “And she broke the agreement after her father’s 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