William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

you remember his daughter, Mary?” Monk remained standing. Runcorn had not offered him a seat, and for Monk to be comfortable would seem inappropriate in this conversation, given all the past that lay between them.
    “Of course I do,” Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he ruled his little kingdom. “Has…has she complained to you that her father was murdered?”
    Monk was stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should trespass on his case.
    “Who did she think was responsible?” he asked.
    Runcorn was too quick for him. “Did she?” he challenged him. “Why did you say
did
?”
    “She fell off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening,” Monk replied.
    Runcorn was stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. “Suicide?” he said hoarsely.
    “I’m not sure,” Monk replied. “It looked like it at first. She was standing near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing, and then both overbalanced and fell.”
    “A man?” Runcorn’s eyes widened. “Who? Argyll?”
    “Why do you think it was Argyll?” Monk demanded.
    Runcorn lost his temper, color flooding up his cheeks. “Don’t play your damn fool games with me, Monk!” he said harshly. “You always were a heartless bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she’s dead, too! It’s my case, and I’ll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer again. Do you hear me?”
    Monk’s temper flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level voice. “If you’re fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone superintendent, you’ll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of authority,” he retorted. “I don’t know whether Mary Havilland jumped, fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards from two hundred feet away—too far to see in the dark.” He was not going to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about Hester’s history. That was another grief, another time. “If I knew exactly what happened to James Havilland, it might help me.”
    Runcorn grunted, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders sagged a little. “Oh. Well, I suppose you do need that. Sit down.” He waved at a wooden chair piled with papers, and eased himself into his own leather-padded seat behind his desk.
    Monk moved the papers onto the floor and obeyed.
    Runcorn’s face became somber. He had dealt with death both accidental and homicidal all his adult life, but this one apparently moved him, even in memory.
    “Stable boy found him in the morning,” he began, looking down at his large hands rather than at Monk. “Seems the boy lived a mile or so away, and used to walk to work every morning. Mews are small there, and the room above the stable was kept for harnesses and the like. He could have slept in the straw, but seems he had an aunt with a lodging house in the area, and he helped out there too, and got fed and looked after for it. He seemed like an honest lad, but we checked it all, and it was the truth. He was home all night, and Havilland’s butler said they’d never had a day’s bother with him.”
    Monk nodded.
    “Boy arrived about six,” Runcorn went on. “Found his master on the floor of the room where they keep the hay and feed. Lying on his back, shot through the head. One clean bullet into the brain. Must’ve been standing near the middle of the room, and fell backwards. Blood exactly where you’d expect it to be. Gun fallen out of his hand but not more than a foot away.”
    Monk felt a chill settle over him.
    “Boy went in and told the butler—can’t remember his name,” Runcorn went on. “Carter, or something like that.”
    “Cardman,” Monk supplied.
    “That’s right,” Runcorn agreed, blinking several times. “He went out to look. Saw just what the boy had said, and sent the footman for the police. It was nearer eight o’clock by the