William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

the next, obvious question. “Why? What was so wrong that he’d shoot himself in his own stables in the middle of the night?”
    Runcorn pressed his lips together and hunched his shoulders a little more. “I looked.” There was an edge of defense in his voice. “As far as anyone knew, his health was excellent. He ate well, slept well enough, walked often. We checked into his affairs; he certainly was more than comfortably off. No unaccounted expenditure. He didn’t gamble. And if anyone was blackmailing him, it wasn’t for money. If he had a mistress, we never found her. If he had bad habits, we saw no sign of them, either. He drank very little. Never been seen the worse for it. Wife died seven years ago. Had two daughters. Jenny, the elder, is married to Alan Argyll, a very successful businessman.”
    Runcorn took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Havilland worked for Argyll’s company as an engineer in the big rebuilding of the sewers. Well respected, well paid. Seemed to get on all right, at least until recently, when Havilland took it into his head that the tunnels were dangerous and there was going to be an accident one day. We couldn’t find any evidence for it. Argyll’s safety record is good, better than most. And we all know the new sewers are necessary, urgently so.”
    “And Mary?” Monk asked. He wanted to fault Runcorn, to find something the superintendent had forgotten or done badly, but he couldn’t.
    Runcorn’s face softened. “The poor girl was beside herself with grief,” he said defensively, as if he felt he needed to protect her memory from Monk’s intrusion.
    Monk liked him the better for that.
    “She couldn’t believe he would do such a thing,” Runcorn went on. “Said he was on a crusade, and people in crusades get killed sometimes, but they don’t shoot themselves. She said he was on the edge of finding out something about the tunnels, and someone killed him to stop him doing that. Lots of money at stake. Fortunes to be made, and I suppose lost, in all this. And reputations.”
    “What do you believe?” Monk asked.
    “Asked a few questions about him,” Runcorn said unhappily. “According to the men in the works, he’d gotten a bit eccentric. Scared stiff of tunnels and holes, so they said. Used to shake and go white as a ghost, break out in a sweat.” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “Happens to some people. Others it’s heights, or spiders, or snakes. Whatever. Usually think of women being frightened of that sort of thing, but it doesn’t have to be. Worked a case once with a woman who fainted at the sight of a mouse. Can’t think why, but it doesn’t have to have a reason. Knew another one terrified of birds, even a harmless little canary.” He stopped. All the lines of his face sagged, making him look older, more tired than before. “He did seem obsessed with the dread of an accident, and as far as I could see, there was no reason for it.”
    “What did Mrs. Argyll think of her father in this?” Monk asked, remembering Jenny Argyll’s stiff back and carefully controlled face.
    “Blamed herself for not seeing how far his madness had gone,” Runcorn answered, weariness and confusion in his eyes. “Said she would have had him better looked after if she’d known. Not that there was a thing she could’ve done, as her husband told her. As long as he breaks no laws—and Havilland didn’t—a man’s entitled to go as daft as he likes.”
    “And Mary?”
    Runcorn sighed. “That’s the thing. Poor girl refused to accept it. Determined her father was right and wouldn’t let it rest. Started reading all his books, asking questions. Broke off her engagement to Toby Argyll and devoted herself to clearing her father’s name. Wanted him buried in consecrated ground if it took her her life’s work to do it.” His voice sank even lower. “Now it looks as if the poor soul’ll lie beside him. Do you know when they’re going to do that, because—” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat, then glared defensively at Monk as if challenging him to mock.
    Monk had no desire to. In his mind’s eye he could see again and again the figure of Mary tipping over the rail, clinging on to Toby Argyll, and the two of them plunging down into the icy river. He still did not know what had happened; nothing was clear, and he ended up not remembering but imagining, because he wanted her not to have done it herself.
    And he remembered the strong bones