William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

and the gentle mouth of the white face they pulled out of the river, and that Mrs. Porter had said she was a woman of opinions and the courage to declare them.
    “No, not yet. But I’ll tell you when I do. Have to tell the butler, Cardman, as well.”
    Runcorn nodded, then looked away, his eyes too bright.
    “You said you found where he bought the gun.” Monk changed the subject.
    Runcorn did not look at him. “Pawnshop half a mile away. Owner described him close enough. He was wearing a good coat, dark wool, and a scarf. Nothing odd in that, especially on a November night.”
    “Not very specific. Could have been anyone.”
    “Could have, except it was the same gun. Had one or two marks and scratches on it. He was certain enough.”
    “But why would Havilland have killed himself?” Monk persisted.
    Runcorn shook his head. “Alan Argyll told me he was becoming an embarrassment to the company. He was reluctant to say so, but he was going to have to dismiss him. Havilland was upsetting the men, causing trouble. Argyll felt very badly about it, but he had no choice. Couldn’t let everyone suffer because of one man’s obsession. Said he hadn’t told his wife, and certainly Mary didn’t know, but he had intimated as much to Havilland himself. He begged us not to tell them, especially Mary. It wouldn’t alter his suicide, and it would reduce him in their eyes. In fact, it would make suicide seem more rational. Maybe he did tell her after all.” There was no relief in his face, no sense of resolution.
    “Poor man,” Monk said. “If he told her at last and she went off the bridge, taking Toby Argyll with her, he’s going to feel a guilt for the rest of his life.”
    “What else could he do?” Runcorn said reasonably, his face still puckered in distaste.
    “If Havilland was murdered, who did Mary think was responsible?”
    “Her brother-in-law,” Runcorn replied unhesitatingly. “But he wasn’t. We checked up—he was out all evening at a function and went home with his wife a little after midnight. She’ll swear for him, and so will the servants. Footman waited up; so did the lady’s maid. No way he could have been there. Same for his brother, before you ask.”
    “He lives close by. No servants to swear for him,” Monk pointed out.
    “He was out of London that night,” Runcorn responded. “Wasn’t within a hundred miles. Checked on that, too.”
    “I see.” There was nothing left to argue. He stood up with a strange hollowness inside him. “Thank you.”
    Runcorn rose as well. “Are you giving up?” It sounded like a challenge. There was a note in it close to despair.
    “No!” Monk exclaimed. In truth, though, he had no idea where else to look for evidence. Inevitability closed in on him.
    “Tell me,” Runcorn said, frowning, “if you find anything. And…”
    “Yes, I will,” Monk promised. He thanked him, and left before it could grow any more awkward. There was nothing else for them to say to each other, and the brief truce was best unbroken by not trying.
     
    Monk returned to Wapping station and spent the afternoon in the general duties that were part of his new job. He disliked the routine, especially writing reports and even more reading other people’s, but he could not afford to do less than his best. Any error or omission could be the one that spelled failure. He must succeed. He had no other skills than for his work and most certainly no other friends like Callandra Daviot who could or should help financially.
    At five o’clock it was completely dark. Worse than that, there was a heavy fog rolling in from the east, shrouding the river so closely he knew he would not find a boatman to attempt rowing him across. Already the streetlamps were dimming, blurred yellow ghosts fading altogether after twenty yards, so the night was impenetrable. The mournful baying of the foghorns on the water broke the silence, and there was little else to be heard but the steady drip of water and the slurp of the tide on the steps and against the embankment.
    Monk left at half past five to begin the long walk up towards London Bridge, where if he was very fortunate he might find a hansom to take him over, and as far as Southwark Park and home.
    He buttoned his coat, pulled his collar up, and set out.
    He had gone about a quarter of a mile when he was aware of someone behind him. He stopped just beyond one of the mist-shrouded lamps and waited.
    An urchin came into the pale circle of