William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

and had the fire and courage to make it of practical use, but she had never excelled in tact. She was too fierce and too impatient. “If she placed honor first, then it is all the more urgent that we should follow her!” she said intently. “How can you wish to say nothing of her? Are you not proud of her? Do we not all owe her something?”
    Now he seemed embarrassed, and very clearly uncertain how to answer. “Mrs. Monk, there are some tragedies that…that should remain…unexplained. I can think of no better word. Please…”
    She saw the great crevasse in the ground in her mind’s eye again, and her stomach turned at the thought of its collapse. She imagined how it would be for the men at the bottom, possibly even seeing it begin to bulge and give way, knowing what would happen and yet unable to do anything but watch. They would see the water explode through, carrying earth and timber with it to crash down on top of them, bruising, breaking, burying them in the filth and darkness. She could not keep silent.
    “Mr. Applegate, there is no time for the niceties of feeling! If she saw what I did today and understood what could happen to these men—almost certainly
will
happen one day, sooner or later—would this woman really wish you to respect her delicacy now she is dead? Think of their lives, of those who still have a chance if we act, if we achieve what she began. Is not the greatest compliment to her, the greatest service, that we take up her cause?”
    He was looking at her with profound indecision in his eyes. He was a kind man, torn by conflicting principles of overwhelming power.
    Hester realized she was leaning forward as if to physically touch him. Reluctantly she sat back, not in apology but because it might be a bad strategy, and certainly bad manners.
    Without explanation Applegate stood up. “Excuse me,” he said huskily, and left the room.
    Hester was crushed. She had liked the man instinctively, and it seemed she had driven him to the point where he had found her so oppressive he had actually retreated from her presence, as if not knowing how else to deal with her. Was she really so insensitive? Was she dragging out the memory of a woman he had perhaps loved, and treating it with unbearable disrespect? How ugly! And how stupid.
    She did not know what to do next.
    Then the door opened and a woman came in. She was tall, perhaps even an inch or so taller than Hester, and equally slender. She had a most unusual face. It was handsome in its own way, but far more than for the beauty; it was remarkable for its great readiness for the enjoyment of life.
    The woman was immediately followed by Applegate himself, who introduced her to Hester as his wife, then by way of explanation added, “We were both fond of Mary, but my wife the more so. Before I break confidence I felt I should consult her opinion.”
    “How do you do, Mrs. Monk,” Rose Applegate said warmly. Then she glanced at her husband. “Nice of you to consult me, but quite unnecessary.” She invited Hester to resume her seat, since she had naturally stood up when Mrs. Applegate came in. Rose sat opposite, leaving her husband to sit where he would. “Mary died a couple of days ago, and we are all very distressed about it, and angry. I don’t believe for an instant it was as simple as they say. She wouldn’t do it, she just wouldn’t.”
    “My dear…,” Applegate began.
    She did not exactly say “Hush” to him, but almost. It was apparent that he was devoted to her and that she was sufficiently confident in that devotion not to defer to him when she felt passionately.
    Suddenly Hester had a flash of understanding. “Mary Havilland!” she said quickly. “Are you speaking of Mary Havilland?” It would make perfect sense with the little that Monk had told her of the death on the river.
    Morgan Applegate and Rose looked at each other, then at Hester. Rose was now pale, her hazel eyes troubled. “The news has spread so widely already?” she asked softly.
    Applegate reached over to put his hand on her arm. It was an extraordinarily protective gesture, as gentle as if he touched some wound.
    “No,” Hester answered, lowering her own voice, aware now that she was dealing with real and present pain. “I know of it only because my husband is in the River Police and was the one who actually saw it happen.”
    Rose gave an involuntary gasp, and Applegate’s hand tightened slightly on her arm. Hester could see in their eyes that