William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

’oo’re stole from ’oo run the river. That’s where the money is.”
    “You’re a wise man,” Monk conceded. “Remind me of that again in a day or two. Meantime, it’s dead women like Mary Havilland to whom we owe justice as well.”
    Monk took a hansom to the burial and picked up both Runcorn and Cardman. They rode in silence to the church. They were early, but it seemed appropriate to stand on the short strip of withered grass and wait, three men united in anger and grief for a woman one had known all her life, one only the last two months of it, and the third not at all.
    They stood stiff in the icy wind, each in his thoughts, oblivious of the traffic or the bulk of the workhouse black against a leaden sky.
    The gravediggers had done their job; the earth gaped open. The small cortège was led by the minister, whose unsmiling countenance was like the face of doom, followed by Jenny Argyll in unrelieved black and so heavily veiled her face was invisible. Monk knew her only because it could be no one else with Alan Argyll, although she took no notice of him at all, nor he of her. They looked as isolated as if the other were not there.
    Was Argyll thinking only of his dead brother? The bitterness in his face suggested it.
    There was no service, nothing said of the hope of resurrection. It was without mercy. The wind whipped the mens’ coattails, and the ice it carried stung the bare skin of their cheeks, making them red in contrast with white lips and hollow eyes. Monk looked once each at Runcorn and Cardman, then did not intrude further on their bereavement.
    Monk turned to the minister and wondered what manner of God he believed in, whether he did this willingly or under protest because he had a wife and children to feed. Monk was overwhelmingly grateful that his own faith was not hostage to financial need, his own or anyone else’s. He should pity the man his bondage, and yet there were no questions in the minister’s face.
    It was over almost before Monk realized it. Without a word, the cortège departed. In silence, Runcorn, Cardman, and Monk left, in opposite directions.
     
    “Suicide,” Monk’s superior said brusquely when Monk went into his office early in the afternoon. “For God’s sake, man! She jumped right in front of you, and took with her the poor devil who was trying to save her! Don’t make it even worse for the family by drawing it out!” Farnham was a big man, broad-shouldered and heavy-bellied. His long-nosed face could break into a sudden smile, and there were those who spoke of certain acts of kindness, but Monk felt uneasy in his presence, as if never certain he would be true to the best in himself. Farnham had sought authority and won it, and now he wore it with intense pleasure.
    Arguments of belief or intuition would only be mocked. Anything Monk put forward would be seen as enlightened self-interest for the River Police. “It probably is suicide, sir,” he agreed aloud. “But I think we should make certain.”
    Farnham’s eyebrows rose. He had trusted Durban and known where he was with him, or at least he had assumed he did. He resented the fact that now he had to learn the strengths and weaknesses of a new man. He was sufficiently aware of what had really happened not to hold Monk accountable for Durban’s death. But Monk had survived, and Farnham blamed him for that.
    “Not much is ever sure in police work, Monk,” he said sourly.
    “Thought you would have known that!” The criticism was implicit.
    Monk swallowed his impatience. “Not about what happened on the bridge, sir. I’m thinking of what she was investigating to do with the sewer tunnels and their construction.”
    “Not our concern!” Farnham snapped. “That’s the Metropolitan Police.” The distaste with which he said that was exactly what Monk had expected, had already seen in him in the few weeks he had been here. It was part of what Farnham disliked in Monk himself, and the fact that he had been dismissed from the Metropolitan Police was conversely a point in his favor.
    “Yes, sir,” Monk agreed with difficulty. “But if there is something, and it causes a real disaster and we knew about it, or at least had a chance to find out, do you think they’ll see it that way?”
    Farnham’s eyes narrowed. “You can have a couple of days,” he warned. “If you find something worth pursuing, then give it to them, on paper, and keep a record of it here! Understood?”
    “Yes, sir.” Monk