William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

albeit always discreetly. He could not go on like that. “I’m not looking for a man.” He faced Sixsmith squarely, meeting the clear blue eyes. “I believe you used to work with James Havilland?”
    Sixsmith’s expression darkened with a sudden sadness. His face was more mobile, more easily marked with emotion than Monk had expected. He looked not unlike the navvies himself and blended with them easily, but his voice, both in tone and in diction, placed him as far different, a man of more gentleness and considerable education, whether formally acquired or not.
    “Yes. Poor man,” he replied. “In the end the tunnels got to him.” His eyes searched Monk’s, and Monk had the distinct feeling that his own fear was sensed, if not seen.
    “What can you tell me about him?” Monk asked. “Was he a good engineer?”
    “Excellent, if a little old-fashioned,” Sixsmith answered. “He wanted new ideas tested more thoroughly than I think was necessary. But he was a sound man, and I know no one who didn’t both like and respect him. I certainly did!”
    “You said the tunnels got to him,” Monk continued. “What did you mean?” He was glad when they started to move towards the entrance again, even if it was to a crevasse rather than the level ground.
    Sixsmith sighed and moved his hands in a slight gesture of regret. Despite the dirt on them, both the power and the grace were visible. “Some men can’t stand closed-in places,” he explained. “You’ve got to have a special kind of nerve to work underground. He hadn’t. Oh, he tried his best, but you could see him losing control.” He sighed and pulled his wide mouth tight. “I attempted to persuade him to stay up top, but he wouldn’t listen. Pride, I suppose.”
    “Was there anything in particular he was afraid of?” Monk asked as innocently as he could.
    Sixsmith looked at him carefully. His gaze was very direct, and it was impossible to miss the intelligence in his eyes. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to conceal it now,” he said resignedly. “The poor man’s dead, and the world knows his weaknesses. Yes, he was afraid of a stream bursting through and sending the whole side caving in. If that happened, of course, men would be buried alive or drowned. He became obsessed with the idea of lost underground navvies just waiting to find a way in, almost like an evil presence.” He looked at Monk defensively. “It’s not insane, Mr. Monk, not entirely. It’s just the exaggeration of something real—fear taken beyond reason, so to speak. Tunnel engineering is a dangerous business. Men died in building the Thames Tunnel, you know? Crushed, gassed, all sorts of things. It’s a hard profession, and it’s not for everyone.”
    “But you liked him personally?” Monk was shivering in spite of his heavy coat. He clenched his teeth, trying to hide it.
    “Yes, I did,” Sixsmith said without hesitation. “He was a good man.” He pushed his hands in his pockets. He walked easily, even casually.
    “Did you know Miss Mary Havilland?” Monk pursued.
    A shadow of exasperation crossed Sixsmith’s expressive face. “Yes, I did. Not well. She took her father’s death very hard. I’m afraid she was a bit less…well-balanced than he was, or her sister, Mrs. Argyll. Very emotional.”
    Monk found himself resenting Sixsmith, which was unreasonable. He had never known Mary Havilland in life and Sixsmith had. He must remember that her likenesses to Hester were superficial—matters of circumstance, not nature. And yet her face had looked so gentle and so sane. Emotional, certainly, but her passions were those of a strong woman, not the fancies and indulgences of a weak one.
    It was difficult for him to speak of her death to this man who saw her so differently. He hesitated, looking for the words he wanted, even, for an instant, forgetting how far ahead the light still lay.
    Sixsmith was there before him. “Is that why you are here? You said River Police. She died in the river, didn’t she?” He pursed his lips. “I’m deeply sorry about that. And young Toby, too. What a terrible tragedy.” He was looking at Monk intently now. “Are you assuming that she killed herself because of her father? You are almost certainly right. She couldn’t accept the truth. Fought against it all the way, poor soul.” He shrugged slightly. “Maybe I would have if it had been my father. It’s hard to face something like that about your own