William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

family.”
    Monk swung to face him, but there was nothing but a crumpled pity in Sixsmith’s face.
    “Everyone was very sorry for her,” Sixsmith went on. “Turned a deaf ear to her questions and accusations, hoped she’d grow out of it, but it doesn’t seem to have helped. Perhaps she finally saw the truth, and it was too much for her.”
    Monk looked into his powerful, sad face and felt the weight of his conviction and pity. “Thank you. I’ll come back if there seems anything further.” He held out his hand.
    Sixsmith grasped it with a sudden smile so warm it entirely changed him. They could have been friends met again after a long separation. “Do come back,” he said, letting Monk’s hand go. “Any help I can be.”
    In spite of what Sixsmith had said, Monk still went to check one more time on James Havilland’s suicide. Even as he rode in a hansom along the Embankment he was aware that Farnham would have expected him to attend to the urgent crime on the river, which was his job, but he knew Orme would deal with all the regular accidents and the crimes. He realized ruefully that Orme did that much of the time anyway. He was teaching Monk more than he was learning from him.
    Mary Havilland and Toby Argyll had died in the river. Had she really believed that he and his brother were responsible for her father’s death? If so, then perhaps she had taken Toby with her over the edge intentionally, as Alan Argyll had implied in the shock of his loss. If that was so, then it was murder.
    Monk decided to spend one more day seeking to lay to rest the doubts that swirled around in his mind. Then he would have to tell Hester the truth, however sad or brutal it was.
    Last time at the Havilland house he had spoken only to Cardman, who was intensely loyal. Perhaps if he spoke to a different servant, someone who had been there less time and would very shortly be seeking another place anyway, he would hear a different story.
    It was a gray day with sleet on the wind. He was glad to reach the house again and be permitted into the kitchen, where he was offered a hot cup of tea and some Madeira cake. The reason for such hospitality was quickly revealed.
    “Yer police, the law?” the cook asked him, offering a second piece of cake.
    He accepted, as it was excellent. “Yes,” he agreed with his mouth full, an upwards lift in his voice to encourage her to continue.
    “Can yer tell us what’s goin’ to ’appen ter us, Mr. Monk? Mr. Argyll’s too upset o’er the death of ’is brother ter take up any business matters, an’ Mrs. Argyll must be broke to pieces about poor Miss Mary. It’s just that we don’t know our position, like. Me and Mr. Cardman’ll stay as long as we’re needed. But we ’ave ter tell some o’ the maids an’ the footmen. It in’t always that easy ter find a good place, an’ comin’ from a tragedy like this don’t ’elp.”
    He looked at her plump, anxious face. Her fair hair was graying, pulled back into a loose knot. She was trying hard not to sound callous, but one suicide in the house was damaging enough; two could make domestic reemployment far harder than held any justice. The fear was in her eyes.
    “I don’t know, Mrs. Plimpton, but I will find out, and see that you are informed as soon as possible. We are not sure yet how Miss Havilland came to fall into the river.” He stopped, seeing the wordless emotion in her face. It would take great delicacy to draw from her what she really believed. She might not even have put it into words herself. “Or Mr. Toby Argyll,” he added, watching her.
    He saw the flicker of anger—a flash—and then she hid it again. She was a woman whose position in life had never allowed her to leave her feelings uncontrolled. He read the dislike of Toby that she dared not tell him.
    “Thank yer, sir,” she replied.
    He needed more. “I imagine you knew Miss Havilland a long time?”
    “Since she was born,” Mrs. Plimpton replied, her voice thick with grief.
    Monk tried a different approach. “Was she extremely fond of Mr. Argyll?”
    “No,” she said abruptly, then realized she had been too forthright. “I mean…I mean o’ course she liked ’im, but it were she as broke it orff, not ’im.” She gulped. “Mr. Monk, she would never ’ave taken ’er own life! If yer’d ’ave known ’er, yer wouldn’t even think on it. She were that determined to prove as poor Mr. ’Avilland were killed, not took ’isself, an’ she were on