William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

the edge o’ doin’ it! ’At excited, she were….” She stopped, sniffing and turning away.
    “If she didn’t take her own life, Mrs. Plimpton, what do you think happened?” he asked. He said it gently, letting her know he took her opinion seriously.
    She looked back. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her nose pink.
    “I think she found out ’oo sent that letter to ’er father lurin’ ’im inter the stable ter be shot,” she said defiantly. “The master’d never ’ave shot ’isself, any more’n she’d go jumpin’ off bridges.” She took a deep breath. “An’ don’t yer go sittin’ there eatin’ my cake an’ tellin’ me as they would.”
    He was startled. No one else had spoken of a letter.
    “What letter, Mrs. Plimpton?” he said quietly, controlling the urgency in his voice with an effort.
    “Letter as come ter ’im the night ’e died,” she answered.
    “Mr. Cardman didn’t mention it.”
    “ ’Cos ’e didn’t know,” she replied reasonably, automatically refilling his cup from the big brown teapot. “It came ter the back door an’ Lettie took it to ’im. We didn’t find it after, so I s’pose ’e didn’t keep it. But it was right after that that ’e told Mr. Cardman as ’e’d decided ter sit up, an’ no one was ter bother waitin’ fer ’im. ’E’d lock up ’isself. It were somebody as was goin’ ter meet ’im, I’d set me life on it!” She drew in her breath in a little gasp, as if realizing suddenly that she was right: Havilland had done just that, and lost his life.
    “You are quite sure?”
    “Course I am!” She was shaking now, but her eyes did not waver.
    “May I speak to Lettie?” Monk asked.
    “Yer think I’m makin’ it up!” she accused him, her face pinched, her breathing heavy.
    “No, I don’t,” he assured her. “If I did, there would be no point in my speaking to Lettie, would there? I want to see what she remembers of it: paper, ink, handwriting. I’d like to know if she saw Mr. Havilland open it, and how he reacted. Was he surprised, afraid, alarmed, or excited, even pleased? Was he expecting it or not?”
    “Oh…yes. Well!” She could not bring herself to apologize, but she pushed the cake plate across the table to him. “Well, I’ll send for Lettie.” She walked to the door and called the kitchen maid to fetch the house-maid.
    Lettie appeared and answered his questions. She was about fifteen and stood in front of him twisting her fingers in her apron. She could not read, and had no idea about the paper or the writing, but she remembered quite clearly that Mr. Havilland was both surprised and disturbed by the letter. After reading it he had put it straight into the fire and then told her to send Cardman to him. He had written no reply.
    “Have you any idea whom the letter was from?” he asked.
    “No, sir, I ain’t.”
    “What did he say, as clearly as you can remember?”
    “Ter send Mr. Cardman straightaway, sir.”
    “That’s all?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Have you ever seen the handwriting before?”
    “I dunno, sir. I din’t never look.”
    Monk thanked her and Mrs. Plimpton. He left the house through the scullery door and the tradesman’s yard, heading past the coal and coke sheds and up the area steps into the bitter wind slicing down the street. Who had written to Havilland, disturbing him so much? Was it to arrange a meeting in the stables that evening, or something completely different? Certainly Havilland had dismissed the servants immediately after receiving it, and apparently decided not to retire as normal. It would even explain his presence in the stables. But whom would he meet in such a place on a winter night, rather than in his house, where it was warm and dry, but presumably less private?
    Why would he need such extraordinary privacy? Was his own study not sufficiently discreet, with the servants in bed, and presumably Mary also? Had he taken the gun in order to protect himself, expecting an attack? Why? From whom? Perhaps Mary Havilland had been right. If so, then certainly she also would have been killed deliberately, and it could have been only by Toby Argyll.
    It was now impossible to turn his back on the chance that Mr. Havilland had found some real danger in the tunnels and been murdered to silence him before he could ruin the Argylls’ business by making it public.
    But the visitor had then taken the gun from him and shot him with it. A man younger and stronger, more ruthless, and