William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

lived was gracious but obviously was let in a series of rooms, as suited single men rather than families. A landlady in a dark dress and wearing an apron opened the door, immediately nervous on seeing two men unknown to her standing on the step. Orme was of average height with pleasant, ordinary features, but he wore a river policeman’s uniform. Monk was taller and had the grace of a man conscious of his own magnetism. There was power in his face, lean-boned with a high-bridged, broad nose and unflinching eyes. It was a face of intelligence, even sensitivity, but few people found it comfortable.
    “Good evening, ma’am,” he said gently. His voice was excellent, his diction beautiful. He had worked hard to lose the Northumbrian accent that marked his origins. He had wanted passionately to be a gentleman. That desire was long past, but the music in his voice remained.
    “Evenin’, sir,” she replied warily.
    “My name is Monk, and this is Sergeant Orme, of the Thames River Police. Is this the home of Mr. Toby Argyll?”
    She swallowed. “Yes, sir. Never say there’s bin an accident in one o’ them tunnels!” Her hand flew to her mouth as if to stifle a cry. “I can’t ’elp yer, sir. Mr. Argyll’s not at ’ome.”
    “No, ma’am, there hasn’t been, so far as I know,” Monk replied. “But I’m afraid there has been a tragedy. I’m extremely sorry. Does Mr. Argyll live alone here?”
    She stared at him, her round face paler now as she began to understand that they had come with the worst possible news.
    “Would you like to go in and sit down?” Monk asked.
    She nodded and backed away from him, allowing them to follow her along the passage to the kitchen. It was full of the aroma of dinner cooking, and he realized absently how long it was since he had eaten. She sank down on one of the hard-backed wooden chairs, putting her elbows on the table and her hands up to her face. There were pans steaming on the top of the huge black range, and the savory aroma of meat pie came from the oven beneath it. Copper warming pans glimmered on the wall in the gaslight, and strings of onions hung from the ceiling.
    There was no point in delaying what she must already know was coming.
    “I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Argyll fell off the Waterloo Bridge,” Monk told her. “Mrs….?”
    She looked at him, face blanched, eyes wide. “Porter,” she supplied. “I looked after Mr. Argyll since ’e first come ’ere. ’Ow could ’e ’ave fallen orff the bridge? It don’t make no sense! There’s railings! Yer don’t fall orff! Are yer sayin’ ’e was the worse for wear an’ went climbin’, or summink daft?” She was shivering now, angry. “I don’t believe yer! ’E weren’t like that! Very sober, ’ard-workin’ young gentleman, ’e were! Yer in’t got the right person. Yer made a mistake, that’s wot yer done!” She lifted her chin and stared at him. “Yer oughter be more careful, scarin’ folks all wrong.”
    “There’s no reason to suppose he was drunk, Mrs. Porter.” Monk did not prevaricate. “The young man we found had cards saying he was Toby Argyll, of this address. He was about my height, or perhaps a little less, fair-haired, clean-shaven except for a mustache.” He stopped. He could see by her wide, fixed eyes and the pinched look of her mouth that he had described Argyll. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
    Her lips trembled. “Wot ’appened? If ’e weren’t drunk, ’ow’d ’e come ter fall in the river? Yer ain’t makin’ no sense!” It was still a challenge; she was clinging to the last shred of hope as if disbelieving could keep it from being true.
    “He was with a young lady,” he told her. “They seemed to be having a rather heated discussion. They grasped hold of each other and swayed a little, then she fell back against the rail. They struggled a little more—”
    “Wot d’yer mean?” she demanded. “Yer sayin’ as they was fightin’, or summink?”
    This was worse than he had expected. What had they been doing? What had he seen, exactly? He tried to clear his mind of all the ideas since then, the attempts to understand and interpret, and recall exactly what had happened. The two figures had been on the bridge, the woman closer to the railing. Or had she? Yes, she had. The wind had been behind them and Monk had seen the billowing skirts poking between the uprights of the balustrade. The woman had waved her arms and then put her hands on the