William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

that’s why she was killed?”
    “It could be,” he said gently. “And it also might be why her father was killed, so don’t imagine they would give a moment’s thought as to whether or not they should kill you if they see you as a threat! So—”
    “I know that! I have no intention of going back there again, I promise.”
    He looked at her closely, steadily, and saw the fear in her eyes. She would keep her word; he did not need to ask her for a promise. “Not only your life,” he said, his voice softer. “The lives of others, too.”
    “I know. What are you going to do?”
    “Make the tea,” he said ruefully. “Then I’m going to consider who had the opportunity to kill James Havilland. As for Mary’s death—we’ll never prove that Toby meant to kill her, and since he died as well, the matter of justice has been rather well settled.”
    “Do you think she held on to him and took him with her on purpose?” she asked.
    “Yes,” he said. “I think she could do that.”
    “It isn’t enough, though, is it?”
    He could never lie to her. She could see right inside him, whether she meant to or not.
    “No. It doesn’t make sense that Alan Argyll would take a risk like that. It would ruin him. There’s something else that we don’t know. We haven’t got all of it.”
    She put her arms around him again, holding him more tightly.
    In the morning the situation seemed less clear-cut. If it had been Toby Argyll, young and ambitious, who was behind it all, then he was beyond anyone’s reach now, and blackening his name would be seen as pointlessly cruel. Alan Argyll would do everything possible to prevent that, and Monk would earn for the River Police a bitter enemy. His proof would have to be absolute. No one would care about rescuing the reputation of James Havilland, and even less about Mary’s. Naturally Farnham would see no purpose in it at all.
    Monk’s accountability to Farnham was one of the prices to pay for the authority and regular income his uniform gave him. He did not fear financial insecurity this winter as he had last. Thinking of ways to skirt around Farnham’s prejudices was a small enough price to pay.
    He needed to know a lot more about both Toby and Alan Argyll. It was difficult to form an opinion of someone who was dead, especially if he had died young and tragically. No one liked to speak of such individuals except in hushed and careful tones, as if death removed all weaknesses from them, not to mention actual sins.
    Perhaps a good place to begin would be with those who had cared for the other dead people, James and Mary Havilland. This time he would see the housekeeper, Mrs. Kitching. He might even ask Cardman again, and persuade him to be rather less stiffly discreet.
     
    Cardman greeted Monk with courtesy. He stood in the morning room to answer Monk’s questions, and if his mask slipped, it was only to show a swift anger that Mary Havilland was regarded by the church as a sinner who, by the finality of death, had forfeited her chance of repentance.
    Monk felt helpless to reach out to the man’s hard, isolated grief. Cardman was intensely private; perhaps it was his only armor. Monk had no wish to breach it. Instead he asked if he might see the housekeeper, and was conducted along the corridor and, after a brief enquiry, shown into her room.
    “Good morning, Mrs. Kitching,” he began.
    “Hmph,” she replied, her back straight as a ruler as she sat opposite him in her small, neat sitting room. She looked him up and down, noting his police uniform jacket—a sartorial burden he bore with difficulty—and then his white shirt collar and beautiful leather boots. “Police officer, is it? More of the officer, and less of the police, maybe? And what is it you’re wanting now? I’ll not say ill of Miss Havilland, so you can save your time. I’ll go to my own grave saying she was a good woman, and I’ll tell the good Lord so to his face.”
    “I’m investigating why she died, and who was the cause of it, Mrs. Kitching. I’d like to know a little more about the other people concerned in her life. For example, did you know Mr. Toby Argyll? I imagine he called here to see her quite often, especially after her father’s death?”
    “And before,” she said quickly.
    “Were they very close?”
    “Depends what you mean.” It was not a prevarication; she wished to be exact. Her eyes were more direct than those of any servant he had questioned before, at least as long