William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

hurt her,’” Monk observed.
    Sixsmith looked at him very steadily, and now his expression was unreadable. “Didn’t I? No, I suppose I didn’t. Got to get back to work now, Mr. Monk. Can’t afford delays. Costs money. Good day.” He walked away easily with a long, swinging stride.
    Monk stood still for a moment, sharply aware again of the cold—and the noise of engines. The next thing he needed to ascertain was the exact time James Havilland had died, or as near as the police surgeon could tell him.
    “What the devil for?” the surgeon demanded when Monk found him in his consulting rooms. He was a lean man with a harassed air, as if constantly put upon and always trying to catch up with himself. “You come to me two months afterwards and ask me what time the poor man shot himself?” He glared at Monk. “Haven’t you anything better to do? Go and catch some thieves! My neighbor’s house was broken into last week. What about that?”
    “Metropolitan Police,” Monk replied, not without pleasure. “I’m Thames River Police.”
    “Well, poor Havilland died of a gunshot,” the surgeon snapped.
    “Not a drop of water anywhere near him, even tap water, never mind the damn river!” He glared at Monk with triumph. “None of your business, sir!”
    Monk kept his temper with difficulty, and only because he wanted the information. “His daughter believed he was murdered—”
    “I know that,” the surgeon interrupted him. “The grief unhinged her. A great shame, but we don’t have a cure for grief, unless the priest has. Not my field.”
    “Her death was very definitely from drowning in the river,” Monk went on. “I saw her go in myself, and that could have been murder.” He saw the doctor’s startled look with satisfaction. “Unfortunately, the young man who may or may not have pushed her overbalanced and went in himself,” he continued. “Both were dead when we pulled them out. I need to investigate her accusation, even if only to lay it to rest, for both families’ sakes.”
    “Why the devil didn’t you say so, man?” The surgeon turned away and began to look through a stack of papers in a drawer behind him. “Fool!” he muttered under his breath.
    Monk waited.
    Finally the man pulled out a couple of sheets with triumph and waved them in the air. “There you are. Very cold night. Lay on the stable floor. Warmer than outside, colder than the house. Should say he died no later than two in the morning, no earlier than ten. But as I remember the household staff say they heard him up at eleven, so that gives you something.”
    “Anything medical to prove he shot himself?” Monk asked.
    “Like what, for God’s sake? That’s police work. Gun was on the floor where it would have fallen. If you’re asking if he was shot at point-blank range, then yes—he was. Doesn’t prove he did it himself. Or that he didn’t.”
    “Any sign of a struggle? Or didn’t you look?”
    “Of course I looked!” the surgeon snapped. “And there was no struggle. Either he shot himself, or whoever else shot him took him by surprise. Now go and bury the dead decently, and leave me to get on with something that matters. Good day, sir.”
    “Thank you,” Monk said sarcastically. “It’s as well you deal with the dead. Your manner wouldn’t do for the living. Good day, sir.” And before the doctor could respond, he turned on his heel and marched out.
    It was already approaching four o’clock and the winter dusk was closing in. Funny how the weather always became worse as the days began to lengthen after Christmas. It was snowing lightly in the street, and within an hour or two it would start to accumulate. He began to walk, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
    So there had definitely been no fight. There was no evidence of a break-in, and nothing had been stolen. Someone had sent Havilland a note, almost certainly requesting a meeting in the stable. Either that person had taken Havilland by surprise and shot him, making it look like suicide, or Havilland had shot himself, presumably after the unknown party left.
    If it was the former, then the person had gone to some considerable trouble to make it look like suicide rather than a quarrel or a burglary interrupted. Why? Surely it would have been simple enough to make it seem as if Havilland had seen or heard something and disturbed a thief. That would not have implicated anyone. So why the appearance of suicide?
    The answer was glaringly