William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

street made the lamps look yellow, like eerie moons on stalks. Their breath was visible, like smoke. Carriages passed them in the street, hooves muffled by snow. It was midnight.
    “Been to the theater, most likely,” Runcorn remarked as another carriage passed them, looming out of the darkness, and then was swallowed again between the lamps, reappearing outlined against the falling snow.
    “One of them may have witnessed something!” Monk said eagerly.
    “Mews,” Runcorn said.
    “What?”
    “Mews,” he repeated. “We need the coachmen. People will have gone inside and be in no mood to help us at this hour. Coachmen’ll still be up. Got to unharness, cool the horses, rub them down, put everything away. It’ll be another hour before they can go to bed.”
    Of course. Monk should have thought of it himself. In trying to wrench his mind into the habits of river boats, he had forgotten the obvious.
    “Right,” he agreed, turning to follow Runcorn, who was still hesitating. The rank that Runcorn had attained over the years had not taken from him the inner conviction that somehow Monk was the leader. His brain knew better, but his instinct was slower. By sheer force of will, Monk deliberately walked half a step behind.
    They were sheltered for a few yards along the alley. Then, as they turned into the mews, the snow caught them again. All the stable lights were on, the doors open. Three men were busy along the length of it, working hard backing vehicles into coach houses, soothing animals and unharnessing them, trying to get finished as fast as possible and get out of the biting cold to warm up before going to bed.
    “Names and addresses,” Runcorn said, unnecessarily. “We’ll not get much more than that out of the poor devils at this hour.”
    Monk smiled to himself. The “poor devils” were going to get home into the warmth a long time before he was.
    “Evening,” Runcorn began cheerfully as they approached the first man, who was busy unfastening a harness on a handsome bay horse.
    “Evenin’,” he replied guardedly. The horse threw its head up and the man caught the rein, steadying it. “Quiet now! I know yer want ter go ter bed. So do I, boy. Steady now! What is it, sir? Yer lorst?”
    Runcorn introduced himself. “Nothing wrong,” he said mildly. “Just wonder if you’ve been to the theater, or something like that, and if you have, if you go quite often. You might have seen something helpful to us. We’ll come back at a better time to look into it.”
    The man hesitated. In the carriage lights his face was marked with weariness and the snow was dusting his hat and shoulders. “Prince o’ Wales Theater,” he answered guardedly.
    “Go often?” Runcorn asked.
    “Couple o’ times a week, if there’s somethin’ good on.”
    “Excellent. Which number house do you belong to, and what’s your master’s name?”
    “Not ternight.” The man shook his head.
    “Course not,” Runcorn agreed. “Tomorrow, maybe, at a decent hour. What’s his name?”
    Monk gave a half salute and moved on to the next coachman, who was clearly visible in the lights about four houses along.
    In half an hour they collected a reasonable list. They agreed to resume the following evening, a little earlier next time.
     
    Monk’s mood was considerably deflated when he arrived at the station in Wapping a little late the next morning.
    “Mr. Farnham wants to see you, sir,” Clacton said with a smile composed far more of satisfaction than friendliness. The smile broadened.
    “ ’E’s bin waitin’ a while!”
    Monk could think of no reply, save one, that would not play straight into Clacton’s hands. But the resolve hardened inside him to deal with Clacton decisively as soon as he could create the opportunity. This time he simply thanked him and went to report to Farnham.
    “Cold getting to you, Monk?” Farnham said unsympathetically before Monk had closed the office door.
    “Sir?” The room was warm and comfortable, smelling slightly of woodsmoke, and there was a cup of tea steaming on the desk next to a pile of papers.
    “Fancy your bed more than a brisk river crossing?” Farnham elaborated. “Didn’t see that that’s what the job would need? On the water, Monk! That’s where the work is!” He did not add that Durban would have been here long before this hour, but it was implicit in his expression.
    “Yes, sir. It was a cold night,” Monk agreed, biting his temper with great difficulty.