William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

about a number of things, Monk could not argue. In fact, he suddenly saw not Mary Havilland as she was now, white-faced in death, but instead the slender, fierce, and vulnerable figure of Hester, with her shoulders a little too thin, her slight angularity, brown hair, and eyes of such passionate intelligence that he had never been able to forget them since the day they had met—and quarrelled.
    He found his voice husky when he spoke again. “Do you know why she broke off the relationship, Mrs. Porter? Or was it perhaps a generous fiction Mr. Argyll allowed, and it was actually he who ended it?”
    “No, it were ’er,” she said without hesitation. “ ’E were upset an’ ’e tried to change ’er mind.” She sniffed again. “I never thought as it’d come to this.”
    “We don’t know what happened yet,” he said. “But thank you for your assistance. Can you give us Mr. Argyll’s brother’s address? We need to inform him of what has happened. I don’t suppose you know who Miss Havilland’s nearest relative would be? Her parents, I expect.”
    “I wouldn’t know that, sir. But I can give you Mr. Argyll’s address all right, no bother. Poor man’s goin’ to be beside ’isself. Very close, they was.”
     
    Alan Argyll lived a short distance away, on Westminster Bridge Road, and it took Monk and Orme only ten minutes or so to walk to the handsome house at the address Mrs. Porter had given them. The curtains were drawn against the early winter night, but the gas lamps in the street showed the elegant line of the windows and the stone steps up to a wide, carved doorway, where the faint gleam of brass indicated the lion-headed knocker.
    Orme looked at Monk but said nothing. Breaking such news to family was immeasurably worse than to a landlady, however sympathetic. Monk nodded very slightly, but there was nothing to say. Orme worked on the river; he was used to death.
    The door was answered by a short, portly butler, his white hair thinning across the top of his head. From his steady, unsurprised gaze, he clearly took them to be business acquaintances of his master.
    “Mr. Argyll is at dinner, sir,” he said to Monk. “If you care to wait in the morning room I am sure he will see you in due course.”
    “We are from the Thames River Police,” Monk told him, having given only his name at first. “I am afraid we have bad news that cannot wait. It might be advisable to have a glass of brandy ready, in case it is needed. I’m sorry.”
    The butler hesitated. “Indeed, sir. May I ask what has happened? Is it one of the tunnels, sir? It’s very sad, but such things seem to be unavoidable.”
    Monk was aware that such mighty excavations as were at present in progress brought the occasional landslip or even cave-in of the sides, burying machines and sometimes injuring men. There had been a spectacular disaster over the Fleet only days ago.
    “Quite so,” he agreed. “But this happened on the river, and I am afraid it is bad personal news for Mr. Argyll. He needs to be informed as soon as possible.”
    “Oh, dear,” the butler said quietly. “How very terrible. Yes, sir.” He took a deep breath and let it out silently. “If you will come to the morning room, I shall bring Mr. Argyll to you.”
    The morning room was very somber, in shades of browns and golds. The fire had been allowed to go out, but it was now well into the evening, and presumably the room would not normally be used at this hour. Monk and Orme stood in the center of the Aubusson carpet, waiting. Neither of them spoke. Monk noted the picture of Highland scenery over the mantelshelf and the small stuffed rodent in a glass case on the table by the wall. They were self-conscious suggestions that Argyll’s wealth was old money, which brought to his mind that therefore it was probably not.
    The door swung open and Alan Argyll stood in the entrance, palefaced, his eyes dark in the lamplight. He was of more than average height, and lean with a suggestion of physical as well as mental power. His features were well-proportioned, but there was a coldness in them as if he did not laugh easily.
    Monk took a step forward. “My name is William Monk, of the Thames River Police, sir. This is Sergeant Orme. I am deeply sorry to tell you that your brother, Mr. Toby Argyll, fell off the Westminster Bridge earlier this evening, and although we reached him within a few minutes, he was already dead.”
    Argyll stared at him, swaying a little as