William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

manure.”
    Barclay’s eyes showed not only his disgust but also his impatience. “I daresay he did, Mel!” he said sharply. “Dirt and horse dung.” He made a guttural sound in his throat. “I’m perished standing out here. There really isn’t anything more to say. Good night, officers.”
    Melisande refused to move, disregarding his growing anger. “But he didn’t!” she insisted. “He didn’t smell at all. He was very close to me. He passed only a foot away, and he didn’t smell of anything except…sweat, and something a little sickly, and…something else quite strong, but I didn’t recognize it.” Again she was looking at Runcorn.
    Monk felt a tingle of excitement, the first scent of meaning. He glanced at Runcorn and had to bite his lip to keep silent.
    Runcorn let out his breath slowly. “What kind of smell, ma’am?” He was achingly careful not to suggest anything to her. “Can you describe it?”
    “Really!” Barclay lost his temper. “What’s the matter with you, man? Asking a lady to describe the precise stink of a beggar! I don’t know what kind of person you are used to….”
    The color washed up Melisande’s cheeks. Her brother’s rudeness clearly embarrassed her far more than the nature of the question.
    Runcorn blushed also—for her, not for himself. Monk could see that in the anger and confusion in his eyes. He longed to help her, and he had no idea how to. Something in her manner, her particular kind of loneliness, had found his sympathy, and he was utterly and wholly in her defense.
    Runcorn stared at Barclay with cold dislike. “It matters, sir,” he said. His voice was shaking a little, but that could have been attributed to the cold. They were shuddering now, their feet almost numb. “This man may have seen a murder. I don’t willingly distress anybody, but it sometimes happens that those who can help the most are also those who are sensitive to the…unpleasant details.”
    “Please, John, don’t try to protect me from doing my duty. That would not be a service to me.” Melisande looked at Runcorn, gratitude in her smile. “It was rather an acrid, smoky kind of smell. Not very pleasant, but not sour or dirty.”
    “Probably picked up someone’s old cigar end.” Barclay wrinkled his nose.
    “No,” she replied. “I know tobacco smoke. It definitely wasn’t that, but it was rather smoky.” She paled suddenly. “Oh! You mean it was gunsmoke?”
    “It might have been,” Runcorn agreed.
    “You can’t base a charge of murder on that!” Barclay protested.
    “I don’t.” Runcorn could not conceal his dislike again. He looked at Barclay coldly. “There are other reasons for believing that Mr. Havilland might not have shot himself.” He turned back to Melisande and his eyes softened. “Do you recall anything of this man’s appearance, ma’am? Of what height was he? A big man or a small man? Anything about his face?”
    She took a moment to bring it back to her mind. “He was very lean,” she replied. “His face was thin, what I could see of it. He had a scarf”—she made a gesture around her throat and chin—“and a hat on. His hair was long—long onto his collar. I think he was very dark.”
    “It was the middle of a winter night!” Barclay said with an obvious effort to be reasonable in spite of everyone else’s unreason. “He was of very average height and build and he had a dirty old coat on, with his collar turned up, as anyone would on such a night. That’s all!”
    “If his coat was dark, how did you see the wet stain on it?” Runcorn asked.
    “Then it wasn’t dark!” Barclay snapped. “It was a light coat, but it was still dirty. Now we’ve told you everything we can, and you have kept my sister standing here in the cold for more than long enough. Good night!”
    Melisande drew in her breath, perhaps to point out that it was he who had chosen to remain on the step. She had tried to invite them inside. But she might have remembered it was Barclay she was dependent upon, not Runcorn or Monk.
    “Good night,” she said with a swift, apologetic glance, then turned to go inside.
    The door closed, leaving them in sudden darkness. They were so numb from the icy wind that their first few steps were almost stumbling.
    Runcorn walked in silence for almost a hundred yards, still lost in his own thoughts.
    “Better see if anyone else saw him,” Monk said at last. “Might be a groom from one of the houses.”
    Runcorn gave him