William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

hand.
    Monk passed it to him.
    “Woman’s writing,” Runcorn said after only a second or two, disappointment so keen he could not mask it. He looked up at Monk, pain and confusion naked. “Was it an assignation after all? Who the devil shot him? A husband? Did the man in the two cabs have nothing to do with it?”
    Monk was unhappy, too, but for an entirely different reason. “Jenny Argyll,” he said. “If it was she who wrote, he would go out there to meet her. Don’t forget Mary was in the house. Maybe he wanted to speak with Jenny without Mary knowing, or Jenny with him.”
    Runcorn looked around for the bell. He found it and rang it, and Cardman answered a few moments later.
    Runcorn held out the envelope. “Do you know whose handwriting that is?” he asked.
    Cardman looked stiff and miserable, his eyes haunted, but he did not hesitate. “Yes, sir. That is Miss Jennifer’s handwriting—Mrs. Argyll, that is.”
    “Thank you,” Monk acknowledged. Then he realized what Cardman might think. Possibly Runcorn would disapprove, but he intended to tell Cardman anyway. “There was a man seen leaving the mews at about the time Mr. Havilland was shot. He passed two people returning from the theater who say he smelled of gunsmoke. We traced his movements. He took a cab as far as Piccadilly, then changed cabs and went east. It seems very possible it was he who actually killed Mr. Havilland.”
    Cardman’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “Thank you, sir.” He blinked, gratitude showing in his eyes.
    Jenny Argyll greeted them far more coolly. At this time of the day her husband was either at his office or at one of the sites.
    “The matter is closed,” she said bluntly. She had received them in the withdrawing room because the morning room fire was not lit. After such a double bereavement they were still not receiving callers. Everything was draped in black. There were wreaths on the doors leading into the hall, the mirrors were covered, and the clocks were stopped. Presumably in this house the state of mourning was more for Toby Argyll than for Mary, although Jenny might well grieve privately for her sister. Monk had not forgotten Argyll’s rage on hearing the news of their deaths, and his instant blaming of Mary. If Toby had killed her, had it been at his brother’s command?
    This time Runcorn allowed Monk to take the lead.
    “I am afraid the matter is not closed, Mrs. Argyll,” Monk said firmly. She was wearing black. It was completely unrelieved, and it drained from her what little color she might have had. He judged that she would normally be an attractive woman, but she had not the strength or the passion he had seen in Mary’s face, even when it had been lifeless and wet from the river. There had been something in the bones, the curve of her mouth, that had been unique.
    “I cannot help you,” she said flatly. She was standing, staring away from them out of the window into the flat winter light. “And I cannot see what good turning our pain over and over can do. Please allow us to grieve in peace—and alone.”
    “We are not at the moment concerned with the deaths of Miss Havilland and Mr. Argyll,” Monk replied. “It is the events on the night your father died that we are investigating.”
    “There is nothing more to say.” Her voice was quiet, but the hurt and the anger were plain in her face. Her shoulders were stiff, straining the shiny black fabric. “It is our family’s tragedy. For pity’s sake, leave us alone! Haven’t we suffered enough?”
    Monk hated having to continue. He was aware of the same distress in Runcorn, standing near him. But he could not let it go.
    “You wrote a letter to your father and had it hand-delivered the night of his death, Mrs. Argyll.” He saw her start and draw in her breath with a little gasp. “Please don’t embarrass us all with a denial. The letter was seen, and your father kept the envelope. I have it.”
    She was ashen, and she turned to face him angrily. “Then what do you want from me?” Her voice was so stifled in her throat that it was barely audible. Her eyes burned hot with hatred of them for the shame they were inflicting on her.
    “I want to know what was in the letter, Mrs. Argyll. You arranged for your father to go to the stables—alone—after the middle of the night. He did so, and was killed.”
    “He killed himself!” she burst out, her tone rising dangerously. “For the love of heaven, why can’t you leave it