William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

if he had been struck. “You were there? Why in God’s name didn’t you…” He gasped, finding it difficult to catch his breath. He looked as if he was on the edge of collapse.
    “We were in a boat on patrol on the river,” Monk answered. “I’m sorry, sir; there was nothing anyone could have done. In such circumstances, a man drowns very quickly. I think he probably felt nothing at all. I know that is little comfort, but it may help in time.”
    “He was twenty-nine!” Argyll shouted at him. He came further into the room and the light shone on his face. Monk could not help seeing the resemblance to his brother: the line of his mouth, the color of his well-shaped eyes, the way his hair grew. “How do you fall off a bridge?” he demanded. “Was there a crime, and you’re not telling me? Was he attacked?” Rage flared in his voice and his fists clenched.
    “He wasn’t alone,” Monk said quickly, before Argyll should lose control. Grief he was used to, even anger, but there was a thread of violence just under the surface in this man that was fast unraveling. “A young woman named Mary Havilland was with him….”
    Argyll’s eyes flew wide open. “Mary? Where is she? Is she all right? What happened? What are you not telling me, man? Don’t just stand there like an idiot! This is my family you’re talking about.” Again the fists were tight, skin on his knuckles stretched pale across the bone.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Havilland went over with him,” Monk said grimly. “They went over holding on to each other.”
    “What are you saying?” Argyll demanded.
    “That they both went over, sir,” Monk repeated. “They were standing together by the railing, having what appeared to be a heated discussion. We were too far away to hear. The next time we looked they were at the railing, and the moment after, they overbalanced and fell.”
    “You saw a man and woman struggling and you looked away?” Argyll said incredulously, his voice high-pitched. “What at, for God’s sake? What else could possibly be—”
    “We were on patrol,” Monk cut across him. “We watch the whole river. We wouldn’t even have seen that much had they not been so close to the rail. It appeared an ordinary conversation, perhaps a lovers’ quarrel then made up again. If we’d have continued watching, it could have been intrusive.”
    Argyll stood motionless, blinking. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Toby…Toby was my only relative. At least…” He ran his hand over his face almost as if to steady himself, somehow clear his vision. “My wife. You say Mary Havilland is dead also?”
    “Yes. I’m sorry. I believe she was close to your brother.”
    “Close!” Argyll’s voice rose again dangerously, a note of hysteria in it. “She was my sister-in-law. Toby was betrothed to her, at least they were going to be. She…she called it off. She was very disturbed….”
    Monk was confused. “She would have been your sister-in-law?”
    “No! She
was.
Mary was my wife’s sister,” Argyll said with a small, indrawn breath. “My wife will be…devastated. We were hoping…” He stopped again.
    Monk needed to prompt him, painful as it must be for him to answer further questions. This was an unguarded moment when he might reveal a truth that later he would, for decency or compassion’s sake, have covered. Based on the landlady’s words, Mary was a woman of spirit who had passionate opinions.
    “Yes, sir? You were hoping…?” he prompted.
    “Oh,” Argyll sighed, and looked away. He fumbled towards a chair and sat down heavily. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, considerably older than his brother. But that bore out what Mrs. Porter had said.
    Monk sat as well, to put himself on a level with Argyll. Orme remained standing, discreetly, a couple of yards away.
    Argyll looked at Monk. “Mary’s father took his own life almost two months ago,” he said quietly. “It was very distressing. Actually both Mary and Jenny, my wife, were bitterly grieved. Their mother had died many years before, and this was a terrible blow. My wife bore it with great fortitude, but Mary seemed to lose her…her mental balance. She refused to accept that it was indeed suicide, even though the police investigated it, naturally, and that was their finding. We…we were hoping she was…”
    “I’m sorry.” Monk found he meant it with savage honesty. He imagined Mary as she must have been when she was