William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

first time Clacton was thrown off balance. “That’s stupid! ’Oo’ll pay yer?”
    “Her Majesty,” Monk replied. “There’s a conspiracy behind Havilland’s death. Thousands of pounds in the construction business, and a lot of power to be gained. Go and tell Mr. Farnham what you think, by all means. But you’d be better to go and get on with your job, and be glad you still have one.”
    Clacton was confused. Now he was the one needing to weigh his chances, and it angered him. The tables had turned, and he had barely even seen it happen.
    “I still know yer crooked!” he said between his teeth. “An’ I’ll catch yer one day!”
    “No,” Monk told him, “you won’t. You’ll fall over yourself. Now get out!”
    Slowly, as if still unsure whether he had another weapon left, Clacton turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Monk could see that as soon as he was in the main room his swagger returned.
    Monk’s tea was cold, but he did not want to go and get more. His hand was trembling, and the breath caught in his throat. Clacton’s accusation had been worse than he expected.
     
    The following morning he went to Sir Oliver Rathbone’s office. Monk was prepared to wait as long as necessary, but it proved to be no more than an hour. Rathbone came in elegantly dressed in a wool overcoat against the biting east wind. He looked surprised to see Monk, but pleased. Since he had realized how much he loved Margaret Ballinger his rivalry with Monk had softened considerably. It was as if he had reached a kind of inner safety at last, and was now open to a gentler range of emotions.
    “Monk! How are you?” Rathbone was very different from Monk, a man of excellent education, comfortable with himself. His elegance was entirely natural.
    Monk smiled. In the beginning Rathbone had discomfited him, but time and experience had shown Monk the humanity beneath the veneer. “I need your help in a case.”
    “Of course—why else would you be here in the middle of the morning?” Rathbone made no attempt to conceal his amusement or his interest. If Monk was out of his depth legally, then it offered an interesting problem, which was exactly what he craved. “Sit down and tell me.”
    Monk obeyed. Very briefly he described Mary Havilland’s fall from the bridge with Toby Argyll, then his discovery of James Havilland’s earlier death and the course of the investigation that had led to the arrest of Aston Sixsmith.
    “Surely you don’t want me to defend Sixsmith,” Rathbone said incredulously.
    “No…at least not to act as defense for him,” Monk replied. He was beginning to wonder if what he was intending to ask was impossible. Again, fury at Argyll washed over him, and a sense of helplessness in the face of the skill with which Argyll had manipulated both Sixsmith and the police into the position he wanted them in. Monk could picture Argyll’s angry, slightly arrogant face marred by grief as if he had seen him only moments ago. “I want you to prosecute Sixsmith, but in such a way that we get the man behind him,” he answered Rathbone. “I don’t think Sixsmith had any idea what the money was for. Argyll told him what to do and he did it, either blindly or out of loyalty to the Argylls, believing it was for some legitimate purpose.”
    Rathbone’s fair eyebrows rose. “Such as what, for example?”
    “Tunneling is a hard trade. I don’t say he wouldn’t cut corners or pay bribes to some of the more violent of those who know the sewers and the underground rivers and wells. I don’t know.”
    Rathbone thought for a moment or two. Clearly his interest was caught. He looked at Monk. “You believe the elder Argyll brother used Sixsmith to pay an assassin to kill Havilland, because Havilland was a threat to him. Who found this assassin, if not Sixsmith?”
    Monk felt as if he were on the witness stand. It was more uncomfortable than he had anticipated. It would be impossible to escape with inaccurate or incomplete answers. “Alan Argyll himself, or perhaps Toby,” he answered. “Alan has taken great care to account for all his own time before and after Havilland’s death, but Toby was several years younger and spent more time on the sites and knew some of the tougher navvies.”
    “According to whom?” Rathbone said quickly.
    Monk smiled, but without pleasure. “According to Sixsmith. But it can be easily verified.”
    “You’ll need to do it,” Rathbone warned. “The money