William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

alive—the pale, river-wet face animated with emotion, anger, amazement, grief. “That’s a very hard thing for anyone to bear.” Like a physical blow, he remembered that Hester’s father had also taken his own life, and the pain of it was close and real in a way that no power of words alone could have given.
    Argyll looked at him with surprise, as if he had heard the emotion through the polite phrases. “Yes. Yes, it is.” It was clear he had not expected Monk to allow his feelings to show. “I…I don’t know how poor Jenny will deal with this. It’s…” He failed to find the words for what he was struggling to say, perhaps even to himself.
    “Would it be easier for Mrs. Argyll if we were here, so that she could ask us any questions she wishes to?” Monk asked. “Or would you prefer to tell her privately?”
    Argyll hesitated. He seemed torn by a genuine indecision.
    Monk waited. The clock on the mantel struck the quarter hour; otherwise there was silence.
    “Perhaps I should not deny her the chance to speak with you,” Argyll said at last. “If you will excuse me, I shall inform her alone, and then see what she wishes.” He took Monk’s acquiescence for granted and rose to his feet. He walked out of the room a little unsteadily, only saving himself from bumping into the doorjamb at the last moment, and leaving the door itself gaping open.
    “Poor man,” Orme said softly. “Wish we could tell ’im it were an accident.” He looked at Monk with a question in his eyes.
    “So do I,” Monk agreed. It began to look as if Mary Havilland had at least temporarily lost her mental balance, but he did not want to say so, even to Orme.
    The butler came in and stood like a black shadow just inside the door. “Mrs. Argyll asked me to see if there is anything I could bring for you gentlemen. Perhaps a glass of”—he considered—“ale?” He was not going to offer them a glass of good sherry they would not appreciate, and certainly not the best brandy.
    Monk realized how achingly hungry he was. Orme must be also. Perhaps that was at least in part why he was still cold.
    “Thank you,” he accepted. “We’ve come straight from the river. A sandwich and a glass of ale would be very gracious of you.”
    The butler looked faintly uncomfortable, as if realizing he should have thought of it himself. “Immediately, sir,” he acknowledged. “Would cold roast beef and a spot of mustard be right?”
    “It would be perfect,” Monk answered.
    Orme thanked him warmly as soon as the door was closed. “ ’Ope it comes afore Mr. Argyll gets back,” he added. “Wouldn’t be decent to eat it in front of ’im, specially if Mrs. Argyll comes too. Don’t reckon as she will, though. Most ladies take bad news ’ard.”
    The sandwiches arrived and were consumed ravenously, just before Argyll returned. But Orme was mistaken in his second guess: Jenny Argyll chose to see them. She came in ahead of her husband, a handsome woman with eyes and mouth startlingly like those of her dead sister, but darker hair and not the same high cheekbones. Now she too was bleached of color and her eyelids were puffy from weeping, but she was remarkably well composed, given the circumstances. She was wearing a dark red woollen dress with a wide skirt and her hair was elaborately coiffed in a style that must have taken her lady’s maid at least half an hour to accomplish. She regarded Monk with civility but no interest at all.
    Argyll closed the door behind them and waited until his wife was seated.
    Monk expressed his condolences again.
    “Thank you,” Mrs. Argyll said briefly. “My husband says that Mary fell off Westminster Bridge. Toby was with her. Perhaps he tried to stop her and failed. Poor Toby. I think he still loved her, in spite of everything.” The tears filled her eyes again but she ignored them and her face remained under control. It was impossible to tell what the effort cost her. She did not look at her husband, nor did she reach to touch him.
    Monk should have accepted the answer implicit in her words, and yet in spite of all sense he refused to. When Hester’s father had shot himself because of the unanswerable debt he had been cheated into, she had returned from the Crimea, where she had been serving as a military nurse, and redoubled her efforts to strengthen her family and to fight all the wrongs she encountered. It had been her resolve that had strengthened Monk to struggle against the burden that had