Outside in the street Monk began to walk back down the hill towards Westminster Bridge. It would be the best place to catch a hansom, but he was in no hurry. He must face Runcorn in his own station and yet again challenge his judgment, but he was not ready to do it yet. Were it not for the thought of Mary Havilland buried in the grave of an outcast, her courage and loyalty to her father credited as no more than the dementia of a bereaved woman, he would have accepted the verdict and consider he had done all that duty required.
But he remembered her face, the white skin, the strong bones and the gentle mouth. She was a fighter who had been beaten. He refused to accept that she had surrendered. At least he could not yet.
He wanted to prepare what he would say to Runcorn, weigh his words to rob them of criticism, perhaps even gain his support. The wind was cold blowing up off the river, and the damp in it stung the flesh. It crept through the cracks between scarf and coat collar, and whipped trousers around the ankles. The magnificent Gothic lines of the Houses of Parliament stood on the far bank. Big Ben indicated that it was twenty minutes before eleven. He had been longer with Cardman than he had realized.
He hunched his shoulders and walked more rapidly along the footpath. Hansoms passed him, but they were all occupied. Should he have asked Cardman outright if he believed the Havillands had committed suicide? He thought the butler was a good judge of character, a strong man.
No. He was also loyal. Whatever he thought, he would not have told a stranger that both his master and then his mistress had committed such an act of cowardice before the law of man and of God. His own judgment might have been wiser and gentler, but he would not have left them open to the censure of the world.
He reached the middle of the bridge and saw an empty cab going the other way. He stepped out into the road and hailed it, giving the police station address.
The journey was too short. He was still not ready when he arrived, but then perhaps he never would be. He paid the driver and went up the station steps and inside. He was recognized immediately.
'Mornin', Mr. Monk,' the desk sergeant said guardedly. 'What can we do for you, sir?'
Monk could not remember the man, but that meant nothing, except that he had not worked with him since the accident, nearly eight years ago now. Had he really known Hester so long? Why had it taken him years to find the courage within himself, and the honesty, to acknowledge his feelings for her? The answer was easy. He did not want to give anyone else the power to hurt him so much. And in closing the door on the possibility of pain, of course, he had closed it on the chance for joy as well.
'Good morning, Sergeant,' he replied, stopping in front of the desk. 'I would like to speak to Superintendent Runcorn, please. It concerns a case he handled recently.'
'Yes, sir,' the sergeant said with a hint of satisfaction at the lack of authority in Monk's voice. 'That will be on behalf of whom, sir?'
Monk forbore from smiling, although he wanted to. The man had not recognized his police coat. 'On behalf of the Thames River Police,' he replied, opening his jacket a little so that his uniform showed beneath.
The sergeant's eyes widened and he let out his breath slowly. 'Yes, sir!' he said, turning on his heel and retreating, and Monk heard his footsteps as he went upstairs to break the news.
Five minutes later Monk was standing in Runcorn's office. It had a large, comfortable desk in it and the air was warm from the stove in the corner. There were books on the shelf opposite and a rather nice carving of a wooden bear on a plinth in the middle. It was all immaculately tidy as always-part of Runcorn's need to conform, and impress.
Runcorn himself had changed little. He was tall and barrel-chested, with large eyes a fraction too close together above a long nose. His hair was still thick and liberally sprinkled with gray. He had put on a few pounds around the waist.
'So it's true!' he said, eyebrows raised, voice too carefully expressionless. 'You're in the River Police! I told Watkins he was daft, but seems he wasn't.' His face stretched into a slow, satisfied smile at his own power to give help or withhold it. 'Well, what can I do for you, Inspector? It is Inspector, isn't it?' There was a wealth of meaning behind the words. Monk and Runcorn had once been of equal rank, long ago. It was Monk's tongue that had cost him his seniority. He had been more elegant than Runcorn, cleverer, immeasurably more the gentleman, and he always would be. They both knew it. But Runcorn was patient-prepared to play the game by the rules, bite back his insolence, curb his impatience, climb slowly. Now he had his reward in superior rank, and he could not keep from savoring it.
'Yes, it is,' Monk replied. He ached to be tart, but he could not afford it.
'Down at Wapping? Live there, too?' Runcorn pursued the subject of Monk's fall in the world. Wapping was a less elegant, less salubrious place than Grafton Street had been, or at least than it had sounded.
'Yes,' Monk agreed again.
'Well, well,' Runcorn mused. 'Would never have guessed you'd do that! Like it, do you?'
'Only been there a few weeks,' Monk told him.
Again Runcorn could not resist the temptation. 'Got tired of being on your own, then? Bit hard, I should imagine.' He was still smiling. 'After all, most people can call the police for nothing. Why should they pay someone? Knew you'd have to come back one day. What do you need my help with? Out of your depth already?' He oozed pleasure now.
Monk itched to retaliate. He had to remind himself again that he could not afford to. 'James Havilland,' he answered. 'About two months ago. Charles Street.'
Runcorn's face darkened a little, the pleasure draining out of it. 'I remember. Poor man shot himself in his own stables. What is it to do with the River Police? It's nowhere near the water.'
'Do you remember his daughter, Mary?' Monk remained standing. Runcorn had not offered him a seat, and for Monk to be comfortable would seem inappropriate in this conversation, given all the past that lay between them.
'Of course I do,' Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he ruled his little kingdom. 'Has… has she complained to you that her father was murdered?'
Monk was stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should trespass on his case.
'Who did she think was responsible?' he asked.
Runcorn was too quick for him. 'Did she?' he challenged him. 'Why did you say did!'
'She fell off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening,' Monk replied.
Runcorn was stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. 'Suicide?' he said hoarsely.
'I'm not sure,' Monk replied. 'It looked like it at first. She was standing near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing, and then both overbalanced and fell.'
'A man?' Runcorn's eyes widened. 'Who? Argyll?'
'Why do you think it was Argyll?' Monk demanded.
Runcorn lost his temper, color flooding up his cheeks. 'Don't play your damn fool games with me, Monk!' he said harshly. 'You always were a heartless bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she's dead, too! It's my case, and I'll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer again. Do you hear me?'
Monk's temper flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level voice. 'If you're fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone superintendent, you'll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of authority,' he retorted. 'I don't know whether Mary Havilland jumped, fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards from two hundred feet away-too far to see in the dark.' He was not going to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about Hester's history. That was another grief, another time. 'If I knew exactly what happened to James Havilland, it might help me.'
Runcorn grunted, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders sagged a little. 'Oh. Well, I suppose you do need that. Sit down.' He waved at a wooden chair piled with papers, and eased himself into his own leather-padded seat behind his desk.
Monk moved the papers onto the floor and obeyed.
Runcorn's face became somber. He had dealt with death both accidental and homicidal all his adult life, but this
