one apparently moved him, even in memory.
'Stable boy found him in the morning,' he began, looking down at his large hands rather than at Monk. 'Seems the boy lived a mile or so away, and used to walk to work every morning. Mews are small there, and the room above the stable was kept for harnesses and the like. He could have slept in the straw, but seems he had an aunt with a lodging house in the area, and he helped out there too, and got fed and looked after for it. He seemed like an honest lad, but we checked it all, and it was the truth. He was home all night, and Havilland's butler said they'd never had a day's bother with him.'
Monk nodded.
'Boy arrived about six,' Runcorn went on. 'Found his master on the floor of the room where they keep the hay and feed. Lying on his back, shot through the head. One clean bullet into the brain. Must've been standing near the middle of the room, and fell backwards. Blood exactly where you'd expect it to be. Gun fallen out of his hand but not more than a foot away.'
Monk felt a chill settle over him.
'Boy went in and told the butler-can't remember his name,' Runcorn went on. 'Carter, or something like that.'
'Cardman,' Monk supplied.
'That's right,' Runcorn agreed, blinking several times. 'He went out to look. Saw just what the boy had said, and sent the footman for the police. It was nearer eight o'clock by the time I got there. Didn't know Havilland personally, but I knew him by repute. A very decent man. Hard to believe he'd taken his own life.' He looked up at Monk suddenly. 'But one thing police work teaches you: You never know what goes on in somebody else's mind. Loves and hates that their own families don't ever dream about.'
Monk nodded. For once he had no quibble at all. He tried to imagine Runcorn and the scene: the small stable, the straw, the sound and smell of horses, the leather harnesses, the gleam of lantern light on polished brass, the dead man lying on the floor, the sickly smell of blood.
'Were the horses frightened?' he asked. 'Any injuries?'
Runcorn frowned. 'No. Bit nervous. They'd smelled blood and they must have heard the shot, but nothing was disturbed as if there'd been a fight. No wounds, no wood kicked, no cuts, neither of 'em really spooked. And before you ask, there were no other marks on the body, no bruises, clothes as neat as you please. I'd lay my reputation no one struggled or fought with him before he was shot. And the way he was lying, either he shot himself, which everything pointed to, or whoever else did it stood within a couple of feet of him, because there was nowhere else to stand in a room that size.'
'And nothing was taken, nothing missing?' Monk asked without hope now. He had outwitted Runcorn many times in the past, but that was years ago. They had both learned in the time between: Monk to be a little gentler, and more honest in his reasons for cleverness; Runcorn to think a little harder before coming to conclusions, perhaps also to keep his attention on the case more, and less on his own vanity.
'Nothing to take in the stables,' Runcorn replied. 'Unless you count the odd horse brass, but the stable boy said they were all there.'
'Coachman agree?' Monk put in.
'Seems a footman doubled as coachman,' Runcorn answered. 'He was handy, and with a butler and junior footman who doubled as boot boy, that was all that was necessary.'
'And the house?' Monk pressed. 'Anyone intrude in the night? Or impossible to tell, if Havilland had left the door open. Had he?'
'Yes. The butler says he sat up late. Told them he wanted to work in his study, and sent them all to bed. But a thorough search was made and both Miss Havilland herself and the housekeeper said nothing at all was missing, or even moved. And there were plenty of nice things, easy to carry, if a burglar'd wanted. Easy to sell.'
'What time did he die?' Monk was not yet willing to give up, although it was beginning to look more and more as if Mary Havilland's belief in her father's murder was simply a desperate young woman's refusal to accept the truth that he had killed himself.
'Police surgeon reckoned between midnight and about three, close as he could tell. Pretty cold in the stables, late autumn. The thirteenth of November, to be exact. Frost was sharpish that night. I remember it was still white all around the edges of the leaves on the garden bushes we passed going in.' Runcorn was hunched up, as if the memory chilled him.
'No one heard a shot?'
'No.' Runcorn gave a tiny, bleak smile. 'Which was unusual. You'd think someone would've. Tried shooting the thing myself, and it was loud enough. Could hear it clear a hundred yards off, on a still night like that. I followed that one all the way, but if anyone heard, they wouldn't admit to it.' There was long experience in his face, and fighting against it a very faint quickening of hope.
Monk realized with surprise that Runcorn wanted Mary Havilland to be right; he simply could not see the possibility.
'Muffled by something?' Monk asked.
Runcorn shook his head no more than an inch or two. 'Nothing there. Powder burns on his skin. If he'd wrapped a towel or a cloth around it to deaden the sound, that'd account for why nobody heard it, or maybe didn't recognize it for a shot, but then the cloth would still be there, and it wasn't. Unless… somebody took it away!' He did not quite make it a question, but it was in his eyes.
'No sign of anyone else there?' Monk asked, seeking the same hope.
'Not a thing, and I looked myself.'
Monk believed him. Not only was Runcorn not easily a liar, there was a painful hunger in him to believe better of Havilland than the circumstances justified. Even now, two months later, it was still there.
Monk asked the next, obvious question. 'Why? What was so wrong that he'd shoot himself in his own stables in the middle of the night?'
Runcorn pressed his lips together and hunched his shoulders a little more. 'I looked.' There was an edge of defense in his voice. 'As far as anyone knew, his health was excellent. He ate well, slept well enough, walked often. We checked into his affairs; he certainly was more than comfortably off. No unaccounted expenditure. He didn't gamble. And if anyone was blackmailing him, it wasn't for money. If he had a mistress, we never found her. If he had bad habits, we saw no sign of them, either. He drank very little. Never been seen the worse for it. Wife died seven years ago. Had two daughters. Jenny, the elder, is married to Alan Argyll, a very successful businessman.'
Runcorn took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. 'Havilland worked for Argyll's company as an engineer in the big rebuilding of the sewers. Well respected, well paid. Seemed to get on all right, at least until recently, when Havilland took it into his head that the tunnels were dangerous and there was going to be an accident one day. We couldn't find any evidence for it. Argyll's safety record is good, better than most. And we all know the new sewers are necessary, urgently so.'
'And Mary?' Monk asked. He wanted to fault Runcorn, to find something the superintendent had forgotten or done badly, but he couldn't.
Runcorn's face softened. 'The poor girl was beside herself with grief,' he said defensively, as if he felt he needed to protect her memory from Monk's intrusion.
Monk liked him the better for that.
'She couldn't believe he would do such a thing,' Runcorn went on. 'Said he was on a crusade, and people in crusades get killed sometimes, but they don't shoot themselves. She said he was on the edge of finding out something about the tunnels, and someone killed him to stop him doing that. Lots of money at stake. Fortunes to be made, and I suppose lost, in all this. And reputations.'
'What do you believe?' Monk asked.
'Asked a few questions about him,' Runcorn said unhappily. 'According to the men in the works, he'd gotten a bit eccentric. Scared stiff of tunnels and holes, so they said. Used to shake and go white as a ghost, break out in a sweat.' He lifted one shoulder very slightly. 'Happens to some people. Others it's heights, or spiders, or snakes. Whatever. Usually think of women being frightened of that sort of thing, but it doesn't have to be. Worked a case once with a woman who fainted at the sight of a mouse. Can't think why, but it doesn't have to have a reason. Knew another one terrified of birds, even a harmless little canary.' He stopped. All the lines of his face sagged, making him look older, more tired than before. 'He did seem obsessed with the dread of an accident, and as far as I
