could see, there was no reason for it.'
'What did Mrs. Argyll think of her father in this?' Monk asked, remembering Jenny Argyll's stiff back and carefully controlled face.
'Blamed herself for not seeing how far his madness had gone,' Runcorn answered, weariness and confusion in his eyes. 'Said she would have had him better looked after if she'd known. Not that there was a thing she could've done, as her husband told her. As long as he breaks no laws-and Havilland didn't-a man's entitled to go as daft as he likes.'
'And Mary?'
Runcorn sighed. 'That's the thing. Poor girl refused to accept it. Determined her father was right and wouldn't let it rest. Started reading all his books, asking questions. Broke off her engagement to Toby Argyll and devoted herself to clearing her father's name. Wanted him buried in consecrated ground if it took her her life's work to do it.' His voice sank even lower. 'Now it looks as if the poor soul'll lie beside him. Do you know when they're going to do that, because-' He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat, then glared defensively at Monk as if challenging him to mock.
Monk had no desire to. In his mind's eye he could see again and again the figure of Mary tipping over the rail, clinging on to Toby Argyll, and the two of them plunging down into the icy river. He still did not know what had happened; nothing was clear, and he ended up not remembering but imagining, because he wanted her not to have done it herself.
And he remembered the strong bones and the gentle mouth of the white face they pulled out of the river, and that Mrs. Porter had said she was a woman of opinions and the courage to declare them.
'No, not yet. But I'll tell you when I do. Have to tell the butler, Card-man, as well.'
Runcorn nodded, then looked away, his eyes too bright.
'You said you found where he bought the gun.' Monk changed the subject.
Runcorn did not look at him. 'Pawnshop half a mile away. Owner described him close enough. He was wearing a good coat, dark wool, and a scarf. Nothing odd in that, especially on a November night.'
'Not very specific. Could have been anyone.'
'Could have, except it was the same gun. Had one or two marks and scratches on it. He was certain enough.'
'But why would Havilland have killed himself?' Monk persisted.
Runcorn shook his head. 'Alan Argyll told me he was becoming an embarrassment to the company. He was reluctant to say so, but he was going to have to dismiss him. Havilland was upsetting the men, causing trouble. Argyll felt very badly about it, but he had no choice. Couldn't let everyone suffer because of one man's obsession. Said he hadn't told his wife, and certainly Mary didn't know, but he had intimated as much to Havilland himself. He begged us not to tell them, especially Mary. It wouldn't alter his suicide, and it would reduce him in their eyes. In fact, it would make suicide seem more rational. Maybe he did tell her after all.' There was no relief in his face, no sense of resolution.
'Poor man,' Monk said. 'If he told her at last and she went off the bridge, taking Toby Argyll with her, he's going to feel a guilt for the rest of his life.'
'What else could he do?' Runcorn said reasonably, his face still puckered in distaste.
'If Havilland was murdered, who did Mary think was responsible?'
'Her brother-in-law,' Runcorn replied unhesitatingly. 'But he wasn't. We checked up-he was out all evening at a function and went home with his wife a little after midnight. She'll swear for him, and so will the servants. Footman waited up; so did the lady's maid. No way he could have been there. Same for his brother, before you ask.'
'He lives close by. No servants to swear for him,' Monk pointed out.
'He was out of London that night,' Runcorn responded. 'Wasn't within a hundred miles. Checked on that, too.'
'I see.' There was nothing left to argue. He stood up with a strange hollowness inside him. 'Thank you.'
Runcorn rose as well. 'Are you giving up?' It sounded like a challenge. There was a note in it close to despair.
'No!' Monk exclaimed. In truth, though, he had no idea where else to look for evidence. Inevitability closed in on him.
'Tell me,' Runcorn said, frowning, 'if you find anything. And…'
'Yes, I will,' Monk promised. He thanked him, and left before it could grow any more awkward. There was nothing else for them to say to each other, and the brief truce was best unbroken by not trying.
Monk returned to Wapping station and spent the afternoon in the general duties that were part of his new job. He disliked the routine, especially writing reports and even more reading other people's, but he could not afford to do less than his best. Any error or omission could be the one that spelled failure. He must succeed. He had no other skills than for his work and most certainly no other friends like Callandra Daviot who could or should help financially.
At five o'clock it was completely dark. Worse than that, there was a heavy fog rolling in from the east, shrouding the river so closely he knew he would not find a boatman to attempt rowing him across. Already the streetlamps were dimming, blurred yellow ghosts fading altogether after twenty yards, so the night was impenetrable. The mournful baying of the foghorns on the water broke the silence, and there was little else to be heard but the steady drip of water and the slurp of the tide on the steps and against the embankment.
Monk left at half past five to begin the long walk up towards London Bridge, where if he was very fortunate he might find a hansom to take him over, and as far as Southwark Park and home.
He buttoned his coat, pulled his collar up, and set out.
He had gone about a quarter of a mile when he was aware of someone behind him. He stopped just beyond one of the mist-shrouded lamps and waited.
An urchin came into the pale circle of light. He looked about nine years old, as much as one could see of his face through the grime. He was wearing a long jacket and odd boots, but at least he was not barefoot on the icy stone.
'Hello, Scuff,' Monk said with pleasure. The mudlark had been of help to him in the Maude Idris case, and Monk had seen him a dozen times since then, albeit briefly. Twice they had shared a meat pie. This was the first time he had seen the boots. 'New find?' he asked, admiring them.
'Found one, bought the other,' Scuff replied, catching up with him.
Monk started to walk again. It was too cold to stand still. 'How are you?' he asked.
Scuff shrugged. 'I got boots. You all right?' The second was said with a shadow of anxiety. Scuff thought Monk was an innocent, a liability to himself, and he made no secret of it.
'Not bad, thank you,' Monk replied. 'Do you want a pie, if we can find anyone open?'
'Yer won't,' Scuff said candidly. 'It's gonna be an 'ard winter. You wanna watch yerself. It's gonna get bad.'
'It's pretty bad every winter,' Monk replied. He could not afford to dwell too long on the misery of those who worked and slept outside, because he was helpless to do anything about it. What was a hot pie now and then to one small boy?
'This in't the same,' Scuff replied, keeping step with Monk by skipping an extra one now and then. 'Them big tunnels wot they're diggin' is upsettin' folk down there. Toshers in't appy.'
Toshers were the men who made their living by hunting for and picking up small objects of value that found their way into the sewers, including a remarkable amount of jewelry. They usually hunted together, for fear of the armies of rats that could rapidly strip a man down to the bone if he was unlucky enough to lose his footing and injure himself. And there was always the possibility of a buildup of methane gas given off by the sewer contents, and of course a wave of water if the rain was torrential enough.
'Why are the toshers unhappy?' Monk asked. 'There'll always be sewers, just better ones.'
'Change,' Scuff said simply, and with exaggerated patience. 'Everybody's got their stretch, their beat, if yer like, seen as yer a policeman o' sorts.'
'I'm a perfectly regular policeman!' Monk defended himself.
Scuff treated that assertion with the silence it deserved. In his opinion Monk was a dangerous novice who had taken Durban 's position out of a misguided idea of loyalty. He was miserably unsuited for it and was much in need
