so speaking her mind; a flash of alarm crossed her face, then disappeared again. She was tasting a new and previously unimagined freedom.
In spite of the gravity of their discussion, Monk found himself smiling at her. Cardman would have been horrified. She was perhaps a year or two older than he. Monk wondered what the relationship had been between them. Superficial? Or had their station in life prevented what would have been a testing but rewarding love?
He thrust the notion from his mind. 'Mr. Alan Argyll was different?' he asked. 'And was Mrs. Argyll at all like her sister?'
Mrs. Kitching's face hardened. 'Mr. Alan's a very clever man, a lot cleverer than Mr. Toby realized,' she answered without hesitation. 'Mr. Toby might have thought he'd get the upper hand in time, but he wouldn't. Miss Mary told me that. Not that I didn't think so myself, just seeing them in the withdrawing room. Miss Jenny's a realist, never was a dreamer like Miss Mary. Easier to get along with. Never asks for the impossible or fights battles she can't win. Been a good wife to Mr. Alan. I suppose Mr. Toby thought Miss Mary'd be the same. Well, he thought wrong!' She said that last with considerable satisfaction. Then she remembered again that Mary was dead. The tears washed down her cheeks, and this time she was unable to control them.
Monk was embarrassed, and angry with himself for being so. Why should he? Mrs. Kitching's was an honest grief; there was nothing in it to apologize for.
He thanked her with deep sincerity and then excused himself.
By midday Monk was back across the city at the construction works again. This time he found Aston Sixsmith aboveground and able to speak more easily. There was no point in asking him about Mary. He would be unlikely to know anything of use, but he might know something of the relationship between the two brothers. He would have to be far more circumspect here. Sixsmith would be loyal out of the need to guard his job, even if not from personal regard.
'Was Mr. Toby Argyll aware of Havilland's fear of tunnels?' he asked. They were standing on the bare clay at least a couple of hundred yards from the nearest machine, and the noise of it seemed distant in the brief winter sun.
Sixsmith pulled his wide mouth tight. 'I'm afraid we all were. If you were watching the man, you couldn't miss it. And to be honest, Mr. Monk, it's part of your job to look for the man who'll crack because he's a danger to everyone else, especially if he's in charge of anything. I'm sorry.' His highly expressive face was touched with sadness. 'I liked Havilland, but liking's got nothing to do with safety. If he'd gone barmy or started telling the men that there was a river going to break through the walls, or choke-damp in the air, or a cave-in coming, he'd have started a panic. God knows what could have happened.' He looked at Monk questioningly to see if he understood.
Monk understood completely. A man of Havilland's seniority and experience losing his nerve would be enough to create hysteria that could bring about the precise disaster he was afraid of. At the very least it would disrupt work, perhaps for days, and consequently the next project would be sure to go to a rival.
'Did you suspect it could be deliberate?' he asked.
Sixsmith was momentarily puzzled. 'Deliberate weakness? He'd make himself unemployable anywhere else, which would be stupid. Why would any man do that? And he and both the Argyll brothers were friends. Family, in fact.'
'I meant sabotage, for a suitable reward,' Monk explained, but it sounded ugly as he said it, and he saw the revulsion in Sixsmith's face.
'From another company?' Sixsmith's lips curled. 'If you'd known Havilland, you wouldn't even ask. He might have hid his weaknesses, and he might even have been something of a coward, but he was absolutely honest. He'd never have sold out. I'd lay my own life on that. And believe me, Mr. Monk, when you work with a man on things like that'-he jabbed his thumb downwards towards the tunnels beneath them-'you get to know who to trust, and who not to. Get it wrong and you don't always live to talk about it.'
'So both of the Argyll brothers must have known of Havilland's fears, and that he was possibly a danger?'
Sixsmith's face tightened and he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. 'I'm afraid so.'
'And was Mary a danger also?'
Sixsmith considered for a moment before answering. 'Not really. She had very little idea of what she was talking about… Can't you call it an accident-Mary's death, I mean?'
Monk noticed that he had not mentioned Toby's death. 'Both of them?' he asked. 'Mary and Toby Argyll, too?'
A flash of understanding lit Sixsmith's eyes. 'Would have to be, wouldn't it?'
'Well, if hers wasn't suicide, then his wasn't either,' Monk said reasonably. 'The only alternative would be murder. Could he have meant to push her over? She went over backwards, hanging on to him.'
Sixsmith breathed out slowly. 'Trying to save herself, or trying to pull him in with her, you mean?' His face brightened. 'Changed her mind, and trying to save herself.' There you are. Unfortunately she was too late. Already lost her balance, and his too. Tragedy. Simple.'
'You didn't say 'but Toby would never hurt her,' ' Monk observed.
Sixsmith looked at him very steadily, and now his expression was unreadable. 'Didn't I? No, I suppose I didn't. Got to get back to work now, Mr. Monk. Can't afford delays. Costs money. Good day.' He walked away easily with a long, swinging stride.
Monk stood still for a moment, sharply aware again of the cold- and the noise of engines. The next thing he needed to ascertain was the exact time James Havilland had died, or as near as the police surgeon could tell him.
'What the devil for?' the surgeon demanded when Monk found him in his consulting rooms. He was a lean man with a harassed air, as if constantly put upon and always trying to catch up with himself. 'You come to me two months afterwards and ask me what time the poor man shot himself?' He glared at Monk. 'Haven't you anything better to do? Go and catch some thieves! My neighbor's house was broken into last week. What about that?'
'Metropolitan Police,' Monk replied, not without pleasure. 'I'm Thames River Police.'
'Well, poor Havilland died of a gunshot,' the surgeon snapped. 'Not a drop of water anywhere near him, even tap water, never mind the damn river!' He glared at Monk with triumph. 'None of your business, sir!
Monk kept his temper with difficulty, and only because he wanted the information. 'His daughter believed he was murdered-'
'I know that,' the surgeon interrupted him. 'The grief unhinged her. A great shame, but we don't have a cure for grief, unless the priest has. Not my field.'
'Her death was very definitely from drowning in the river,' Monk went on. 'I saw her go in myself, and that could have been murder.' He saw the doctor's startled look with satisfaction. 'Unfortunately, the young man who may or may not have pushed her overbalanced and went in himself,' he continued. 'Both were dead when we pulled them out. I need to investigate her accusation, even if only to lay it to rest, for both families' sakes.'
'Why the devil didn't you say so, man?' The surgeon turned away and began to look through a stack of papers in a drawer behind him. 'Fool!' he muttered under his breath.
Monk waited.
Finally the man pulled out a couple of sheets with triumph and waved them in the air. 'There you are. Very cold night. Lay on the stable floor. Warmer than outside, colder than the house. Should say he died no later than two in the morning, no earlier than ten. But as I remember the household staff say they heard him up at eleven, so that gives you something.'
'Anything medical to prove he shot himself?' Monk asked.
'Like what, for God's sake? That's police work. Gun was on the floor where it would have fallen. If you're asking if he was shot at point-blank range, then yes-he was. Doesn't prove he did it himself. Or that he didn't.'
'Any sign of a struggle? Or didn't you look?'
'Of course I looked!' the surgeon snapped. 'And there was no struggle. Either he shot himself, or whoever else shot him took him by surprise. Now go and bury the dead decently, and leave me to get on with something that matters. Good day, sir.'
'Thank you,' Monk said sarcastically. 'It's as well you deal with the dead. Your manner wouldn't do for the living. Good day, sir.' And before the doctor could respond, he turned on his heel and marched out.
It was already approaching four o'clock and the winter dusk was closing in. Funny how the weather always became worse as the days began to lengthen after Christmas. It was snowing lightly in the street, and within an
