Orme's face was grim with the anger a normally gentle man feels when he is outraged. There was something frightening in it, unselfish and implacable. 'I think as you should keep followin' that until you find out 'oo it was, sir,' he said levelly. 'It's wrong ter let that go by. If we don't see it right fer a woman like that, wot use are we?'
'And the thefts from the passenger boats?' Monk asked. 'Our reputation matters, too. It's part of our ability to do the job. If people don't trust us, we're crippled.'
'We got to do wots right, an' trust it'll be seen as right,' Orme said stubbornly. 'I can't find out 'oo killed 'er. I 'aven't got the skill fer that. Never done it with people o' that class. Give me a river fight, dockers, thieves, lightermen, sailors even, an' I can sort it out. But not ladies like that. You done that fer years, Mr. Monk. You know murders wot are quiet. I know a punch in the face; you know a knife in the back. We'll get it all, between us.'
'What about a hand in the pocket, a slit in the purse, and your money gone?' Monk asked.
Orme's mouth tightened. 'I'll take care o' that. An' o' people with big mouths an' small minds. I know a lot o' people 'oo've got secrets. You can't help gettin' enemies in this job, but if yer careful, an' keep yer promises, you get friends as well.'
'I don't know where the enemies are yet,' Monk admitted.
Orme smiled mirthlessly. 'Not yet you don't-but I do. There's a few I can use, an' I will. Believe me, sir, 'em boat thieves'll wish they 'adn't started. You find 'oo killed that poor girl. I'll be be'ind you, an' I'll watch yer back against Mr. Farnham.'
'Thank you,' Monk said with utmost sincerity.
SEVEN
Later in the afternoon Monk and Runcorn were in Charles Street again. They were about to begin the task of knocking on the doors of those who had been to the theater the night before, and might possibly have returned at about that same hour the night when James Havilland had died. The day's rain had turned the snow to slush, but now it was freezing again and the pavements were slippery underfoot. The pall over the city from so many domestic fires and factory chimneys blocked out the stars. The streetlamps glowed yellowish white with a halo of mist around each one, and the cold of the night caught in the throat. The noise of hooves was sharp and loud and carriage wheels crunched on the frozen slush.
Monk and Runcorn walked as swiftly as it was safe to do without losing one's footing. They kept their heads down out of the wind, their hats low, coat collars turned up.
Runcorn glanced at Monk as if about to speak, then seemed to change his mind. Monk smiled, partly to himself. He knew that Runcorn was thinking-just as he was himself-that they were almost certainly wasting their time. But having come this far, they might just as well try every house whose front door, servants' entrance, or mews might possibly have allowed one of the occupants to see someone come or go to Havilland's mews that night.
Monk had earlier checked with the library of past newspapers exactly which theaters had been open and the hours when the curtains had come down.
'Better get on with it,' Runcorn said grimly, approaching the first door and climbing the steps.
That attempt was abortive, as was the second. The third took a little longer, but also yielded nothing. The man who came to speak to them was polite, but quickly made it apparent that he did not wish to become involved in anything that had happened in the street, or anyone else's home. They left feeling more despondent than if he had simply denied being out.
Runcorn pulled his coat collar up higher and glanced at Monk, but he did not say anything. They were now four doors away from Havilland's house, and on the opposite side of the street. Monk continued the investigation from habit, in the perverse refusal to surrender rather than any hope of achieving anything.
He and Runcorn walked up to the step side by side, but it was Runcorn who knocked on the door.
The footman who answered was young and somewhat flustered. He had very clearly not been expecting a caller at this hour of the night. 'Yes, gentlemen?' he said with some alarm.
'Nothing wrong,' Runcorn soothed him. 'Is your master at home?'
'Yes!' The young man blinked. He should have been more circumspect, even at this hour of the night, and he realized it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The color washed over his face. 'At least…'
'That would be Mr. Barclay, and Mrs. Ewart?' The lift of puzzlement was barely discernible in Runcorn's voice.
'Yes, sir.' The footman's face was pink. He was plainly embarrassed and trying very hard to find a way out of his predicament. He was still struggling when a man in his middle thirties came across the hall behind him and into the vestibule. He was tall and rather elegant, and dressed in evening clothes as if he had only lately returned from some formal event.
'What is it, Alfred?' he asked with a frown. 'Who are these gentlemen?'
'I don't know, sir. I was-'
'John Barclay,' the man said brusquely. 'Who are you and how may we be of assistance? Are you lost?'
'Superintendent Runcorn, Mr. Barclay,' Runcorn introduced himself. 'And Inspector Monk, of the Thames River Police. Sorry to disturb you so late, sir, but since you've been out at this hour, we wondered if you might do so quite often.'
Barclay's eyebrows rose. 'What of it? And what on earth can it have to do with the River Police? I haven't been anywhere near the river. Except across the bridge, of course. Did something happen?'
'Not tonight, sir.' Runcorn was shivering, so his words were a trifle blurred.
Monk sneezed.
'I haven't seen anything to interest the police at any time,' Barclay said a little impatiently. 'I'm sorry, I can't help you.' He glanced at Monk. 'For heaven's sake, man, go home and get a hot toddy or something. It's nearly one in the morning!'
Something in the man's attitude irritated Runcorn. Monk saw it in the tightening of the muscles of his jaw and a slight alteration to the angle of his head. 'Were you acquainted with Mr. James Havilland, four doors up, across the road, sir?' he asked.
Barclay stiffened. 'I was, but not more than to be civil to. We had little in common.'
'But you knew him?' Runcorn was determined either to keep Barclay on the step or to be invited inside. The night was bitter and the wind was coming from the northeast and blowing right into the house.
'I've told you, Inspector, or whatever your rank is-' Barclay began.
'Superintendent, sir,' Runcorn corrected him.
'Yes, Superintendent. I knew him as one casually knows neighbors! One is civil, but one does not mix with them socially if they are not of the same… interests.'
There was a light tap of heels across the parquet floor of the hall behind him, and the door opened, showing a woman of about his own age. She too was slender, with brown hair, blue eyes, and winged brows that gave her face a highly individual look.
'It's nothing, Melisande,' he said hastily. 'Go back into the warmth. It's a filthy night.'
'Then don't keep the gentleman on the step, John,' she said reasonably. She looked beyond him at Runcorn, and then at Monk. 'Please come in and speak in comfort. Perhaps you would like something hot to drink? As my brother says, it's a rotten night. Your feet must be frozen at least. I know mine are.'
'For heaven's sake, Mel, they're police!' Barclay hissed in what might have been intended as an aside but was perfectly audible, probably as far as the street.
'Oh, dear! Has something happened?' She came closer. Monk could see in the vestibule light that her face was lovely, but there was a patience and even a sadness in it that suggested that life was not as easy for her, or as rich, as superficial judgment might assume.
'Nothing that needs to concern you, my dear,' Barclay said pointedly. 'They are merely looking for witnesses.'
She did not move away. 'It must be urgent to bring you out at this time of night.' She looked to Runcorn, who was standing more in the light than Monk was. 'What is it you need to know, Mr…?'
'Runcorn, ma'am,' he replied, suddenly sounding a trifle self-conscious. There was something in the elegance of her gown, the flawless curve of her throat, that seemed to make him more than normally aware of her, not only
