'I mean what reason would Argyll give for meeting in the stables at midnight? And why did Havilland agree?'
Runcorn took the point immediately. 'We need to find that letter! Or learn at the very least who sent it.'
Monk took one of the chestnuts and ate it. It was sweet and hot. 'The maid said Havilland burnt it.'
'Maybe he didn't burn the envelope.' Runcorn was still hopeful.
Monk ate the last chestnut. 'Come on.' He turned and started to walk.
Cardman was surprised to see them again, but he invited them in. 'What can I do for you, gentlemen?'
The hall had a bare look. The black crepe had been taken down along with the wreaths, but the clock was still stopped and there was no heating.
It was Monk who spoke first this time. 'I know the maid said that Mr. Havilland destroyed the note that took him to the stables the night he was killed, but it is extremely important that we learn everything about it that we can-even the envelope, if it still exists.'
Cardman's eyes widened. He had heard the one word that had mattered to him. His voice trembled a little. 'You said he was killed, sir. Did you mean that someone else was responsible after all? Miss Mary was right?'
'Yes, Mr. Cardman, it looks very like it,' Monk replied.
Cardman's face tightened. 'And if you can't find the envelope, sir, does that mean you won't be able to prove who did it?'
'Somebody lured him to the stable,' Monk told him gravely. 'We are certain it was someone else who actually killed him. Whether we can catch the second person I don't know, but it's the first we want most.'
'I'm afraid we've long ago disposed of all the rubbish in the study,' Cardman said. 'There are only Mr. Havilland's papers there now, and of course household bills and receipts. Miss Mary took care of everything like that. No one has been here yet to… to see to…' He trailed off, swamped by the small realities of loss again.
'I'm sure Mr. Argyll will appoint someone,' Monk said. Then the moment the words were spoken he realized the appalling urgency of searching the study.
'Which is the study?' Runcorn asked.
Cardman showed them. 'Would you like a pot of tea, sir?' he offered. 'I'm afraid the room is extremely cold.'
They both accepted, speaking together.
Two hours later they knew a great deal about both Havilland's domestic arrangements and how efficiently Mary had continued with them. Everything had been precisely and carefully dealt with. The bills had been checked and paid on time. There were also no unnecessary papers kept, no unanswered letters, no notes made on envelopes or scraps of paper.
'Perhaps it was always going to be a waste of time,' Runcorn said wearily. 'Damn!' He swore with sudden fury. 'I'd stake my life it was Argyll! How the hell do we catch him? Come on, Monk! You're so clever you could tie an eel in knots. How do we get the bastard?'
Monk's mind was racing. 'There'd have been a lot of blood on his clothes,' he began, thinking aloud.
Runcorn did not see the point. The irritation flickered across his face. 'So there would. What does it matter now?'
'Probably too much to clean off. Anyway, who'd want the clothes a man was wearing when he committed suicide?'
'No one- Oh! You mean they're still somewhere! There might be something in the pockets!' Runcorn stood up as if suddenly regaining energy. He walked towards the door, then remembered that there was a bell in the room for summoning servants. Avoiding Monk's eyes, he turned back, reached for it, and pulled.
Cardman answered, and five minutes later they were in James Havilland's dressing room. The clothes he had been wearing at his death were piled neatly on one of the shelves in the tallboy. It was obvious that Mary had never had the stomach to come into the room since that night, and had not permitted the servants to either. Perhaps she would have done so after she had proved that he was not a suicide. Everything seemed to be waiting.
The trousers were marked only by dust and a few pieces of hay. The jacket was quite heavy-a natural enough choice for a man going out to the stables in the middle of a winter night, possibly to wait a little while until someone arrived.
The question rose again: Why the stables? If Havilland wished to be private, it was easy enough to send the servants to bed and open the front door for the guest himself. Monk had a crowding sense that there was some major fact that had escaped him completely.
Runcorn was waiting, watching him.
He unrolled the jacket and laid it on the dresser. There was blood thick and dark on the left lapel and over the shoulder. It was completely dried now and stiff. A few spots had fallen on the sleeve, though not a great deal. After all, it had been a shot to the head, and Havilland must have died almost instantly.
'Look,' Runcorn instructed.
Without hope of finding anything, Monk pushed his hands into the inside pocket. His fingers closed on paper, and he pulled it out. It was folded up but unmarked. An envelope. On the back a word-Tyburn-was scrawled, and some figures, and then no name and some more figures in the same grouping. He turned it over. On the front was his name, Mr. James Havilland. There was no address. It had been hand-delivered. He looked up at Runcorn.
Runcorn's eyes were bright. 'That's it!' he said, excitement making his voice tremble. 'That's the envelope from the note he got!' He held out his hand.
Monk passed it to him.
'Woman's writing,' Runcorn said after only a second or two, disappointment so keen he could not mask it. He looked up at Monk, pain and confusion naked. 'Was it an assignation after all? Who the devil shot him? A husband? Did the man in the two cabs have nothing to do with it?'
Monk was unhappy, too, but for an entirely different reason. 'Jenny Argyll,' he said. 'If it was she who wrote, he would go out there to meet her. Don't forget Mary was in the house. Maybe he wanted to speak with Jenny without Mary knowing, or Jenny with him.'
Runcorn looked around for the bell. He found it and rang it, and Cardman answered a few moments later.
Runcorn held out the envelope. 'Do you know whose handwriting that is?' he asked.
Cardman looked stiff and miserable, his eyes haunted, but he did not hesitate. 'Yes, sir. That is Miss Jennifer's handwriting-Mrs. Argyll, that is.'
'Thank you,' Monk acknowledged. Then he realized what Cardman might think. Possibly Runcorn would disapprove, but he intended to tell Cardman anyway. 'There was a man seen leaving the mews at about the time Mr. Havilland was shot. He passed two people returning from the theater who say he smelled of gunsmoke. We traced his movements. He took a cab as far as Piccadilly, then changed cabs and went east. It seems very possible it was he who actually killed Mr. Havilland.'
Cardman's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. 'Thank you, sir.' He blinked, gratitude showing in his eyes.
Jenny Argyll greeted them far more coolly. At this time of the day her husband was either at his office or at one of the sites.
'The matter is closed,' she said bluntly. She had received them in the withdrawing room because the morning room fire was not lit. After such a double bereavement they were still not receiving callers. Everything was draped in black. There were wreaths on the doors leading into the hall, the mirrors were covered, and the clocks were stopped. Presumably in this house the state of mourning was more for Toby Argyll than for Mary, although Jenny might well grieve privately for her sister. Monk had not forgotten Argyll's rage on hearing the news of their deaths, and his instant blaming of Mary. If Toby had killed her, had it been at his brother's command?
This time Runcorn allowed Monk to take the lead.
'I am afraid the matter is not closed, Mrs. Argyll,' Monk said firmly. She was wearing black. It was completely unrelieved, and it drained from her what little color she might have had. He judged that she would normally be an attractive woman, but she had not the strength or the passion he had seen in Mary's face, even when it had been lifeless and wet from the river. There had been something in the bones, the curve of her mouth, that had been unique.
'I cannot help you,' she said flatly. She was standing, staring away from them out of the window into the flat winter light. 'And I cannot see what good turning our pain over and over can do. Please allow us to grieve in peace-and alone.'
'We are not at the moment concerned with the deaths of Miss Havilland and Mr. Argyll,' Monk replied. 'It is the
