know.'
'And Miss Havilland?' he asked.
'Oh, she were quality, too, poor creature,' she responded immediately. 'A real lady she were, even with 'er opinions. I never disagreed wi' airin' opinions, meself, fer all as some might say it weren't proper for a young lady.'
Having married a woman with passionate opinions about a number of things, Monk could not argue. In fact, he suddenly saw not Mary Havilland as she was now, white-faced in death, but instead the slender, fierce, and vulnerable figure of Hester, with her shoulders a little too thin, her slight angularity, brown hair, and eyes of such passionate intelligence that he had never been able to forget them since the day they had met- and quarrelled.
He found his voice husky when he spoke again. 'Do you know why she broke off the relationship, Mrs. Porter? Or was it perhaps a generous fiction Mr. Argyll allowed, and it was actually he who ended it?'
'No, it were 'er,' she said without hesitation. ' 'E were upset an' 'e tried to change 'er mind.' She sniffed again. 'I never thought as it'd come to this.'
'We don't know what happened yet,' he said. 'But thank you for your assistance. Can you give us Mr. Argyll's brothers address? We need to inform him of what has happened. I don't suppose you know who Miss Havilland s nearest relative would be? Her parents, I expect.'
'I wouldn't know that, sir. But I can give you Mr. Argyll's address all right, no bother. Poor man's goin' to be beside 'isself. Very close, they was.'
Alan Argyll lived a short distance away, on Westminster Bridge Road, and it took Monk and Orme only ten minutes or so to walk to the handsome house at the address Mrs. Porter had given them. The curtains were drawn against the early winter night, but the gas lamps in the street showed the elegant line of the windows and the stone steps up to a wide, carved doorway, where the faint gleam of brass indicated the lion-headed knocker.
Orme looked at Monk but said nothing. Breaking such news to family was immeasurably worse than to a landlady, however sympathetic. Monk nodded very slightly, but there was nothing to say. Orme worked on the river; he was used to death.
The door was answered by a short, portly butler, his white hair thinning across the top of his head. From his steady, unsurprised gaze, he clearly took them to be business acquaintances of his master.
'Mr. Argyll is at dinner, sir,' he said to Monk. 'If you care to wait in the morning room I am sure he will see you in due course.'
'We are from the Thames River Police,' Monk told him, having given only his name at first. 'I am afraid we have bad news that cannot wait. It might be advisable to have a glass of brandy ready, in case it is needed. I'm sorry.'
The butler hesitated. 'Indeed, sir. May I ask what has happened? Is it one of the tunnels, sir? It's very sad, but such things seem to be unavoidable.'
Monk was aware that such mighty excavations as were at present in progress brought the occasional landslip or even cave-in of the sides, burying machines and sometimes injuring men. There had been a spectacular disaster over the Fleet only days ago.
'Quite so,' he agreed. 'But this happened on the river, and I am afraid it is bad personal news for Mr. Argyll. He needs to be informed as soon as possible.'
'Oh, dear,' the butler said quietly. 'How very terrible. Yes, sir.' He took a deep breath and let it out silently. 'If you will come to the morning room, I shall bring Mr. Argyll to you.'
The morning room was very somber, in shades of browns and golds. The fire had been allowed to go out, but it was now well into the evening, and presumably the room would not normally be used at this hour. Monk and Orme stood in the center of the Aubusson carpet, waiting. Neither of them spoke. Monk noted the picture of Highland scenery over the mantelshelf and the small stuffed rodent in a glass case on the table by the wall. They were self- conscious suggestions that Argyll's wealth was old money, which brought to his mind that therefore it was probably not.
The door swung open and Alan Argyll stood in the entrance, pale-faced, his eyes dark in the lamplight. He was of more than average height, and lean with a suggestion of physical as well as mental power. His features were well-proportioned, but there was a coldness in them as if he did not laugh easily.
Monk took a step forward. 'My name is William Monk, of the Thames River Police, sir. This is Sergeant Orme. I am deeply sorry to tell you that your brother, Mr. Toby Argyll, fell off the Westminster Bridge earlier this evening, and although we reached him within a few minutes, he was already dead.'
Argyll stared at him, swaying a little as if he had been struck. 'You were there? Why in God's name didn't you…' He gasped, finding it difficult to catch his breath. He looked as if he was on the edge of collapse.
'We were in a boat on patrol on the river,' Monk answered. 'I'm sorry, sir; there was nothing anyone could have done. In such circumstances, a man drowns very quickly. I think he probably felt nothing at all. I know that is little comfort, but it may help in time.'
'He was twenty-nine!' Argyll shouted at him. He came further into the room and the light shone on his face. Monk could not help seeing the resemblance to his brother: the line of his mouth, the color of his well-shaped eyes, the way his hair grew. 'How do you fall off a bridge?' he demanded. 'Was there a crime, and you're not telling me? Was he attacked?' Rage flared in his voice and his fists clenched.
'He wasn't alone,' Monk said quickly, before Argyll should lose control. Grief he was used to, even anger, but there was a thread of violence just under the surface in this man that was fast unraveling. 'A young woman named Mary Havilland was with him…'
Argyll's eyes flew wide open. 'Mary? Where is she? Is she all right? What happened? What are you not telling me, man? Don't just stand there like an idiot! This is my family you're talking about.' Again the fists were tight, skin on his knuckles stretched pale across the bone.
'I'm sorry, Miss Havilland went over with him,' Monk said grimly. 'They went over holding on to each other.'
'What are you saying?' Argyll demanded.
'That they both went over, sir,' Monk repeated. 'They were standing together by the railing, having what appeared to be a heated discussion. We were too far away to hear. The next time we looked they were at the railing, and the moment after, they overbalanced and fell.'
'You saw a man and woman struggling and you looked away?' Argyll said incredulously, his voice high-pitched. 'What at, for God's sake? What else could possibly be-'
'We were on patrol,' Monk cut across him. 'We watch the whole river. We wouldn't even have seen that much had they not been so close to the rail. It appeared an ordinary conversation, perhaps a lovers' quarrel then made up again. If we'd have continued watching, it could have been intrusive.'
Argyll stood motionless, blinking. 'Yes,' he said at last. 'Yes, of course. I'm sorry. Toby… Toby was my only relative. At least…' He ran his hand over his face almost as if to steady himself, somehow clear his vision. 'My wife. You say Mary Havilland is dead also?'
'Yes. I'm sorry. I believe she was close to your brother.'
'Close!' Argyll's voice rose again dangerously, a note of hysteria in it. 'She was my sister-in-law. Toby was betrothed to her, at least they were going to be. She… she called it off. She was very disturbed…'
Monk was confused. 'She would have been your sister-in-law?'
'No! She was. Mary was my wife's sister,' Argyll said with a small, indrawn breath. 'My wife will be… devastated. We were hoping…' He stopped again.
Monk needed to prompt him, painful as it must be for him to answer further questions. This was an unguarded moment when he might reveal a truth that later he would, for decency or compassion's sake, have covered. Based on the landlady's words, Mary was a woman of spirit who had passionate opinions.
'Yes, sir? You were hoping…?' he prompted.
'Oh,' Argyll sighed, and looked away. He fumbled towards a chair and sat down heavily. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, considerably older than his brother. But that bore out what Mrs. Porter had said.
Monk sat as well, to put himself on a level with Argyll. Orme remained standing, discreetly, a couple of yards away.
Argyll looked at Monk. 'Mary's father took his own life almost two months ago,' he said quietly. 'It was very distressing. Actually both Mary and Jenny, my wife, were bitterly grieved. Their mother had died many years before, and this was a terrible blow. My wife bore it with great fortitude, but Mary seemed to lose her… her mental
