The Dark Assassin by Anne Perry

development."
    Cardman's lips
pressed together before he spoke.
    "She was
loyal to her husband, sir. She was convinced that her father's fears had
unbalanced his judgment, and she was annoyed with Miss Mary for pandering to
him rather than encouraging him to abandon the matter." There was a wealth
of anger and distress in his voice.
    Monk was
bitterly aware that the house in which Cardman lived was the center of a double
disgrace, and there seemed no one left to care except the butler and the other
servants for whom he was responsible.
    "I see.
Thank you very much for your honesty," Monk said, rising to his feet.
"Just one more thing: Who investigated Mr. Havilland's death?"
    "A
Superintendent Runcorn," Cardman replied. "He was very civil about
it, and seemed to be thorough. I cannot think of anything more that he could
have done." He stood also.
    Runcorn! That
was the worst answer Cardman could have given. The past returned to Monk like a
draft of cold air. How many times had he second-guessed Runcorn-gone over his
work, corrected a flaw here and there, and altered the conclusion? It seemed as
if he had always needed to prove himself the cleverer. Increasingly he disliked
the man he had been then. The fact that he disliked Runcorn even more mitigated
nothing.
    "Mr. Argyll
did not doubt the correctness of the verdict?" he asked aloud, his voice
rasping with emotion.
    "No, sir,
just Miss Mary." Grief filled Cardman's face, and he seemed unashamed of
it, as if at least in front of Monk he felt no need to mask it anymore. He
swallowed hard. "Sir, I would be most grateful if you could inform us when
... when she is ... if Mrs. Argyll doesn't..." He did not know how to
finish.
    "I will
make certain you are told," Monk said hoarsely. "But you might
consider whether the female staff wish to attend. Burials can be ... very
arduous."
    "You are
telling me it will be in unhallowed ground. I know, sir. If Miss Mary was
strong enough to go to her fathers burial, we can go to hers."
    Monk nodded,
tears in his throat, for Mary Havilland, for Hester's father, for uncounted
people in despair.
    Cardman saw him
to the door in silent understanding.
    Outside in the
street Monk began to walk back down the hill towards Westminster Bridge. It
would be the best place to catch a hansom, but he was in no hurry. He must face
Runcorn in his own station and yet again challenge his judgment, but he was not
ready to do it yet. Were it not for the thought of Mary Havilland buried in the
grave of an outcast, her courage and loyalty to her father credited as no more
than the dementia of a bereaved woman, he would have accepted the verdict and
consider he had done all that duty required.
    But he
remembered her face, the white skin, the strong bones and the gentle mouth. She
was a fighter who had been beaten. He refused to accept that she had
surrendered. At least he could not yet.
    He wanted to
prepare what he would say to Runcorn, weigh his words to rob them of criticism,
perhaps even gain his support. The wind was cold blowing up off the river, and
the damp in it stung the flesh. It crept through the cracks between scarf and
coat collar, and whipped trousers around the ankles. The magnificent Gothic
lines of the Houses of Parliament stood on the far bank. Big Ben indicated that
it was twenty minutes before eleven. He had been longer with Cardman than he
had realized.
    He hunched his
shoulders and walked more rapidly along the footpath. Hansoms passed him, but
they were all occupied. Should he have asked Cardman outright if he believed
the Havillands had committed suicide? He thought the butler was a good judge of
character, a strong man.
    No. He was also
loyal. Whatever he thought, he would not have told a stranger that both his
master and then his mistress had committed such an act of cowardice before the
law of man and of God. His own judgment might have been wiser and gentler, but
he would not have