could not afford to.
"James Havilland," he answered. "About two months ago. Charles
Street."
Runcorn's face
darkened a little, the pleasure draining out of it. "I remember. Poor man
shot himself in his own stables. What is it to do with the River Police? It's
nowhere near the water."
"Do you
remember his daughter, Mary?" Monk remained standing. Runcorn had not
offered him a seat, and for Monk to be comfortable would seem inappropriate in
this conversation, given all the past that lay between them.
"Of course
I do," Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the
dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he
ruled his little kingdom. "Has . . . has she complained to you that her
father was murdered?"
Monk was
stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in
Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should
trespass on his case.
"Who did
she think was responsible?" he asked.
Runcorn was too
quick for him. "Did she?" he challenged him. "Why did you say
did!"
"She fell
off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening," Monk replied.
Runcorn was
stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd
moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary
Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. "Suicide?" he said
hoarsely.
"I'm not
sure," Monk replied. "It looked like it at first. She was standing
near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of
her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing,
and then both overbalanced and fell."
"A
man?" Runcorn's eyes widened. "Who? Argyll?"
"Why do you
think it was Argyll?" Monk demanded.
Runcorn lost his
temper, color flooding up his cheeks. "Don't play your damn fool games
with me, Monk!" he said harshly. "You always were a heartless
bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she's dead, too! It's my
case, and I'll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn
force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer
again. Do you hear me?"
Monk's temper
flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level
voice. "If you're fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone
superintendent, you'll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of
authority," he retorted. "I don't know whether Mary Havilland jumped,
fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards
from two hundred feet away-too far to see in the dark." He was not going
to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about
Hester's history. That was another grief, another time. "If I knew exactly
what happened to James Havilland, it might help me."
Runcorn grunted,
then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders sagged a little.
"Oh. Well, I suppose you do need that. Sit down." He waved at a
wooden chair piled with papers, and eased himself into his own leather-padded
seat behind his desk.
Monk moved the
papers onto the floor and obeyed.
Runcorn's face
became somber. He had dealt with death both accidental and homicidal all his
adult life, but this one apparently moved him, even in memory.
"Stable boy
found him in the morning," he began, looking down at his large hands
rather than at Monk. "Seems the boy lived a mile or so away, and used to
walk to work every morning. Mews are small there, and the room above the stable
was kept for harnesses and the like. He could have slept in the straw, but
seems he had an aunt with a lodging house in the area, and he helped out there
too, and got fed and looked after for it. He seemed like an honest lad, but we
checked it all, and it was the truth. He was home all night, and Havilland's
butler said they'd never had a day's bother with him."
Monk nodded.
"Boy
arrived about
"James Havilland," he answered. "About two months ago. Charles
Street."
Runcorn's face
darkened a little, the pleasure draining out of it. "I remember. Poor man
shot himself in his own stables. What is it to do with the River Police? It's
nowhere near the water."
"Do you
remember his daughter, Mary?" Monk remained standing. Runcorn had not
offered him a seat, and for Monk to be comfortable would seem inappropriate in
this conversation, given all the past that lay between them.
"Of course
I do," Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the
dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he
ruled his little kingdom. "Has . . . has she complained to you that her
father was murdered?"
Monk was
stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in
Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should
trespass on his case.
"Who did
she think was responsible?" he asked.
Runcorn was too
quick for him. "Did she?" he challenged him. "Why did you say
did!"
"She fell
off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening," Monk replied.
Runcorn was
stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd
moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary
Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. "Suicide?" he said
hoarsely.
"I'm not
sure," Monk replied. "It looked like it at first. She was standing
near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of
her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing,
and then both overbalanced and fell."
"A
man?" Runcorn's eyes widened. "Who? Argyll?"
"Why do you
think it was Argyll?" Monk demanded.
Runcorn lost his
temper, color flooding up his cheeks. "Don't play your damn fool games
with me, Monk!" he said harshly. "You always were a heartless
bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she's dead, too! It's my
case, and I'll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn
force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer
again. Do you hear me?"
Monk's temper
flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level
voice. "If you're fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone
superintendent, you'll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of
authority," he retorted. "I don't know whether Mary Havilland jumped,
fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards
from two hundred feet away-too far to see in the dark." He was not going
to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about
Hester's history. That was another grief, another time. "If I knew exactly
what happened to James Havilland, it might help me."
Runcorn grunted,
then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders sagged a little.
"Oh. Well, I suppose you do need that. Sit down." He waved at a
wooden chair piled with papers, and eased himself into his own leather-padded
seat behind his desk.
Monk moved the
papers onto the floor and obeyed.
Runcorn's face
became somber. He had dealt with death both accidental and homicidal all his
adult life, but this one apparently moved him, even in memory.
"Stable boy
found him in the morning," he began, looking down at his large hands
rather than at Monk. "Seems the boy lived a mile or so away, and used to
walk to work every morning. Mews are small there, and the room above the stable
was kept for harnesses and the like. He could have slept in the straw, but
seems he had an aunt with a lodging house in the area, and he helped out there
too, and got fed and looked after for it. He seemed like an honest lad, but we
checked it all, and it was the truth. He was home all night, and Havilland's
butler said they'd never had a day's bother with him."
Monk nodded.
"Boy
arrived about
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