Dark Assassin

"It were 'er? Course, it would be. 'E din't never look at no one else, not ever since 'e met 'er."

"He was in love with her?" Of course, that could mean many things, from the true giving of the heart, unselfishly, through generosity, need, all the way to domination and obsession. And rejection could mean anything from resignation through misery to anger or rage and the need for revenge, perhaps even destruction.

She hesitated.

"Mrs. Porter?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "They was betrothed, at least 'e seemed to take it they was, then she broke it orff. Not that it were formal, like. There weren't no a

"Do you know why?"

She was surprised.

"Me? Course I don't."

"Was there another person?"

"Not for 'im, an' I don't think for 'er neither. Least that's wot I 'eard 'im say." She gave a long sniff and gulped. "This is terrible. I never 'eard o' such a thing, not wi' quality folk. Wot would they want ter go jumpin' orff bridges for? Mr. Argyll'll be broke ter pieces when 'e 'ears, poor man."

"Mr. Argyll? His father?" Monk asked.

"No, 'is brother. Quite a bit older, 'e is. Least I should say so." She sniffed again and fished in her apron pocket for a handkerchief. "I only seen 'im five or six times, when 'e came 'ere fer Mr. Toby, like. Very wealthy gentleman, 'e is. Owns them big machines an' things wot's diggin' the new sewers Mr. Bazalgette drew ter clean up London, so we don't get no more typhoid an' cholera an' the like. Took poor Prince Albert ter die of it, an' the poor Queen's 'eart broke before they do it. Wicked, I say!"

Monk could remember the Great Stink of '58 very clearly, when the overflow of effluent had been so serious the entire city of London became like a vast open sewer. The Thames had smelled so vile it choked the throat and caused nausea simply to come within a mile of it.

The new sewer system was to be the most advanced in Europe. It would cost a fortune and provide work, and wealth, for thousands, tens of thousands if one considered all the navvies, brick makers, and railwaymen involved, the builders, carpenters, and suppliers of one sort or another. Most of the sewers were to be built by the open cut-and-cover method, but a few were deep enough to require tu

"So Mr. Argyll was a wealthy young man?"

"Oh, yes." She straightened up a little. "This is a very nice class o' place, Mr. Monk. Don't live 'ere cheap, yer 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 thi

"Mr. Argyll is at di

"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 ca

The butler hesitated. "Indeed, sir. May I ask what has happened? Is it one of the tu

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.