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“Yes, sir. I’m certain of it.”
“But she found nothing, either?”
Cardman looked chagrined. “No, sir, not so far as I am aware.”
“Did she continue to see Mr. Toby Argyll?”
“She broke off their agreement, but of course she still saw him socially now and then. She could hardly help it, since he was Miss Jennifer’s brother-in-law, and the Argyll brothers were very close.”
“Do you know Mrs. Argyll’s feelings on the subject?” Monk asked. “She was surely caught in the middle of a most unfortunate 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 father’s 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 left them open to the censure of the world.
He reached the middle of the bridge and saw an empty cab going the other way. He stepped out into the road and hailed it, giving the police station address.
The journey was too short. He was still not ready when he arrived, but then perhaps he never would be. He paid the driver and went up the station steps and inside. He was recognized immediately.
“Mornin’, Mr. Monk,” the desk sergeant said guardedly. “What can we do for you, sir?”
Monk could not remember the man, but that meant nothing, except that he had not worked with him since the accident, nearly eight years ago now. Had he really known Hester so long? Why had it taken him years to find the courage within himself, and the honesty, to acknowledge his feelings for her? The answer was easy. He did not want to give anyone else the power to hurt him so much. And in closing the door on the possibility of pain, of course, he had closed it on the chance for joy as well.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” he replied, stopping in front of the desk. “I would like to speak to Superintendent Runcorn, please. It concerns a case he handled recently.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said with a hint of satisfaction at the lack of authority in Monk’s voice. “That will be on behalf of whom, sir?”
Monk forbore from smiling, although he wanted to. The man had not recognized his police coat. “On behalf of the Thames River Police,” he replied, opening his jacket a little so that his uniform showed beneath.
