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Monk liked him the better for that.
“She couldn’t believe he would do such a thing,” Runcorn went on. “Said he was on a crusade, and people in crusades get killed sometimes, but they don’t shoot themselves. She said he was on the edge of finding out something about the tunnels, and someone killed him to stop him doing that. Lots of money at stake. Fortunes to be made, and I suppose lost, in all this. And reputations.”
“What do you believe?” Monk asked.
“Asked a few questions about him,” Runcorn said unhappily. “According to the men in the works, he’d gotten a bit eccentric. Scared stiff of tunnels and holes, so they said. Used to shake and go white as a ghost, break out in a sweat.” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “Happens to some people. Others it’s heights, or spiders, or snakes. Whatever. Usually think of women being frightened of that sort of thing, but it doesn’t have to be. Worked a case once with a woman who fainted at the sight of a mouse. Can’t think why, but it doesn’t have to have a reason. Knew another one terrified of birds, even a harmless little canary.” He stopped. All the lines of his face sagged, making him look older, more tired than before. “He did seem obsessed with the dread of an accident, and as far as I could see, there was no reason for it.”
“What did Mrs. Argyll think of her father in this?” Monk asked, remembering Jenny Argyll’s stiff back and carefully controlled face.
“Blamed herself for not seeing how far his madness had gone,” Runcorn answered, weariness and confusion in his eyes. “Said she would have had him better looked after if she’d known. Not that there was a thing she could’ve done, as her husband told her. As long as he breaks no laws—and Havilland didn’t—a man’s entitled to go as daft as he likes.”
“And Mary?”
Runcorn sighed. “That’s the thing. Poor girl refused to accept it. Determined her father was right and wouldn’t let it rest. Started reading all his books, asking questions. Broke off her engagement to Toby Argyll and devoted herself to clearing her father’s name. Wanted him buried in consecrated ground if it took her her life’s work to do it.” His voice sank even lower. “Now it looks as if the poor soul’ll lie beside him. Do you know when they’re going to do that, because—” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat, then glared defensively at Monk as if challenging him to mock.
Monk had no desire to. In his mind’s eye he could see again and again the figure of Mary tipping over the rail, clinging on to Toby Argyll, and the two of them plunging down into the icy river. He still did not know what had happened; nothing was clear, and he ended up not remembering but imagining, because he wanted her not to have done it herself.
And he remembered the strong bones and the gentle mouth of the white face they pulled out of the river, and that Mrs. Porter had said she was a woman of opinions and the courage to declare them.
“No, not yet. But I’ll tell you when I do. Have to tell the butler, Cardman, as well.”
Runcorn nodded, then looked away, his eyes too bright.
“You said you found where he bought the gun.” Monk changed the subject.
Runcorn did not look at him. “Pawnshop half a mile away. Owner described him close enough. He was wearing a good coat, dark wool, and a scarf. Nothing odd in that, especially on a November night.”
“Not very specific. Could have been anyone.”
“Could have, except it was the same gun. Had one or two marks and scratches on it. He was certain enough.”
“But why would Havilland have killed himself?” Monk persisted.
Runcorn shook his head. “Alan Argyll told me he was becoming an embarrassment to the company. He was reluctant to say so, but he was going to have to dismiss him. Havilland was upsetting the men, causing trouble. Argyll felt very badly about it, but he had no choice. Couldn’t let everyone suffer because of one man’s obsession. Said he hadn’t told his wife, and certainly Mary didn’t know, but he had intimated as much to Havilland himself. He begged us not to tell them, especially Mary. It wouldn’t alter his suicide, and it would reduce him in their eyes. In fact, it would make suicide seem more rational. Maybe he did tell her after all.” There was no relief in his face, no sense of resolution.
“Poor man,” Monk said. “If he told her at last and she went off the bridge, taking Toby Argyll with her, he’s going to feel a guilt for the rest of his life.”
“What else could he do?” Runcorn said reasonably, his face still puckered in distaste.
“If Havilland was murdered, who did Mary think was responsible?”
“Her brother-in-law,” Runcorn replied unhesitatingly. “But he wasn’t. We checked up—he was out all evening at a function and went home with his wife a little after midnight. She’ll swear for him, and so will the servants. Footman waited up; so did the lady’s maid. No way he could have been there. Same for his brother, before you ask.”
“He lives close by. No servants to swear for him,” Monk pointed out.
“He was out of London that night,” Runcorn responded. “Wasn’t within a hundred miles. Checked on that, too.”
“I see.” There was nothing left to argue. He stood up with a strange hollowness inside him. “Thank you.”
Runcorn rose as well. “Are you giving up?” It sounded like a challenge. There was a note in it close to despair.
“No!” Monk exclaimed. In truth, though, he had no idea where else to look for evidence. Inevitability closed in on him.
“Tell me,” Runcorn said, frowning, “if you find anything. And…”
“Yes, I will,” Monk promised. He
thanked him, and left before it could grow any more awkward. There was nothing else for them to say to each other, and the brief truce was best unbroken by not trying.
