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“Monk, River Police,” Monk replied. “I need to talk to the man in charge here.”
“That’s me! Aston Sixsmith,” the man told him. “What is it, Mr. Monk?”
Monk waved his arm to indicate that they should go back towards the entrance, away from the noise, and he had to concentrate deliberately in order not to turn immediately and walk ahead. He began to feel far more sympathy for James Havilland than he had even an hour ago. He could understand any man who felt oppressed by these walls, the darkness, and above all the close, stale air on his face and in his lungs.
Sixsmith walked in front of him and stopped a hundred feet away from the digging. “Well, Mr. Monk, what can I do for you?” He looked curious. “You said River Police? We haven’t any trouble here, and I haven’t taken on any new men in the last month or so. Are you looking for someone? I’d try the Thames Tunnel if I were you. There’s a whole world down there. Some people live pretty well all their lives underground. This time of the year it’s drier than up above. But I imagine you know that.”
“Yes, I do,” Monk replied, although the world of the Thames Tunnel was one he had not yet had time to explore. The river itself kept him constantly alert, always learning, finding the vast gaps in his knowledge and little, stupid mistakes made out of ignorance. His face was hot with the memory of the times Orme had rescued him, albeit always discreetly. He could not go on like that. “I’m not looking for a man.” He faced Sixsmith squarely, meeting the clear blue eyes. “I believe you used to work with James Havilland?”
Sixsmith’s expression darkened with a sudden sadness. His face was more mobile, more easily marked with emotion than Monk had expected. He looked not unlike the navvies himself and blended with them easily, but his voice, both in tone and in diction, placed him as far different, a man of more gentleness and considerable education, whether formally acquired or not.
“Yes. Poor man,” he replied. “In the end the tunnels got to him.” His eyes searched Monk’s, and Monk had the distinct feeling that his own fear was sensed, if not seen.
“What can you tell me about him?” Monk asked. “Was he a good engineer?”
“Excellent, if a little old-fashioned,” Sixsmith answered. “He wanted new ideas tested more thoroughly than I think was necessary. But he was a sound man, and I know no one who didn’t both like and respect him. I certainly did!”
“You said the tunnels got to him,” Monk continued. “What did you mean?” He was glad when they started to move towards the entrance again, even if it was to a crevasse rather than the level ground.
Sixsmith sighed and moved his hands in a slight gesture of regret. Despite the dirt on them, both the power and the grace were visible. “Some men can’t stand closed-in places,” he explained. “You’ve got to have a special kind of nerve to work underground. He hadn’t. Oh, he tried his best, but you could see him losing control.” He sighed and pulled his wide mouth tight. “I attempted to persuade him to stay up top, but he wouldn’t listen. Pride, I suppose.”
“Was there anything in particular he was afraid of?” Monk asked as innocently as he could.
Sixsmith looked at him carefully. His gaze was very direct, and it was impossible to miss the intelligence in his eyes. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to conceal it now,” he said resignedly. “The poor man’s dead, and the world knows his weaknesses. Yes, he was afraid of a stream bursting through and sending the whole side caving in. If that happened, of course, men would be buried alive or drowned. He became obsessed with the idea of lost underground navvies just waiting to find a way in, almost like an evil presence.” He looked at Monk defensively. “It’s not insane, Mr. Monk, not entirely. It’s just the exaggeration of something real—fear taken beyond reason, so to speak. Tunnel engineering is a dangerous business. Men died in building the Thames Tunnel, you know? Crushed, gassed, all sorts of things. It’s a hard profession, and it’s not for everyone.”
“But you liked him personally?” Monk was shivering in spite of his heavy coat. He clenched his teeth, trying to hide it.
“Yes, I did,” Sixsmith said without hesitation. “He was a good man.” He pushed his hands in his pockets. He walked easily, even casually.
“Did you know Miss Mary Havilland?” Monk pursued.
A shadow of exasperation crossed Sixsmith’s expressive face. “Yes, I did. Not well. She took her father’s death very hard. I’m afraid she was a bit less…well-balanced than he was, or her sister, Mrs. Argyll. Very emotional.”
Monk found himself resenting Sixsmith, which was unreasonable. He had never known Mary Havilland in life and Sixsmith had. He must remember that her likenesses to Hester were superficial—matters of circumstance, not nature. And yet her face had looked so gentle and so sane. Emotional, certainly, but her passions were those of a strong woman, not the fancies and indulgences of a weak one.
It was difficult for him to speak of her death to this man who saw her so differently. He hesitated, looking for the words he wanted, even, for an instant, forgetting how far ahead the light still lay.
Sixsmith was there before him. “Is that why you are here? You said River Police. She died in the river, didn’t she?” He pursed his lips. “I’m deeply sorry about that. And young Toby, too. What a terrible tragedy.” He was looking at Monk intently now. “Are you assuming that she killed herself because of her father? You are almost certainly right. She couldn’t accept the truth. Fought against it all the way, poor soul.” He shrugged slightly. “Maybe I would have if it had been my father. It’s hard to face something like that about your own family.”
Monk swung to face him, but there was nothing but a crumpled pity in Sixsmith’s face.
“Everyone was very sorry for her,” Sixsmith went on. “Turned a deaf ear to her questions and accusations, hoped she’d grow out of it, but it doesn’t seem to have helped. Perhaps she finally saw the truth, and it was too much for her.”
Monk looked into his powerful, sad face and felt the weight of his conviction and pity. “Thank you. I’ll come back if there seems anything further.” He held out his hand.
Sixsmith grasped it with a sudden smile so warm it entirely changed him. They could have been friends met again after a long separation. “Do come back,” he said, letting Monk’s hand go. “Any help I can be.”
In spite of what Sixsmith had said, Monk still went to check one more time on James Havilland’s suicide. Even as he rode in a hansom along the Embankment he was aware that Farnham would have expected him to attend to the urgent crime on the river, which was his job, but he knew Orme would deal with all the regular accidents and the crimes. He realized ruefully that Orme did that much of the time anyway. He was teaching Monk more than he was learning from him.
Mary Havilland and Toby Argyll had died in the river. Had she really believed that he and his brother were responsible for her father’s death? If so, then perhaps she had taken Toby with her over the edge intentionally, as Alan Argyll had implied in the shock of his loss. If that was so, then it was murder.
Monk decided to spend one more day seeking to lay to rest the doubts that swirled around in his mind. Then he would have to tell Hester the truth, however sad or brutal it was.
Last time at the Havilland house he had spoken only to Cardman, who was intensely loyal. Perhaps if he spoke to a different servant, someone who had been there less time and would very shortly be seeking another place anyway, he would hear a different story.
It was a gray day with sleet on the wind. He was glad to reach the house again and be permitted into the kitchen, where he was offered a hot cup of tea and some Madeira cake. The reason for such hospitality w
as quickly revealed.
