AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes,” he said. “I think she could do that.”
“It isn’t enough, though, is it?”
He could never lie to her. She could see right inside him, whether she meant to or not.
“No. It doesn’t make sense that Alan Argyll would take a risk like that. It would ruin him. There’s somethin
g else that we don’t know. We haven’t got all of it.”
She put her arms around him again, holding him more tightly.
In the morning the situation seemed less clear-cut. If it had been Toby Argyll, young and ambitious, who was behind it all, then he was beyond anyone’s reach now, and blackening his name would be seen as pointlessly cruel. Alan Argyll would do everything possible to prevent that, and Monk would earn for the River Police a bitter enemy. His proof would have to be absolute. No one would care about rescuing the reputation of James Havilland, and even less about Mary’s. Naturally Farnham would see no purpose in it at all.
Monk’s accountability to Farnham was one of the prices to pay for the authority and regular income his uniform gave him. He did not fear financial insecurity this winter as he had last. Thinking of ways to skirt around Farnham’s prejudices was a small enough price to pay.
He needed to know a lot more about both Toby and Alan Argyll. It was difficult to form an opinion of someone who was dead, especially if he had died young and tragically. No one liked to speak of such individuals except in hushed and careful tones, as if death removed all weaknesses from them, not to mention actual sins.
Perhaps a good place to begin would be with those who had cared for the other dead people, James and Mary Havilland. This time he would see the housekeeper, Mrs. Kitching. He might even ask Cardman again, and persuade him to be rather less stiffly discreet.
Cardman greeted Monk with courtesy. He stood in the morning room to answer Monk’s questions, and if his mask slipped, it was only to show a swift anger that Mary Havilland was regarded by the church as a sinner who, by the finality of death, had forfeited her chance of repentance.
Monk felt helpless to reach out to the man’s hard, isolated grief. Cardman was intensely private; perhaps it was his only armor. Monk had no wish to breach it. Instead he asked if he might see the housekeeper, and was conducted along the corridor and, after a brief enquiry, shown into her room.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kitching,” he began.
“Hmph,” she replied, her back straight as a ruler as she sat opposite him in her small, neat sitting room. She looked him up and down, noting his police uniform jacket—a sartorial burden he bore with difficulty—and then his white shirt collar and beautiful leather boots. “Police officer, is it? More of the officer, and less of the police, maybe? And what is it you’re wanting now? I’ll not say ill of Miss Havilland, so you can save your time. I’ll go to my own grave saying she was a good woman, and I’ll tell the good Lord so to his face.”
“I’m investigating why she died, and who was the cause of it, Mrs. Kitching. I’d like to know a little more about the other people concerned in her life. For example, did you know Mr. Toby Argyll? I imagine he called here to see her quite often, especially after her father’s death?”
“And before,” she said quickly.
“Were they very close?”
“Depends what you mean.” It was not a prevarication; she wished to be exact. Her eyes were more direct than those of any servant he had questioned before, at least as long as he could remember.
A thought flashed across his mind. “Will you be looking for another position after this, Mrs. Kitching?”
“I’ve no need to. I’ve saved a bit. I’m going to live with my brother and his wife, in Dorking. I’m just staying here till matters are settled.”
He smiled. She was exactly the witness he was looking for, and so he returned to his earlier question. “What I mean, Mrs. Kitching, was he in love with her, and she with him?”
She gave a little sigh. “She certainly wasn’t in love with him, but she started out liking him well enough. He was very personable, and he had wit and intelligence.”
“And how did he feel about her?”
“Oh, she was handsome, Miss Mary.” She blinked and took a deep breath. It was very clearly difficult for her to govern her distress. She glared at him, as if waking her grief were his fault. “That’s what most gentlemen like, until they know you a little better.”
“And then?” He kept his expression perfectly bland.
“Then they’d rather you didn’t have too many opinions of your own,” she said tartly, the tears standing out in her eyes. The thought flashed to him that perhaps she was thinking not only of Mary Havilland, but perhaps of some grief of her own now long in the past but still tender, still haunting her with loss. Many cooks and housekeepers were given the honorary title of Mrs., even if they had never married. It was a mark of adulthood rather than marriage, just as when a man moves from being master to mister. It was a distinction that had not occurred to him before. But then women were not legal entities in the same way that men were.
Again he found his sympathy for Mary clouding his judgment. He was imagining her as someone with courage, honor, and wit—someone he would have liked. But it might not have been so at all. In the beginning, he had loathed Hester. No, that was not true—he had been fascinated by her, attracted to her, but afraid of his own weakness. He had been certain that he wanted someone far more comfortable: a soft woman who did not challenge him, did not force him to live up to the best in himself, sometimes even beyond what he believed was in him. Hester’s gentleness was deeper than mere agreeability; it was a passion, a tenderness of honesty, not of indifference or lack of the courage or interest to argue. Never, ever was it the lack of an opinion of her own.
Before her, he had fallen in love with quiet, discreet women who never argued, and then realized he was desperately, soul-achingly lonely. Nothing within them touched anything deeper than his skin.
What had happened to Toby Argyll? Had he had the courage to love Mary? Or had he found her too challenging, too thwarting of his vanity?
“You say he did not like her opinions, Mrs. Kitching, but was he in love with her?”
