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“And murders,” Monk agreed.
“Do you reckon as she meant to go o’er, Mr. Monk?”
So he was thinking of Mary again, as if he too was haunted by her courage, her loneliness, the unsolved questions.
“No, I don’t.” He was being more honest than he had intended, but there was no help for now but to go on. If he could not rely on Orme, he was lost anyway. “I think she knew of something in the tunneling more dangerous than just the engines, or even the speed with which they’re cutting. I don’t know what it is yet, but I think someone killed her—and her father—over it.”
“Argyll?” Orme said with surprise.
“Not directly, no. I think he probably paid someone to kill James Havilland, and Mary found that out, too.”
Orme’s face was grim with the anger a normally gentle man feels when he is outraged. There was something frightening in it, unselfish and implacable. “I think as you should keep followin’ that until you find out ’oo it was, sir,” he said levelly. “It’s wrong ter let that go by. If we don’t see it right fer a woman like that, wot use are we?”
“And the thefts from the passenger boats?” Monk asked. “Our reputation matters, too. It’s part of our ability to do the job. If people don’t trust us, we’re crippled.”
“We got to do wot’s right, an’ trust it’ll be seen as right,” Orme said stubbornly. “I can’t find out ’oo killed ’er. I ’aven’t got the skill fer that. Never done it with people o’ that class. Give me a river fight, dockers, thieves, lightermen, sailors even, an’ I can sort it out. But not ladies like that. You done that fer years, Mr. Monk. You know murders wot are quiet. I know a punch in the face; you know a knife in the back. We’ll get it all, between us.”
“What about a hand in the pocket, a slit in the purse, and your money gone?” Monk asked.
Orme’s mouth tightened. “I’ll take care o’ that. An’ o’ people with big mouths an’ small minds. I know a lot o’ people ’oo’ve got secrets. You can’t help gettin’ enemies in this job, but if yer careful, an’ keep yer promises, you get friends as well.”
“I don’t know where the enemies are yet,” Monk admitted.
Orme smiled mirthlessly. “Not yet you don’t—but I do. There’s a few I can use, an’ I will. Believe me, sir, ’em boat thieves’ll wish they ’adn’t started. You find ’oo killed that poor girl. I’ll be be’ind you, an’ I’ll watch yer back against Mr. Farnham.”
“Thank you,” Monk said with utmost sincerity.
SEVEN
Later in the afternoon Monk and Runcorn were in Charles Street again. They were about to begin the task of knocking on the doors of those who had been to the theater the night before, and might possibly have returned at about that same hour the night when James Havilland had died. The day’s rain had turned the snow to slush, but now it was freezing again and the pavements were slippery underfoot. The pall over the city from so many domestic fires and factory chimneys blocked out the stars. The streetlamps glowed yellowish white with a halo of mist around each one, and the cold of the night caught in the throat. The noise of hooves was sharp and loud and carriage wheels crunched on the frozen slush.
Monk and Runcorn walked as swiftly as it was safe to do without losing one’s footing. They kept their heads down out of the wind, their hats low, coat collars turned up.
Runcorn glanced at Monk as if about to speak, then seemed to change his mind. Monk smiled, partly to himself. He knew that Runcorn was thinking—just as he was himself—that they were almost certainly wasting their time. But having come this far, they might just as well try every house whose front door, servants’ entrance, or mews might possibly have allowed one of the occupants to see someone come or go to Havilland’s mews that night.
Monk had earlier checked with the library of past newspapers exactly which theaters had been open and the hours when the curtains had come down.
“Better get on with it,” Runcorn said grimly, approaching the first door and climbing the steps.
That attempt was abortive, as was the second. The third took a little longer, but also yielded nothing. The man who came to speak to them was polite, but quickly made it apparent that he did not wish to become involved in anything that had happened in the street, o
r anyone else’s home. They left feeling more despondent than if he had simply denied being out.
Runcorn pulled his coat collar up higher and glanced at Monk, but he did not say anything. They were now four doors away from Havilland’s house, and on the opposite side of the street. Monk continued the investigation from habit, in the perverse refusal to surrender rather than any hope of achieving anything.
He and Runcorn walked up to the step side by side, but it was Runcorn who knocked on the door.
The footman who answered was young and somewhat flustered. He had very clearly not been expecting a caller at this hour of the night. “Yes, gentlemen?” he said with some alarm.
“Nothing wrong,” Runcorn soothed him. “Is your master at home?”
“Yes!” The young man blinked. He should have been more circumspect, even at this hour of the night, and he realized it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The color washed over his face. “At least…”
“That would be Mr. Barclay, and Mrs. Ewart?” The lift of puzzlement was barely discernible in Runcorn’s voice.
“Yes, sir.” The footman’s face was pink. He was plainly embarrassed and trying very hard to find a way out of his predicament. He was still struggling when a man in his middle thirties came across the hall behind him and into the vestibule. He was tall and rather elegant, and dressed in evening clothes as if he had only lately returned from some formal event.
“What is it, Alfred?” he asked with a frown. “Who are these gentlemen?”
