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“Help what?” Barclay asked scathingly. “Let the dead rest in peace! At least grant them that much decency. His poor daughter took her own life as well. I presume you know that?”
Monk spoke for the first time, with an edge to his voice. “I was there, on patrol on the river. She went over the bridge. I am not certain that she intended to.”
Barclay looked surprised. “No one else seems to have any doubt. But even if she fell by accident, that has nothing to do with us. It was miles from here, and we can’t help you. I’m sorry. Good night.” He stepped back.
Melisande’s gown was light and she was obviously cold, but she refused to step out of his way. She looked at Monk. “Is there some chance she did not take her life?” Her face was soft, her eyes lit with hope. “I didn’t know her very well, but I would so much like to think that she was not so filled with despair that she would do such a thing, and of course also that she could have a proper burial. The other is so…brutal.”
“Yes, there is a chance, ma’am,” Monk replied. “That is part of what we are still investigating.”
“And if we saw anyone in the street the night of her father’s death, that might help?”
“Yes.”
Runcorn was staring at her with a steady, unwavering gentleness. Had he too seen the sadness in her, the vulnerability?
As if aware of it, she turned and answered as though it were Runcorn who had elaborated rather than Monk. “We were at the theater that night,” she told him. “I can’t remember what we saw, and it doesn’t matter now. It went right out of my head when I heard the next day what had happened. But we did return about half past midnight, and we saw a man coming out of the mews opposite.”
“He wasn’t coming out,” Barclay contradicted her with a wince. “He was on the footpath, staggering around. He had clearly been over-indulging. I’ve no idea who he was, so I couldn’t tell you where to find him. But even if I could, he would be useless to you. He couldn’t even see where he was going, let alone be a credible witness to anything.” His brow furrowed, his expression sharper. “But even if he’d seen Havilland put the gun to his head and pull the trigger, how would that help anyone? You know what happened. Let it be mercifully forgotten. It’s no one’s fault, and nothing whatever to do with us.”
Monk was freezing. His body and Runcorn’s were to some extent sheltering Barclay and his sister, but even so he felt a stiffening of anger, a heat of resentment rise inside him. “It is possible, sir, that Mr. Havilland did not kill himself!” he said sharply.
“Don’t be absurd!” Barclay was angry now, rattled. “Are you suggesting there’s some maniac going around shooting people in their own homes, in the middle of the night? Here?” He put his arm out as if to protect his sister.
She moved fractionally away from him, just out of his reach, her eyes still on Runcorn.
It was Runcorn who answered, not to contradict Barclay so much as to reassure Melisande. “No, sir. If it was someone else, then it was deliberately planned and arranged, and it was to do with his work. There is no need at all for anyone else to be alarmed. If we are right, then the man concerned is miles away from here, and the last thing he’d be likely to do is draw attention to himself by coming back.”
Melisande smiled. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “And he did come out of the mews. He staggered around a little as if he was drunk, and he said he was.”
“He said he was?” Runcorn was startled. “What did he say, exactly?”
“He had a stain on his jacket.” She touched her shoulder, about the place where she would have pinned a corsage. “About here. Quite a large stain, three or four inches across, dark, as if it was wet. He saw me looking at it, only briefly. I suppose that was rude, but it was such an odd place to have a stain so large. He said he had tripped and fallen in the mews. He”—she made a slight gesture as if brushing herself down—“he said he didn’t know what he fell in, and would prefer not to think of it. Then he apologized and went on down the road.” She glanced at her brother. “If he fell in the mews, then he should have smelled of horse manure.”
Barclay’s eyes showed not only his disgust but also his impatience. “I daresay he did, Mel!” he said sharply. “Dirt and horse dung.” He made a guttural sound in his throat. “I’m perished standing out here. There really isn’t anything more to say. Good night, officers.”
Melisande refused to move, disregarding his growing anger. “But he didn’t!” she insisted. “He didn’t smell at all. He was very close to me. He passed only a foot away, and he didn’t smell of anything except…sweat, and something a little sickly, and…something else quite strong, but I didn’t recognize it.” Again she was looking at Runcorn.
Monk felt a tingle of excitement, the first scent of meaning. He glanced at Runcorn and had to bite his lip to keep silent.
Runcorn let out his breath slowly. “What kind of smell, ma’am?” He was achingly careful not to suggest anything to her. “Can you describe it?”
“Really!” Barclay lost his temper. “What’s the matter with you, man? Asking a lady to describe the precise stink of a beggar! I don’t know what kind of person you are used to….”
The color washed up Melisande’s cheeks. Her brother’s rudeness clearly embarrassed her far more than the nature of the question.
Runcorn blushed also—for her, not for himself. Monk could see that in the anger and confusion in his eyes. He longed to help her, and he had no idea how to. Something in her manner, her particular kind of loneliness, had found his sympathy, and he was utterly and wholly in her defense.
Runcorn stared at Barclay with cold dislike. “It matters, sir,” he said. His voice was shaking a little, but that could have been attributed to the cold. They were shuddering now, their feet almost numb. “This man may have seen a murder. I don’t willingly distress anybody, but it sometimes happens that those who can help the most are also those who are sensitive to the…unpleasant details.”
“Please, John, don’t try to protect me from doing my duty. That would not be a service to me.” Melisande looked at Runcorn, gratitude in her smile. “It was rather an acrid, smoky kind of smell. Not very pleasant, but not sour or dirty.”
“Probably picked up someone’s old cigar end.” Barclay wrinkled his nose.
“No,” she replied. “I know tobacco smoke. It definitely wasn’t that, but it was rather smoky.” She paled suddenly. “Oh! You mean it was gunsmoke?”
“It might have been,” Runcorn agreed.
“You can’t base a charge of murder on that!” Barclay protested.
