AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“He wasn’t alone,” Monk said quickly, before Argyll should lose control. Grief he was used to, even anger, but there was a thread of violence just under the surface in this man that was fast unraveling. “A young woman named Mary Havilland was with him….”
Argyll’s eyes flew wide open. “Mary? Where is she? Is she all right? What happened? What are you not telling me, man? Don’t just stand there like an idiot! This is my family you’re talking about.” Again the fists were tight, skin on his knuckles stretched pale across the bone.
“I’m sorry, Miss Havilland went over with him,” Monk said grimly. “They went over holding on to each other.”
“What are you saying?” Argyll demanded.
“That they both went over, sir,” Monk repeated. “They were standing together by the railing, having what appeared to be a heated discussion. We were too far away to hear. The next time we looked they were at the railing, and the moment after, they overbalanced and fell.”
“You saw a man and woman struggling and you looked away?” Argyll said incredulously, his voice high-pitched. “What at, for God’s sake? What else could possibly be—”
“We were on patrol,” Monk cut across him. “We watch the whole river. We wouldn’t even have seen that much had they not been so close to the rail. It appeared an ordinary conversation, perhaps a lovers’ quarrel then made up again. If we’d have continued watching, it could have been intrusive.”
Argyll stood motionless, blinking. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Toby…Toby was my only relative. At least…” He ran his hand over his face almost as if to steady himself, somehow clear his vision. “My wife. You say Mary Havilland is dead also?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I believe she was close to your brother.”
“Close!” Argyll’s voice rose again dangerously, a note of hysteria in it. “She was my sister-in-law. Toby was betrothed to her, at least they were going to be. She…she called it off. She was very disturbed….”
Monk was confused. “She would have been your sister-in-law?”
“No! She was. Mary was my wife’s sister,” Argyll said with a small, indrawn breath. “My wife will be…devastated. We were hoping…” He stopped again.
Monk needed to prompt him, painful as it must be for him to answer further questions. This was an unguarded moment when he might reveal a truth that later he would, for decency or compassion’s sake, have covered. Based on the landlady’s words, Mary was a woman of spirit who had passionate opinions.
“Yes, sir? You were hoping…?” he prompted.
“Oh,” Argyll sighed, and looked away. He fumbled towards a chair and sat down heavily.
He appeared to be in his mid-forties, considerably older than his brother. But that bore out what Mrs. Porter had said.
Monk sat as well, to put himself on a level with Argyll. Orme remained standing, discreetly, a couple of yards away.
Argyll looked at Monk. “Mary’s father took his own life almost two months ago,” he said quietly. “It was very distressing. Actually both Mary and Jenny, my wife, were bitterly grieved. Their mother had died many years before, and this was a terrible blow. My wife bore it with great fortitude, but Mary seemed to lose her…her mental balance. She refused to accept that it was indeed suicide, even though the police investigated it, naturally, and that was their finding. We…we were hoping she was…”
“I’m sorry.” Monk found he meant it with savage honesty. He imagined Mary as she must have been when she was alive—the pale, river-wet face animated with emotion, anger, amazement, grief. “That’s a very hard thing for anyone to bear.” Like a physical blow, he remembered that Hester’s father had also taken his own life, and the pain of it was close and real in a way that no power of words alone could have given.
Argyll looked at him with surprise, as if he had heard the emotion through the polite phrases. “Yes. Yes, it is.” It was clear he had not expected Monk to allow his feelings to show. “I…I don’t know how poor Jenny will deal with this. It’s…” He failed to find the words for what he was struggling to say, perhaps even to himself.
“Would it be easier for Mrs. Argyll if we were here, so that she could ask us any questions she wishes to?” Monk asked. “Or would you prefer to tell her privately?”
Argyll hesitated. He seemed torn by a genuine indecision.
Monk waited. The clock on the mantel struck the quarter hour; otherwise there was silence.
“Perhaps I should not deny her the chance to speak with you,” Argyll said at last. “If you will excuse me, I shall inform her alone, and then see what she wishes.” He took Monk’s acquiescence for granted and rose to his feet. He walked out of the room a little unsteadily, only saving himself from bumping into the doorjamb at the last moment, and leaving the door itself gaping open.
“Poor man,” Orme said softly. “Wish we could tell ’im it were an accident.” He looked at Monk with a question in his eyes.
“So do I,” Monk agreed. It began to look as if Mary Havilland had at least temporarily lost her mental balance, but he did not want to say so, even to Orme.
The butler came in and stood like a black shadow just inside the door. “Mrs. Argyll asked me to see if there is anything I could bring for you gentlemen. Perhaps a glass of”—he considered—“ale?” He was not going to offer them a glass of good sherry they would not appreciate, and certainly not the best brandy.
Monk realized how achingly hungry he was. Orme must be also. Perhaps that was at least in part why he was still cold.
“Thank you,” he accepted. “We’ve come straight from the river. A sandwich and a glass of ale would be very gracious of you.”
The butler looked faintly uncomfortable, as if realizing he should have thought of it himself. “Immediately, sir,” he acknowledged. “Would cold roast beef and a spot of mustard be right?”
