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“And Clacton,” Monk added.
Orme looked at him quickly.
Monk smiled, but he did not explain himself.
Orme’s mouth tightened, and he nodded.
Monk met Runcorn by the hot-chestnut stand just off Westminster Bridge Road. It was four in the afternoon and already dark. A heavy cloud hung like a pall over the city. There was the smell of chimney smoke in the air, and the wind held the sting of snow to come. Downriver on the incoming tide was a drift of fog, and Monk, standing within sight of the dark, flat water, could hear the boom of foghorns drifting up. Although there were several of them, it was an eerie sound of utter desolation. Now it echoed vaguely. When the fog came in it would be swallowed, cut off half finished, like a cry strangled in the throat.
“Found the cabbie,” Runcorn said, blowing on a hot chestnut before putting it into his mouth. “Took the man as far as Piccadilly. Remembers him quite well because he did an odd thing. He got out of his cab and crossed the Circus, which was pretty quiet at that time in the morning, all the theaters on Haymarket and Shaftesbury Avenue being out long since. Then he got straight into another cab and disappeared east along Coventry Street, towards Leicester Square.” He looked up from his chestnut, watching for Monk’s reaction. “Why would a man change cabs when there’s nothing wrong with the one he’s in?”
“Because he wants to disappear,” Monk replied. “I expect he changed again, maybe twice, before he got where he wanted to be.”
“Exactly,” Runcorn agreed, taking another chestnut and smiling. “He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t a beggar, he certainly wasn’t anyone’s groom…”
“He could have been,” Monk started.
Runcorn’s eyebrows rose. “With the price of a cab fare from Westminster Bridge Road to the East End?”
Monk could have bitten his tongue. He looked away from Runcorn. “No, of course not. Whoever he was, he had money.”
“Exactly!” Runcorn repeated. “I think Mrs. Ewart saw the man who shot James Havilland. She gave us quite a good description of him, and the cab driver added a bit. Seems he has black hair, rather long onto his collar, and at least at that time he was clean-shaven. The cabbie had the impression of a hollow sort of face and long nose, thin between the eyes.”
“A very observant cab driver,” Monk remarked, a little skeptically.
“You sure he wasn’t just trying to get on the good side of the police?”
“No, that’s accurate,” Runcorn replied, looking down and concentrating on the few pieces of chestnut he had left in his hand. “What we have to do is find out who hired him. It’ll be the same person who wrote to Havilland to get him out of the house and into the stables in the middle of the night.”
Havilland had not been afraid of whomever he expected to meet. And whoever it was had not taken advantage of his opportunity to rob the house. Either he had panicked—which did not seem to be the case—or he was compensated for what he did in some other way. Monk said as much to Runcorn.
“Money,” Runcorn replied bitterly. “Someone paid him to kill Havilland.”
“That sort of arrangement’s usually handed over in two halves,” Monk pointed out. “First before the deed, second after. We might be able to trace the money. It’s a risk to commit murder in an area like this. It can’t have come cheap.”
“Who sent that letter, that’s what I want to know. That’s who’s guilty, who really betrayed him.” Runcorn looked at Monk, searching his face for agreement. “That’s whom he was expecting to meet!”
Neither of them said it aloud, but Monk knew Runcorn was thinking of Alan Argyll, just as he was himself. Alan was married to one of Havilland’s daughters, and Toby was betrothed to the other. Havilland might disagree with them, distrust their engineering skills or business practices, but he would not fear personal violence from them.
“Why midnight? And why the stables?” he asked.
Runcorn’s eyebrows rose. “Could hardly shoot him much earlier! And obviously he wouldn’t want to do it in the house!”
“I mean what reason would Argyll give for meeting in the stables at midnight? And why did Havilland agree?”
Runcorn took the point immediately. “We need to find that letter! Or learn at the very least who sent it.”
Monk took one of the chestnuts and ate it. It was sweet and hot. “The maid said Havilland burnt it.”
“Maybe he didn’t burn the envelope.” Runcorn was still hopeful.
Monk ate the last chestnut. “Come on.” He turned and started to walk.
Cardman was surprised to see them again, but he invited them in. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
The hall had a bare look. The black crepe had been taken down along with the wreaths, but the clock was still stopped and there was no heating.
It was Monk who spoke first this time. “I know the maid said that Mr. Havilland destroyed the note that took him to the stables the night he was killed, but it is extremely important that we learn everything about it that we can—even the envelope, if it still exists.”
