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Cardman looked stiff and miserable, his eyes haunted, but he did not hesitate. “Yes, sir. That is Miss Jennifer’s handwriting—Mrs. Argyll, that is.”
“Thank you,” Monk acknowledged. Then he realized what Cardman might think. Possibly Runcorn would disapprove, but he intended to tell Cardman anyway. “There was a man seen leaving the mews at about the time Mr. Havilland was shot. He passed two people returning from the theater who say he smelled of gunsmoke. We traced his movements. He took a cab as far as Piccadilly, then changed cabs and went east. It seems very possible it was he who actually killed Mr. Havilland.”
Cardman’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “Thank you, sir.” He blinked, gratitude showing in his eyes.
Jenny Argyll greeted them far more coolly. At this time of the day her husband was either at his office or at one of the sites.
“The matter is closed,” she said bluntly. She had received them in the withdrawing room because the morning room fire was not lit. After such a double bereavement they were still not receiving callers. Everything was draped in black. There were wreaths on the doors leading into the hall, the mirrors were covered, and the clocks were stopped. Presumably in this house the state of mourning was more for Toby Argyll than for Mary, although Jenny might well grieve privately for her sister. Monk had not forgotten Argyll’s rage on hearing the news of their deaths, and his instant blaming of Mary. If Toby had killed her, had it been at his brother’s command?
This time Runcorn allowed Monk to take the lead.
“I am afraid the matter is not closed, Mrs. Argyll,” Monk said firmly. She was wearing black. It was completely unrelieved, and it drained from her what little color she might have had. He judged that she would normally be an attractive woman, but she had not the strength or the passion he had seen in Mary’s face, even when it had been lifeless and wet from the river. There had been something in the bones, the curve of her mouth, that had been unique.
“I cannot help you,” she said flatly. She was standing, staring away from them out of the window into the flat winter light. “And I cannot see what good turning our pain over and over can do. Please allow us to grieve in peace—and alone.”
“We are not at the moment concerned with the deaths of Miss Havilland and Mr. Argyll,” Monk replied. “It is the events on the night your father died that we are investigating.”
“There is nothing more to say.” Her voice was quiet, but the hurt and the anger were plain in her face. Her shoulders were stiff, straining the shiny black fabric. “It is our family’s tragedy. For pity’s sake, leave us alone! Haven’t we suffered enough?”
Monk hated having to continue. He was aware of the same distress in Runcorn, standing near him. But he could not let it go.
“You wrote a letter to your father and had it hand-delivered the night of his death, Mrs. Argyll.” He saw her start and draw in her breath with a little gasp. “Please don’t embarrass us all with a denial. The letter was seen, and your father kept the envelope. I have it.”
She was ashen, and she turned to face him angrily. “Then what do you want from me?” Her voice was so stifled in her throat that it was barely audible. Her eyes burned hot with hatred of them for the shame they were inflicting on her.
“I want to know what was in the letter, Mrs. Argyll. You arranged for your father to go to the stables—alone—after the middle of the night. He did so, and was killed.”
“He killed himself!” she burst out, her tone rising dangerously. “For the love of heaven, why can’t you leave it alone? He was mad! He had delusions! He was terrified of closed spaces, and at last he couldn’t face it anymore. What else do you need to know? Do you hate us so much that you gain some kind of pleasure from seeing us suffer? Do you have to open the wounds again, and again, and again?” She was almost out of control, her voice shrill and loud.
“Sit down, Mrs.—” Monk started.
“I will not sit down!” she snapped back. “Do not patronize me in my own home, you…” She gasped in a breath again, lost for a word she might dare use.
There was nothing for Monk to do but tell her the truth before she became hysterical and either fainted or left the room and refused to see them again. He had little enough authority to be here. Farnham would not back him up.
“A man was seen leaving the mews just after your father was shot, Mrs. Argyll. He smelled of gunsmoke. He was a stranger in the area and left immediately, traveling in several cabs back to the East End. Do you know who that man was?”
She stared at him incredulously. “Of course I don’t! What are you saying—that he shot my father?”
“I believe so.”
She put her hands up to her mouth and sank rather too quickly into the chair, as if she had lost her power to remain standing. She stared at Monk as if he had risen out of the carpet in a cloud of sulfur.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it more than he had thought he could.
“What did you write in your letter that sent your father out into the stable at midnight, Mrs. Argyll?”
“I…I…”
He waited.
She mastered herself with intense difficulty. The struggle was naked and painful in her face. “I asked him to meet my husband to allow a proper discussion of the tunnels they were building, without Mary knowing and interrupting. She was very excitable.”
“At midnight?” Monk said with surprise. “Why not in the offices in the morning?”
“Because Papa was concerned there was going to be an accident, and he would not come into the offices to discuss it anymore,” she said immediately. “He was going to speak to the authorities. They would have had to close down the works until they had investigated, and of course discovered that it was completely untrue. But they could not afford to take my husband’s word for it, when men’s lives are at risk. My father was mad, Mr. Monk! He had lost all sense of proportion.”
“So you arranged this meeting?”
