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“Worked pretty ’ard the last couple o’ days,” Clacton observed.
“We all did,” Monk replied. If Clacton was expecting any leave, he would be disappointed.
“Yeah,” Clacton agreed. “You most of all…sir.”
Monk was uncomfortable. He saw the gleam of anticipation in Clacton’s eyes. “You didn’t come in here to tell me that.”
“Oh, but I did, sir,” Clacton responded. “I know ’ow ’ard it must ’a bin for you, wot with your own business on the side an’ all. Can’t ’ave ’ad much time for that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Monk demanded.
Clacton blinked and smiled. “Yer bit o’ private work. For Mr. Argyll, is it? Findin’ out ’oo killed ’is pa-in-law, and get ’em off the ’ook? Worth a bit, I shouldn’t wonder.” He left the added suggestion hanging in the air.
Monk’s mind raced. He had envisioned all kinds of attack from Clacton, even the remote possibility of physical violence. He had not foreseen this insinuation. How should he deal with it? Laughter, anger, honesty? What would Clacton’s next move be?
“Din’t think I knew, did yer?” Clacton said with satisfaction. “Look down on the rest of us like we’re beneath you. Not as clever as the great Mr. Monk! ’Oo don’t know a damn thing when it comes ter the river. Come to ’ave Orme ’old yer ’and or yer’d fall in! Well, the rest of ’em might be stupid, but I’m not. I know wot yer doin’, an’ if yer don’t want Farnham ter know as well, yer’d be wise ter let me ’ave a bit o’ the price.”
There was no time to weigh the consequences.
“I doubt Mr. Argyll will pay me for anything I’ve found out so far,” Monk said dryly. “It looks like he’s responsible for Havilland’s death.”
“Yeah?” Clacton’s fair eyebrows rose. “But it’s Sixsmith they’ve arrested. Now why would that be, d’yer think? A bit o’ shiftin’ around of evidence, mebbe?”
Monk was cold and tired, and his bones ached, but now he was assailed by fear also. He recognized both cunning and hatred in the young man in front of him. There was no loyalty to Durban or anyone else, just pure self-interest. Monk had no time to care why. Clacton was dangerous.
“Do you think you can find this supposed evidence?” he asked bluntly.
Clacton’s eyes were bright and narrow. “Yer bettin’ I can’t?”
“I’ll be happy if you can,” Monk replied. “It’s Argyll I want!”
For the first time Clacton was thrown off balance. “That’s stupid! ’Oo’ll pay yer?”
“Her Majesty,” Monk replied. “There’s a conspiracy behind Havilland’s death. Thousands of pounds in the construction business, and a lot of power to be gained. Go and tell Mr. Farnham what you think, by all means. But you’d be better to go and get on with your job, and be glad you still have one.”
Clacton was confused. Now he was the one needing to weigh his chances, and it angered him. The tables had turned, and he had barely even seen it happen.
“I still know yer crooked!” he said between his teeth. “An’ I’ll catch yer one day!”
“No,” Monk told him, “you won’t. You’ll fall over yourself. Now get out!”
Slowly, as if still unsure whether he had another weapon left, Clacton turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Monk could see that as soon as he was in the main room his swagger returned.
Monk’s tea was cold, but he did not want to go and get more. His hand was trembling, and the breath caught in his throat. Clacton’s accusation had been worse than he expected.
The following morning he went to Sir Oliver Rathbone’s office. Monk was prepared to wait as long as necessary, but it proved to be no more than an hour. Rathbone came in elegantly dressed in a wool overcoat against the biting east wind. He looked surprised to see Monk, but pleased. Since he had realized how much he loved Margaret Ballinger his rivalry with Monk had softened considerably. It was as if he had reached a kind of inner safety at last, and was now open to a gentler range of emotions.
“Monk! How are you?” Rathbone was very different from Monk, a man of excellent education, comfortable with himself. His elegance was entirely natural.
Monk smiled. In the beginning Rathbone had discomfited him, but time and experience had shown Monk the humanity beneath the veneer. “I need your help in a case.”
“Of course—why else would you be here in the middle of the morning?” Rathbone made no attempt to conceal his amusement or his interest. If Monk was out of his depth legally, then it offered an interesting problem, which was exactly what he craved. “Sit down and tell me.”
Monk obeyed. Very briefly he described Mary Havilland’s fall from the bridge with Toby Argyll, then his discovery of James Havilland’s earlier death and the course of the investigation that had led to the arrest of Aston Sixsmith.
“Surely you don’t want me to defend Sixsmith,” Rathbone said incredulously.
“No…at least not to act as defense for him,” Monk replied. He was beginning to wonder if what he was intending to ask was impossible. Again, fury at Argyll washed over him, and a sense of helplessness in the face of the skill with which Argyll had manipulated both Sixsmith and the police into the position he wanted them in. Monk could picture Argyll’s angry, slightly arrogant face marred by grief as if he had seen him only moments ago. “I want you to prosecute Sixsmith, but in such a way that we get the man behind him,” he answered Rathbone. “I don’t think Sixsmith had any idea what the money was for. Argyll told him what to do and he did it, either blindly or out of loyalty to the Argylls, believing it was for some legitimate purpose.”
