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“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court what on earth made you go back two months later and question your first decision. That initial decision seems eminently sensible—in fact, the only decision you could have reached.”
Runcorn’s face was deep red, but his gaze back at Dobie did not waver. “His daughter also died in tragic and questionable circumstances,” he replied.
“Questionable?” Dobie’s eyebrows rose, and his tone was one of disbelief. “I thought she also took her own life. Have I misunderstood? Is she not also buried in a suicide’s grave?”
It was Dobie’s first tactical error. Beside Monk, Hester closed her eyes, and the delicate corners of her mouth tightened. She sat motionless, old memories clearly raw inside her. In the rest of the gallery there was a slight sigh. Monk turned to see the jurors’ faces and found pity and distaste. They might not disagree, but they found the reference cruel.
Dobie had not realized it yet. He was waiting for Runcorn to answer.
Runcorn’s face was bleak, his voice soft and startlingly full of emotion. “It was the haste and possible injustice of that decision that made me look at Mr. Havilland’s death again,” he replied. “I knew Mary Havilland because of her father’s death. She was always certain he was murdered. I didn’t believe her then, but her own death drew me to go back and look at her father’s once more.”
There was a flush of anger on Dobie’s lineless face. “Are you being strictly honest with us, Superintendent? Was it not actually a visit from a certain Mr. Monk that caused you to look at it again? He is a friend of yours, is he not? And please do not be disingenuous.”
Runcorn was tight-lipped. “Monk and I served together some years ago,” he answered. “He’s now with the River Police, and since he was investigating Mary Havilland’s death and heard about her father, yes, of course he came to me to find out in more detail what had happened.”
“And you told him what you had originally concluded, that Havilland shot himself?”
“I told him the details of our investigation. In light of the daughter’s death as well, we looked into it again,” Runcorn said doggedly.
“In case you were mistaken, Superintendent?”
“I hope not. But if I am, I’m man enough to own it!”
A second tactical error. There was a rumble of applause in the gallery.
Hester smiled, her eyes bright with approval.
Dobie ridiculed Runcorn a little further, then realized he was doing his case more harm than good and let him go.
The police surgeon gave a very wide range for the time of Havilland’s death, in answer to Rathbone’s questions. Dobie picked it out but did not argue.
Rathbone called Cardman, who stood in the witness box ramrod stiff, like a soldier facing a firing squad; his lips were tight and his skin almost bloodless. Monk could only imagine how he must loathe this. In as few words as possible he answered Rathbone’s questions about the letter that had been delivered and given to Havilland. He described Havilland’s response dismissing the servants to retire, and expressing the intention to stay up late and secure the house for the night himself. He identified the handwriting on the envelope as that of Havilland’s elder daughter, Mrs. Argyll. Rathbone thanked him.
Dobie rose to his feet, a slight smile on his face. “This must be very unpleasant for you.”
Cardman did not answer.
“Did you see the contents of the envelope?”
Cardman was startled. “No, sir, of course not!” The suggestion that he would read his master’s mail was clearly repugnant to him.
“Did Mr. Havilland tell you what was in it, perhaps?”
“No, sir.”
“So you have no idea as to its contents?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know where this letter is now?”
“Mr. Havilland destroyed it, I believe.”
“You believe?”
“That is what the maid said who took it to him!”
“Destroyed it? I see.” Dobie smiled. “Perhaps that accounts for why Sir Oliver has not given us the privilege of reading it. Mr. Cardman, have you any reason whatever to believe that this…letter…had anything whatever to do with Mr. Havilland’s death?”
