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Kelly put down the final pieces of paper. “And then we could have them buried properly. Their families’d want that.”
“Very much,” Monk agreed.
“But if she wasn’t murdered, it’s not our job.” Clacton looked at Kelly, then at Monk.
Monk felt his temper rising. One day he was going to have to deal with Clacton.
“It’s my job now,” he replied, an edge to his voice that should have been a warning to Clacton, and anyone else listening. “When I’ve done it, I’ll give the results to whomever needs them—family, church, or magistrate. In the meantime, attend to the theft on Horseferry Stairs, and then see if you can trace the lost barge from Watson and Sons.”
“Yes, sir,” Clacton said unhesitatingly.
With that, Monk departed on the long cab journey from Wapping to Mary Havilland’s address in Charles Street, just off Lambeth Walk.
The house was not ostentatious, but it was handsome enough, and had an appearance of considerable comfort. There was a mews behind for the keeping of carriages and horses, so presumably the residents were accustomed to such luxuries. As he expected, the curtains were drawn and there was a wreath on the door. Someone had even laid sawdust in the street to muffle the sound of horses’ hooves.
The door was opened by a footman of probably no more than eighteen years. His face was so white his freckles stood out, and his eyes were pink-rimmed. It took him a moment or two to collect his wits when he saw a stranger on the step. “Yes, sir?”
Monk introduced himself and asked if he might speak to the butler. He already knew there was no other family resident. Jenny Argyll had said that Mary had been her only relative.
Inside, the house was in traditional mourning. The mirrors were covered, the clocks stopped, lilies in vases giving off a faint hothouse perfume. Their very unnaturalness in January was a reminder that familiar life had ended.
The butler came to Monk in the formal morning room. It was bitterly cold, no fire having been lit, and the glass fronts of the bookcases reflected the cold daylight that came under the half-drawn curtains like ice on a deep pond.
The butler, Cardman, was a tall, spare man with thick iron-gray hair and a bony face that might have been handsome in his youth but was now too strong in the planes of his cheek and nose. His light blue eyes were intelligent, and—unlike the footman—he had mastered his emotions, so they barely showed.
“Yes, sir?” he said, closing the door behind him. “How may I help you?”
Monk began by expressing his sympathy. Not only did it seem appropriate, even to a butler, but it was natural.
“Thank you, sir,” Cardman acknowledged. He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind.
“We are not certain what happened,” Monk began. “For many reasons, we need to know a great deal more.”
A shadow of pain crossed Cardman’s impassive face. “Mr. Argyll told us that Miss Havilland took her own life, sir. Is it necessary to intrude further into her unhappiness?”
His delicacy was admirable, but this was an enquiry that could either define guilt or pronounce innocence, and even to the dead, that was important. Monk could not afford to leave anything unprobed or go about his questions in the least offensive way if it was also the least efficient.
“You were aware of her unhappiness?” he asked as gently as he could.
“Mr. Havilland died less than two months ago,” Cardman said stiffly. “Grief does not heal so soon.”
It was a socially correct answer, giving away nothing and delivered with as much disapproval a
s a butler dared show.
Monk was brutal. “Is your father still alive, Mr. Cardman?”
Cardman’s face tightened, the light of understanding flaming in his eyes, bright and angry. “No, sir.”
Monk smiled. “I’m sure you grieved for him, but you did not despair.” He thought briefly that part of the loss of his memory from the accident included complete obliteration of anything about his own father, or mother, for that matter. He knew only his sister, Beth, and that only because she had tried to keep in touch. He wrote seldom. The shame of that bit into him without warning, and he felt the heat in his face.
“No, sir,” Cardman said stiffly.
Monk sat down in one of the big leather armchairs and crossed his legs. “Mr. Cardman, I mean to find out whether this was suicide or something else,” he said levelly. “I have investigated deaths of many kinds, and I do not give up until I have what I seek. You will assist me, willingly or not. You can remain standing if you wish, but I prefer that you sit. I don’t like staring up at you.”
Cardman obeyed. Monk noticed a rigidity in his movement, as if he were unused to sitting in the presence of a guest, and certainly not in this room. He had probably been a servant all his life, perhaps starting as a boot boy forty years ago, or more. Yet he could have spent time in the army. There was a ramrod stiffness to him, a sense of dignity as well as self-discipline.
“Were you surprised?” Monk asked suddenly.
