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He smiled. “Oh, yes. It’s always a risk putting an accused man into the dock, but he was excellent. He described exactly what happened, how Argyll gave him the money and what he told him it was for, which was to bribe the toshers who were making trouble. It made sense and you could see that the jury believed it.”
He remembered Sixsmith’s face in the witness box as he told it. “He said he had not known what the man looked like, and he sat waiting for him. The man recognized him immediately and came over. He was fairly tall, lean, with long black hair onto his collar, and…” He stopped. The room swayed around him, and his limbs suddenly felt far away and cold, as if they belonged to someone else. Sixsmith had described the assassin as he had been when he was killed! Not when Melisande Ewart had seen him on the night of Havilland’s death, or two days before.
“What is it? William, what’s wrong?” It was Hester’s voice calling from a great distance, fuzzy at the edges. She sounded frightened. Scuff was pressed up next to her, his eyes wide, picking up her emotion.
When Monk spoke, his mouth was dry. “Sixsmith said his hair was long. He swore he saw him only once, two days before Havilland’s death. But in fact his hair was shorter then, much shorter. Mrs. Ewart said only a little longer than most men’s. But it was over his collar when I found him dead.”
Hester stared at him, horror slowly filling his eyes. “You mean Sixsmith saw him…just before he was killed? Then…” She stopped, unable to finish the thought.
“He killed him.” Monk said it for her. “Argyll was telling the truth. He probably gave Sixsmith the money to bribe the toshers, exactly as he told us. It was Sixsmith who gave the order to kill Havilland, and possibly Mary as well.”
“But Argyll couldn’t be innocent,” Hester argued. “It was he who had Jenny write…” She tailed off. “Or perhaps it wasn’t? Perhaps she lied, and it was Sixsmith who told her to. But why?”
Scuff was looking at her anxiously, his mouth twisted down at the corners. He might be only nine or ten, but he had lived on the streets. He had seen violence, beatings, revenge. “She ’ate ’im that much?” he asked wonderingly. “That’s daft! Less ’e knocked ’er ’alf senseless.”
“So she would lie to incriminate her husband and get Sixsmith free?” Hester said with awe and disgust. “Argyll might be cold, and bore her to death, but could she really be in love with Sixsmith to that degree, knowing what he did? Oh, William! He murdered her father and her sister! Has she lost her wits completely? Or…” Her voice dropped. “Or is she now too afraid of him to do anything else?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I…I don’t know.” His mind raced to the memory of Jenny Argyll’s eyes in court, the power in Sixsmith, and the way she had looked at him. It had not felt like fear then; more like hunger.
Scuff looked from one to the other of them. “Wot yer gonna do?” he asked. “Yer gonna let ’im get away wi’ it?” There was incredulity in his face. It was impossible to believe such a thing.
“You can’t be tried twice for the same crime,” Monk explained bitterly. “The jury found him not guilty.”
“But they in’t right!” Scuff protested. “ ’E done it! ’E paid the man wot shot Mr. ’Avilland! It wasn’t Mr. Argyll arter all! Yer can’t let ’im get topped fer it! It in’t right, even if ’e is a greedy sod.”
“But he wasn’t tried for shooting the assassin,” Hester pointed out eagerly. “Nobody was.”
It was true. No one had specifically made any charge about the murder of the assassin; it had simply been implicit that it was Argyll, because he had the motive. But Sixsmith could be charged with that. Legally it was perfectly possible; in fact, it was absolutely imperative that he must be, for only then would the charges against Argyll be dropped.
Monk stood up slowly, oddly stiff. “I must go and tell Rathbone.”
Hester stood also. “Tonight?”
“Yes. I can’t leave it. I’m sorry.”
She nodded slowly. She did not explain that she wanted to come, but could not.
Scuff understood, however. “I’m all right!” he chipped in.
“I know,” Hester agreed quickly. “But I’m not leaving you anyway, so don
’t bother arguing with me.”
“But—”
She froze him with a look, and he subsided, wide-eyed, his lips quivering between tears and a smile, refusing to let her see how much her caring mattered to him.
Monk looked at them for a moment longer, then turned and left.
The hansom dropped him outside Rathbone’s house. He told the driver to wait. Although the lights were on, it might only mean that the manservant was in, but at least he would probably know where Rathbone could be found.
As it was, Rathbone was at dinner, as Monk had expected, with Margaret Ballinger. Mr. and Mrs. Ballinger were present also, as chaperones at this delicate stage in the younger couple’s betrothal. Too, they were delighted to be included in what was also the celebration of a victory. They did not in the least understand its nature, but they were aware of its importance.
“I’m sorry,” Monk apologized to the butler in the hall, “but it is imperative that I speak to Sir Oliver immediately, and in private.”
“I’m afraid, sir, that Sir Oliver is dining,” the manservant apologized.
“The soup has just been served. I cannot interrupt them at present. May I offer you something in the morning room, perhaps? That is, if you would care to wait?”
