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“No, thank you,” Monk declined. “Please tell Sir Oliver that I have discovered a fact of devastating importance regarding the Sixsmith case. The verdict cannot be allowed to stand as it is. His attention cannot wait.”
The manservant hesitated, looked more earnestly at Monk, then decided to obey.
Five minutes later Rathbone appeared, elegantly dressed in evening clothes. “What is it?” he asked as he closed the door on the glittering dining room behind him, shutting out the voices, the laughter, and the clink of glasses. “I am in the middle of dinner and have guests. You are welcome to join us if you wish. Heaven knows, you did more than anyone else to bring about our victory.”
Monk took a deep breath. “It was not a victory, Rathbone. Do you remember Sixsmith describing the assassin when he passed him the money?”
Rathbone frowned. “Of course. What of it?”
“Do you remember Melisande Ewart’s description of him when he came out of the mews after he had just shot Havilland, two days after that?”
“Yes. It was obviously the same man. There can’t be two looking like that!” Rathbone’s face was puzzled, and on the edge of losing patience.
“Hair,” Monk said simply. “I saw him when he was dead, and his hair was long over his collar. So did Sixsmith. That was what he was describing on the stand.”
Rathbone blushed. “Are you saying that he didn’t pay him the money? What…” His eyes widened. Suddenly he understood, and the color died from his face. “Sixsmith shot him! God in heaven—he was guilty all the time! We got him off! I got him off!”
“But not for killing the assassin!” Monk said quietly.
Rathbone stared at him with dawning comprehension.
There was a knock on the door.
Rathbone turned around slowly. “Come,” he answered.
Margaret entered. She glanced at Rathbone, then at Monk, a question in her eyes. She was dressed in extravagant oyster satin with pearls at her ears and throat, and there was a warmth in her face that no artifice could lend.
Rathbone went to her immediately, touching her with intense gentleness.
“We were wrong,” he said simply. “Monk has just pointed out that Sixsmith must have shot the assassin, and more essentially, that we have accused the wrong man. To save him, we must at the very least prove Sixsmith’s guilt of the assassin’s death, and if possible convict him of it.”
Margaret turned to Monk to verify from his face if that could possibly be true. She needed only an instant to see that it was. “Then we must do it,” she said quietly. “But how? The trial is finished. Would taking his testimony to anyone be sufficient?”
“No,” Monk said with certainty. “We must prove the whole line of connection, the fact that he knew the man all the way through.” He saw in her face that she did not understand. “If we charged Sixsmith now,” he explained, “on the strength of his description of the assassin, he could say he heard it from Argyll, or anyone else. He might slip away again.” He smiled bleakly. “We must be right this time.”
“I see.” Her answer was simple. She was not a beautiful woman, her looks being rather more individual, but at this moment there was a true beauty in her face as she turned back to Rathbone. “We’ll celebrate when we have it right,” she said calmly. “I shall explain to Mama and Papa, and we can finish dinner quite pleasantly, and then go home. Please do what is necessary. It cannot wait. Whatever time it takes, however difficult it is, it must be accomplished before Argyll is charged and tried. They would hang him for James Havilland’s death. Perhaps for Mary’s as well, although I suppose it could have been Toby who was to blame for that. Do you suppose Toby did that for Sixsmith?”
Rathbone was thoughtful, but he did not take his eyes from her face. “Possibly, but he might not have realized all the implications. Sixsmith could have asked him to speak to her, try to persuade her that her father’s death was suicide after all, and that she was only making it worse by continuing to probe it. Almost certainly he would try to persuade her that there was no danger in the tunnels.”
“Was that what James Havilland was afraid of, uncharted underground rivers?” She turned to Monk.
“Yes, I think so. Toby seems to have spoken to toshers a lot, too, but that could have been to try to stop them from interfering with the work. That’s what I thought to begin with. I don’t think we’ll ever know if he meant to kill Mary. Probably not. Not unless there was far more between him and Sixsmith than we know.” He tried to visualize again what he had seen on the bridge. “I think it was an accident. She was frightened of him. Perhaps she thought Alan Argyll was behind her father’s death and that Toby was going to kill her, too. She tried to get away from him, and whether she meant to or not, she took him with her.” As he said it, he was not sure if that was what he really believed. Could Sixsmith deliberately have corrupted Toby Argyll? He remembered Alan Argyll’s grief when he had heard of his brother’s death. Grief, or guilt?
“We won’t know, will we?” Margaret said sadly.
“Probably not,” he admitted.
“And Mrs. Argyll?” she persisted. “She swore it was her husband who told her to write the letter.”
“I know,” Rathbone answered her. “There are a lot of things we still have to learn, and to prove. But we can’t afford to wait. I’m sorry.”
“I understand.” She gave him a smile that was intimate and a little sad, but only for the moment missed, no more. She excused herself and left.
Rathbone looked at Monk. For the first time since Rathbone had realized he was in love with Hester, there was no envy in his eyes, only a deep happiness. He smiled at Monk.
Monk smiled back at him, surprised how pleased he was. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Where are we going to start?” Rathbone asked him.
