Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [41]
He would not correct himself and rephrase the question. He must retrieve the station another way. He turned to Butterworth. “Mr. Clacton seems unwilling to reveal their names. Friends of his, perhaps. Or informants. Perhaps you can be more enlightening?”
Clacton moved his mouth to protest, then looked at Monk’s face and decided better of it.
“Yes, sir!” Butterworth said, barely concealing his smile. “No one else injured, sir, far as we know. No witnesses admittin’, but we know ’oo they worked for. It was more likely personal. Been grumblin’ on for a couple o’ months since a scrap downriver a bit. Drink an’ bad temper, most like.”
“Do you expect any revenge?” Monk asked.
“No, sir, but we’ll keep an eye.”
“Good. Anything else?”
He dealt with a few other details and then the men went out—Butterworth with a grin, Clacton scowling, the other two noncommittal.
Monk found Orme in one of the small offices. He closed the door as Orme looked up from the ledger he was writing in. “Mornin’, sir,” he said, regarding Monk solemnly. “Got the doctor’s reports on Miss ’Avilland and Mr. Argyll. Nothin’ we din’t know about, ’ceptin’ for sure she couldn’t’ve bin with child. She was just like she should’ve bin. No man ’ad touched ’er.” There was a deep sadness in his eyes. “They’re gonna bury ’er this mornin’. ’Er sister din’t even ask the church to ’elp, let alone give ’er a place. I s’pose she knows it din’t do no good for ’er pa, poor soul.”
Monk sat down at the other side of the small wooden table. Suddenly he felt sick. It was no use raging against the blindness, the arrogance to judge, or the lack of human pity that had ruled Mary unfit for a decent burial. None of it would do any good.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Where?”
“On the land outside St. Mary’s Church on Princes Road. It’s just opposite the Lambeth work’ouse.” He added nothing, but his voice was thick and he lowered his eyes.
“Thank you,” Monk repeated.
“Eleven o’clock,” Orme added. “You’ll ’ave time ter see Mr. Farnham an’ then go.”
“No, I won’t—not if I go tell the butler and Superintendent Runcorn.”
Orme looked at him gravely.
“Please tell Mr. Farnham I’ll see him when I return.”
“Yes, sir. Would that be Superintendent Runcorn o’ the Metropolitan Police?”
“Yes. He was the one who investigated James Havilland’s death.” He told him what Runcorn had said, and about the superintendent’s clear sadness over Mary’s death as well, including his reluctance to believe it was suicide.
“But there weren’t no doubt ’er father killed ’isself,” Orme said quietly. His round blue eyes held no hope that Monk could be wrong, but he did not hide his disappointment.
“Couldn’t find any,” Monk admitted. “Except that she didn’t believe it. She was certain that he was a fighter and would never have given up.”
Orme’s mouth tightened. “Well, she wouldn’t easy think ’er own pa were the kind ter shoot ’isself, would she!” It was not a question. “Mebbe she ’eld out as long as she could, and when somethin’ turned it fer ’er so she couldn’t kid ’erself any longer, that was what broke ’er. Poor creature. Poor little soul.”
“At the time, did you think she jumped?” Monk asked.
Orme blinked. “Funny way ter go over, backwards, like. But she was strugglin’ wi’ young Argyll. You mean was ’e tryin’ to stop ’er, or ter make sure as she went? Why? ’Cos she turned ’im down? That’s a bit…” He spread his hands, not able to find the right word.
“No,” Monk said. “Because she was looking for the proof of danger that she thought her father was on the brink of finding.”
“Why’d they do that? Seems daft. Nob’dy wants a cave-in,” Orme pointed out. “Costs a fortune to repair. An’ Argyll stands out as a man ’oo likes his pennies, every one of ’em.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, Mr. Monk, I do. I done a bit of askin’ about ’im. Just ’cos o’ that poor girl. Does very well fer ’isself, Mr. Argyll, but all