Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [42]
“You found nothing ugly?”
“No. An’ I looked.” He did not need to explain why. “Yer gonna go on a bit longer, sir?”
“A bit.” Monk forced himself to trust Orme, hoping he was not going to regret it later. Orme might even prefer not to know the reason Monk was going to continue; keeping the distance between them might be more comfortable. But Monk disregarded it. “My wife was approached by someone concerned about the chances of a really bad cave-in.” Orme did not need to know about Hester’s involvement with the clinic at Portpool Lane, or that the friend was a ratcatcher. “He took her to see one of the big tunnels, very deep. The man knew all the underground rivers and wells, and he’s afraid the tunnelers are going too fast.”
Orme was watching him with anxiety now, his attention complete.
“She promised to help if she could,” Monk went on. “She found the member of Parliament chiefly concerned, and went to see him.” He ignored Orme’s amazement. “It seems Mary Havilland had been there already and had impressed both him and his wife most favorably. They were distressed about her death and keen to do all they can to assist in reform, if anyone can find proof that there is a real danger.”
“Well, well.” Orme sat back in his chair. “So she was really doin’ summink.” His face filled with a sudden pity so sharp he became conscious of it. He blinked and turned away, as if needing to shelter himself from Monk’s eyes.
“I’m going to pursue it at least another day or two,” Monk said tersely. “See if I can find out exactly what Havilland was looking at, and what he found. I need to know if it was real, or just his own fear of being closed in.”
Orme nodded. “Mr. Farnham isn’t going to like it,” he warned. “ ’E likes ter be tellin’ us what ter do, an’ there’s plenty o’ theft, same as always. All this diggin’ o’ new sewers an’ tunnels is makin’ folks restive. So many navvies around’s makin’ it ’arder ter move stolen goods, too. The Fat Man’s one o’ the biggest fencers o’ the good stuff—jewelry, gold, ivory, silks, an’ the like. ’E’s un’appy with so much comin’ an’ goin’.”
“I know.”
“Jus’ sayin’,” Orme replied.
“Thank you. Theft is important, but murder, if it is murder, is more so.”
Orme gave a little downward smile. “ ’E won’t say it’s murder. An’ it’s the people ’oo’re stole from ’oo run the river. That’s where the money is.”
“You’re a wise man,” Monk conceded. “Remind me of that again in a day or two. Meantime, it’s dead women like Mary Havilland to whom we owe justice as well.”
Monk took a hansom to the burial and picked up both Runcorn and Cardman. They rode in silence to the church. They were early, but it seemed appropriate to stand on the short strip of withered grass and wait, three men united in anger and grief for a woman one had known all her life, one only the last two months of it, and the third not at all.
They stood stiff in the icy wind, each in his thoughts, oblivious of the traffic or the bulk of the workhouse black against a leaden sky.
The gravediggers had done their job; the earth gaped open. The small cortège was led by the minister, whose unsmiling countenance was like the face of doom, followed by Jenny Argyll in unrelieved black and so heavily veiled her face was invisible. Monk knew her only because it could be no one else with Alan Argyll, although she took no notice of him at all, nor he of her. They looked as isolated as if the other were not there.
Was Argyll thinking only of his dead brother? The bitterness in his face suggested it.
There was no service, nothing said of the hope of resurrection. It was without mercy. The wind whipped the mens’ coattails, and the ice it carried stung the bare skin of their cheeks, making them red in contrast with white lips and hollow eyes. Monk looked once each at Runcorn and Cardman, then did not intrude further on their bereavement.
Monk turned to the minister and wondered what manner of God he believed in, whether he did this willingly or under protest because he had a wife and children to feed. Monk was overwhelmingly grateful that his