Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [7]
“We are from the Thames River Police,” Monk told him, having given only his name at first. “I am afraid we have bad news that cannot wait. It might be advisable to have a glass of brandy ready, in case it is needed. I’m sorry.”
The butler hesitated. “Indeed, sir. May I ask what has happened? Is it one of the tunnels, sir? It’s very sad, but such things seem to be unavoidable.”
Monk was aware that such mighty excavations as were at present in progress brought the occasional landslip or even cave-in of the sides, burying machines and sometimes injuring men. There had been a spectacular disaster over the Fleet only days ago.
“Quite so,” he agreed. “But this happened on the river, and I am afraid it is bad personal news for Mr. Argyll. He needs to be informed as soon as possible.”
“Oh, dear,” the butler said quietly. “How very terrible. Yes, sir.” He took a deep breath and let it out silently. “If you will come to the morning room, I shall bring Mr. Argyll to you.”
The morning room was very somber, in shades of browns and golds. The fire had been allowed to go out, but it was now well into the evening, and presumably the room would not normally be used at this hour. Monk and Orme stood in the center of the Aubusson carpet, waiting. Neither of them spoke. Monk noted the picture of Highland scenery over the mantelshelf and the small stuffed rodent in a glass case on the table by the wall. They were self-conscious suggestions that Argyll’s wealth was old money, which brought to his mind that therefore it was probably not.
The door swung open and Alan Argyll stood in the entrance, palefaced, his eyes dark in the lamplight. He was of more than average height, and lean with a suggestion of physical as well as mental power. His features were well-proportioned, but there was a coldness in them as if he did not laugh easily.
Monk took a step forward. “My name is William Monk, of the Thames River Police, sir. This is Sergeant Orme. I am deeply sorry to tell you that your brother, Mr. Toby Argyll, fell off the Westminster Bridge earlier this evening, and although we reached him within a few minutes, he was already dead.”
Argyll stared at him, swaying a little as if he had been struck. “You were there? Why in God’s name didn’t you…” He gasped, finding it difficult to catch his breath. He looked as if he was on the edge of collapse.
“We were in a boat on patrol on the river,” Monk answered. “I’m sorry, sir; there was nothing anyone could have done. In such circumstances, a man drowns very quickly. I think he probably felt nothing at all. I know that is little comfort, but it may help in time.”
“He was twenty-nine!” Argyll shouted at him. He came further into the room and the light shone on his face. Monk could not help seeing the resemblance to his brother: the line of his mouth, the color of his well-shaped eyes, the way his hair grew. “How do you fall off a bridge?” he demanded. “Was there a crime, and you’re not telling me? Was he attacked?” Rage flared in his voice and his fists clenched.
“He wasn’t alone,” Monk said quickly, before Argyll should lose control. Grief he was used to, even anger, but there was a thread of violence just under the surface in this man that was fast unraveling. “A young woman named Mary Havilland was with him….”
Argyll’s eyes flew wide open. “Mary? Where is she? Is she all right? What happened? What are you not telling me, man? Don’t just stand there like an idiot! This is my family you’re talking about.” Again the fists were tight, skin on his knuckles stretched pale across the bone.
“I’m sorry, Miss Havilland went over with him,” Monk said grimly. “They went over holding on to each other.”
“What are you saying?” Argyll demanded.
“That they both went over, sir,” Monk repeated. “They were standing together by the railing, having what appeared to be a heated discussion. We were too far away to hear. The next time we looked they were at the railing, and the moment after, they overbalanced and fell.”
“You