Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [73]
Runcorn pulled his coat collar up higher and glanced at Monk, but he did not say anything. They were now four doors away from Havilland’s house, and on the opposite side of the street. Monk continued the investigation from habit, in the perverse refusal to surrender rather than any hope of achieving anything.
He and Runcorn walked up to the step side by side, but it was Runcorn who knocked on the door.
The footman who answered was young and somewhat flustered. He had very clearly not been expecting a caller at this hour of the night. “Yes, gentlemen?” he said with some alarm.
“Nothing wrong,” Runcorn soothed him. “Is your master at home?”
“Yes!” The young man blinked. He should have been more circumspect, even at this hour of the night, and he realized it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The color washed over his face. “At least…”
“That would be Mr. Barclay, and Mrs. Ewart?” The lift of puzzlement was barely discernible in Runcorn’s voice.
“Yes, sir.” The footman’s face was pink. He was plainly embarrassed and trying very hard to find a way out of his predicament. He was still struggling when a man in his middle thirties came across the hall behind him and into the vestibule. He was tall and rather elegant, and dressed in evening clothes as if he had only lately returned from some formal event.
“What is it, Alfred?” he asked with a frown. “Who are these gentlemen?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was—”
“John Barclay,” the man said brusquely. “Who are you and how may we be of assistance? Are you lost?”
“Superintendent Runcorn, Mr. Barclay,” Runcorn introduced himself. “And Inspector Monk, of the Thames River Police. Sorry to disturb you so late, sir, but since you’ve been out at this hour, we wondered if you might do so quite often.”
Barclay’s eyebrows rose. “What of it? And what on earth can it have to do with the River Police? I haven’t been anywhere near the river. Except across the bridge, of course. Did something happen?”
“Not tonight, sir.” Runcorn was shivering, so his words were a trifle blurred.
Monk sneezed.
“I haven’t seen anything to interest the police at any time,” Barclay said a little impatiently. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” He glanced at Monk. “For heaven’s sake, man, go home and get a hot toddy or something. It’s nearly one in the morning!”
Something in the man’s attitude irritated Runcorn. Monk saw it in the tightening of the muscles of his jaw and a slight alteration to the angle of his head. “Were you acquainted with Mr. James Havilland, four doors up, across the road, sir?” he asked.
Barclay stiffened. “I was, but not more than to be civil to. We had little in common.”
“But you knew him?” Runcorn was determined either to keep Barclay on the step or to be invited inside. The night was bitter and the wind was coming from the northeast and blowing right into the house.
“I’ve told you, Inspector, or whatever your rank is—” Barclay began.
“Superintendent, sir,” Runcorn corrected him.
“Yes, Superintendent. I knew him as one casually knows neighbors! One is civil, but one does not mix with them socially if they are not of the same…interests.”
There was a light tap of heels across the parquet floor of the hall behind him, and the door opened, showing a woman of about his own age. She too was slender, with brown hair, blue eyes, and winged brows that gave her face a highly individual look.
“It’s nothing, Melisande,” he said hastily. “Go back into the warmth. It’s a filthy night.”
“Then don’t keep the gentleman on the step, John,” she said reasonably. She looked beyond him at Runcorn, and then at Monk. “Please come in and speak in comfort. Perhaps you would like something hot to drink? As my brother says, it’s a rotten night. Your feet must be frozen at least. I know mine are.”
“For heaven’s sake, Mel, they’re police!” Barclay hissed in what might have been intended as an aside but was perfectly audible, probably as far as the street.
“Oh, dear! Has something happened?” She came closer.