Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [74]
“Nothing that needs to concern you, my dear,” Barclay said pointedly.
“They are merely looking for witnesses.”
She did not move away. “It must be urgent to bring you out at this time of night.” She looked to Runcorn, who was standing more in the light than Monk was. “What is it you need to know, Mr….?”
“Runcorn, ma’am,” he replied, suddenly sounding a trifle self-conscious. There was something in the elegance of her gown, the flawless curve of her throat, that seemed to make him more than normally aware of her, not only professionally but personally.
She smiled. “What is it that we might have seen, Mr. Runcorn?”
Runcorn coughed as if his throat was tight. “There’s not much chance, ma’am, but we’re pursuing everything we can. It’s about Mr. James Havilland.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know him well,” she began.
“You didn’t know him at all,” Barclay exclaimed, then turned to Runcorn again. “We really have no idea what happened or why, except that the poor man shot himself. Frankly I can’t imagine why you’re wasting your time delving into it. Is there not enough crime to keep you busy? If you don’t know where it is, I can certainly tell you!”
“John!” she remonstrated, then looked at Runcorn as if in apology.
“What is it you think we may have seen?”
There was a sudden gentleness in Runcorn’s face. Monk was beginning to realize how much he had changed in the last two years. Some kind of confidence within him had enabled him to look outwards with less need to defend himself, more awareness of the hurt of others.
“Anyone else in the street, or coming out of the mews,” he answered her. “Apart from your own immediate friends and servants, any stranger at all, or person you wouldn’t expect to see. Actually anyone else at all, because they might have seen something and be able to help.”
“Help what?” Barclay asked scathingly. “Let the dead rest in peace! At least grant them that much decency. His poor daughter took her own life as well. I presume you know that?”
Monk spoke for the first time, with an edge to his voice. “I was there, on patrol on the river. She went over the bridge. I am not certain that she intended to.”
Barclay looked surprised. “No one else seems to have any doubt. But even if she fell by accident, that has nothing to do with us. It was miles from here, and we can’t help you. I’m sorry. Good night.” He stepped back.
Melisande’s gown was light and she was obviously cold, but she refused to step out of his way. She looked at Monk. “Is there some chance she did not take her life?” Her face was soft, her eyes lit with hope. “I didn’t know her very well, but I would so much like to think that she was not so filled with despair that she would do such a thing, and of course also that she could have a proper burial. The other is so…brutal.”
“Yes, there is a chance, ma’am,” Monk replied. “That is part of what we are still investigating.”
“And if we saw anyone in the street the night of her father’s death, that might help?”
“Yes.”
Runcorn was staring at her with a steady, unwavering gentleness. Had he too seen the sadness in her, the vulnerability?
As if aware of it, she turned and answered as though it were Runcorn who had elaborated rather than Monk. “We were at the theater that night,” she told him. “I can’t remember what we saw, and it doesn’t matter now. It went right out of my head when I heard the next day what had happened. But we did return about half past midnight, and we saw a man coming out of the mews opposite.”
“He wasn’t coming out,” Barclay contradicted her with a wince. “He was on the footpath, staggering around. He had clearly been over-indulging. I’ve no idea who he was, so I couldn’t tell you where to find him. But even if I could, he would be useless to you. He couldn’t even see where he was going, let alone be a credible witness to anything.” His brow furrowed, his expression