Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [8]
“We were on patrol,” Monk cut across him. “We watch the whole river. We wouldn’t even have seen that much had they not been so close to the rail. It appeared an ordinary conversation, perhaps a lovers’ quarrel then made up again. If we’d have continued watching, it could have been intrusive.”
Argyll stood motionless, blinking. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Toby…Toby was my only relative. At least…” He ran his hand over his face almost as if to steady himself, somehow clear his vision. “My wife. You say Mary Havilland is dead also?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I believe she was close to your brother.”
“Close!” Argyll’s voice rose again dangerously, a note of hysteria in it. “She was my sister-in-law. Toby was betrothed to her, at least they were going to be. She…she called it off. She was very disturbed….”
Monk was confused. “She would have been your sister-in-law?”
“No! She was. Mary was my wife’s sister,” Argyll said with a small, indrawn breath. “My wife will be…devastated. We were hoping…” He stopped again.
Monk needed to prompt him, painful as it must be for him to answer further questions. This was an unguarded moment when he might reveal a truth that later he would, for decency or compassion’s sake, have covered. Based on the landlady’s words, Mary was a woman of spirit who had passionate opinions.
“Yes, sir? You were hoping…?” he prompted.
“Oh,” Argyll sighed, and looked away. He fumbled towards a chair and sat down heavily. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, considerably older than his brother. But that bore out what Mrs. Porter had said.
Monk sat as well, to put himself on a level with Argyll. Orme remained standing, discreetly, a couple of yards away.
Argyll looked at Monk. “Mary’s father took his own life almost two months ago,” he said quietly. “It was very distressing. Actually both Mary and Jenny, my wife, were bitterly grieved. Their mother had died many years before, and this was a terrible blow. My wife bore it with great fortitude, but Mary seemed to lose her…her mental balance. She refused to accept that it was indeed suicide, even though the police investigated it, naturally, and that was their finding. We…we were hoping she was…”
“I’m sorry.” Monk found he meant it with savage honesty. He imagined Mary as she must have been when she was alive—the pale, river-wet face animated with emotion, anger, amazement, grief. “That’s a very hard thing for anyone to bear.” Like a physical blow, he remembered that Hester’s father had also taken his own life, and the pain of it was close and real in a way that no power of words alone could have given.
Argyll looked at him with surprise, as if he had heard the emotion through the polite phrases. “Yes. Yes, it is.” It was clear he had not expected Monk to allow his feelings to show. “I…I don’t know how poor Jenny will deal with this. It’s…” He failed to find the words for what he was struggling to say, perhaps even to himself.
“Would it be easier for Mrs. Argyll if we were here, so that she could ask us any questions she wishes to?” Monk asked. “Or would you prefer to tell her privately?”
Argyll hesitated. He seemed torn by a genuine indecision.
Monk waited. The clock on the mantel struck the quarter hour; otherwise there was silence.
“Perhaps I should not deny her the chance to speak with you,” Argyll said at last. “If you will excuse me, I shall inform her alone, and then see what she wishes.” He took Monk’s acquiescence for granted and rose to his feet. He walked out of the room a little unsteadily, only saving himself from bumping into the doorjamb at the last moment, and leaving the door itself gaping open.
“Poor man,” Orme said softly. “Wish we could tell ’im it were an accident.” He looked at Monk with a question in his eyes.
“So do I,” Monk agreed. It began to look as if Mary Havilland had at least temporarily lost her mental balance, but he did not want to say so, even