Finally they reached the steps up to the police station. Carefully, a little stiffly, he shipped his oar, stood up, and helped carry the limp, water-soaked bodies up the stairs, across the quay, and into the shelter of the station house.
There at least it was warm. The black iron stove was burning, giving the whole room a pleasant, smoky smell, and there was hot tea, stewed almost black, waiting for them. None of the men really knew Monk yet, and they were still grieving for Durban. They treated Monk with civility; if he wanted anything more, he would have to earn it. The river was a dangerous place with its shifting tides and currents, occasional sunken obstacles, fast-moving traffic, and sudden changes of weather. It demanded courage, skill, and even more loyalty between men than did the same profession on land. However, human decency dictated they offer Monk tea laced with rum, as they would to any man, probably even to a stray dog at this time of the year. Indeed, Humphrey, the station cat, a large white animal with a ginger tail, was provided with a basket by the stove and as much milk as he could drink. Mice were his own affair to catch for himself, which he did whenever he could be bothered, or nobody had fed him with other titbits.
“Thank you.” Monk drank the tea and felt some resemblance of life return to his body, warmth working slowly from the inside outwards.
“Accident?” Sergeant Palmer asked, looking at the bodies now lying on the floor, faces decently covered with spare coats.
“Don’t know yet,” Monk replied. “Came off Waterloo Bridge right in front of us, but we can’t be sure how it happened.”
Palmer frowned, puzzled. He had his doubts about Monk’s competence anyway, and this indecision went towards confirming them.
Orme finished his tea. “Went off together,” he said, looking at Palmer expressionlessly. “ ’Ard to tell if ’e were trying to save ’er, or could’ve pushed ’er. Know what killed ’em all right, poor souls. ’It the water ’ard, like they always do. But I daresay as we’ll never know for certain why.”
Palmer waited for Monk to say something. The room was suddenly silent. The other two men from the boat, Jones and Butterworth, stood watching, turning from one to the other, to see what Monk would do. It was a test again. Would he match up to Durban?
“Get the surgeon to look at them, just in case there’s something else,” Monk answered. “Probably isn’t, but we don’t want to risk looking stupid.”
“Drownded,” Palmer said sourly, turning away. “Come orff one o’ the bridges, yer always are. Anybody knows that. Water shocks yer an’ so yer breathes it in. Kills yer. Quick’s almost the only good thing to it.”
“And how stupid will we look if we say she’s a suicide, and it turns out she was knifed or strangled, but we didn’t notice it?” Monk asked quietly. “I just want to make sure. Or with child, and we didn’t see that, eith
er? Look at the quality of her clothes. She’s not a street woman. She has a decent address and she may have family. We owe them the truth.”
Palmer colored unhappily. “It won’t make them feel no better if she’s with child,” he observed without looking back at Monk.
“We don’t look for the answers that make people feel better,” Monk told him. “We have to deal with the ones we find closest to the truth. We know who they are and where they lived. Orme and I are going to tell their families. You get the police surgeon to look at them.”
“Yes, sir,” Palmer said stiffly. “You’ll be goin’ ’ome to put dry clothes on, no doubt?” He raised his eyebrows.
Monk had already learned that lesson. “I’ve got a dry shirt and coat in the cupboard. They’ll do fine.”
Orme turned away, but not before Monk had seen his smile.
Monk and Orme took a hansom from Wapping, westward along High Street. The lights intermittently flickered from the river and the hard wind whipped the smell of salt and weed up the alleys between the waterfront houses. They went around the looming mass of the Tower of London, then back down to the water again along Lower Thames Street. They finally crossed the river at the Southwark Bridge and passed through the more elegant residential areas until they came to the six-way crossing at St. George’s Circus. From there it was not far to the Westminster Bridge Road and Walnut Tree Walk.
Informing the families of the dead was the part of any investigation that every policeman hated, and it was the duty of the senior man. It would be both cowardly and the worst discourtesy to the bereaved to delegate it.
Monk paid the driver and let him go. He had no idea how long it would take them to break the news, or what they might find.
The house where Toby Argyll had lived was gracious but obviously was let in a series of rooms, as suited single men rather than families. A landlady in a dark dress and wearing an apron opened the door, immediately nervous on seeing two men unknown to her standing on the step. Orme was of average height with pleasant, ordinary features, but he wore a river policeman’s uniform. Monk was taller and had the grace of a man conscious of his own magnetism. There was power in his face, lean-boned with a high-bridged, broad nose and unflinching eyes. It was a face of intelligence, even sensitivity, but few people found it comfortable.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said gently. His voice was excellent, his diction beautiful. He had worked hard to lose the Northumbrian accent that marked his origins. He had wanted passionately to be a gentleman. That desire was long past, but the music in his voice remained.
“Evenin’, sir,” she replied warily.
“My name is Monk, and this is Sergeant Orme, of the Thames River Police. Is this the home of Mr. Toby Argyll?”
She swallowed. “Yes, sir. Never say there’s bin an accident in one o’ them tunnels!” Her hand flew to her mouth as if to stifle a cry. “I can’t ’elp yer, sir. Mr. Argyll’s not at ’ome.”
“No, ma’am, there hasn’t been, so far as I know,” Monk replied. “But I’m afraid there has been a tragedy. I’m extremely sorry. Does Mr. Argyll live alone here?”
She stared at him, her round face paler now as she began to understand that they had come with the worst possible news.
“Would you like to go in and sit down?” Monk asked.
She nodded and backed away from him, allowing them to follow her along the passage to the kitchen. It was full of the aroma of dinner cooking, and he realized absently how long it was since he had eaten. She sank down on one of the hard-backed wooden chairs, putting her elbows on the table and her hands up to her face. There were pans steaming on the top of the huge black range, and the savory aroma of meat pie came from the oven beneath it. Copper warming pans glimmered on the wall in the gaslight, and strings of onions hung from the ceiling.
There was no point in delaying what she must already know was coming.