"Found the cabbie," Runcorn said, blowing on a hot chestnut before putting it into his mouth. "Took the man as far as Piccadilly. Remembers him quite well because he did an odd thing. He got out of his cab and crossed the Circus, which was pretty quiet at that time in the morning, all the theaters on Haymarket and Shaftesbury Avenue being out long since. Then he got straight into another cab and disappeared east along Coventry Street, towards Leicester Square." He looked up from his chestnut, watching for Monk's reaction. "Why would a man change cabs when there's nothing wrong with the one he's in?"

"Because he wants to disappear," Monk replied. "I expect he changed again, maybe twice, before he got where he wanted to be."

"Exactly," Runcorn agreed, taking another chestnut and smiling. "He wasn't drunk, he wasn't a beggar, he certainly wasn't anyone's groom…"

"He could have been," Monk started.

Runcorn's eyebrows rose. "With the price of a cab fare from Westminster Bridge Road to the East End?"

Monk could have bitten his tongue. He looked away from Runcorn. "No, of course not. Whoever he was, he had money."

"Exactly!" Runcorn repeated. "I think Mrs. Ewart saw the man who shot James Havilland. She gave us quite a good description of him, and the cab driver added a bit. Seems he has black hair, rather long onto his collar, and at least at that time he was clean-shaven. The cabbie had the impression of a hollow sort of face and long nose, thin between the eyes."

"A very observant cab driver," Monk remarked, a little skeptically. "You sure he wasn't just trying to get on the good side of the police?"

"No, that's accurate," Runcorn replied, looking down and concentrating on the few pieces of chestnut he had left in his hand. "What we have to do is find out who hired him. It'll be the same person who wrote to Havilland to get him out of the house and into the stables in the middle of the night."

Havilland had not been afraid of whomever he expected to meet. And whoever it was had not taken advantage of his opportunity to rob the house. Either he had panicked-which did not seem to be the case-or he was compensated for what he did in some other way. Monk said as much to Runcorn.

"Money," Runcorn replied bitterly. "Someone paid him to kill Havilland."

"That sort of arrangement's usually handed over in two halves," Monk pointed out. "First before the deed, second after. We might be able to trace the money. It's a risk to commit murder in an area like this. It can't have come cheap."

"Who sent that letter, that's what I want to know. That's who's guilty, who really betrayed him." Runcorn looked at Monk, searching his face for agreement. "That's whom he was expecting to meet!"

Neither of them said it aloud, but Monk knew Runcorn was thinking of Alan Argyll, just as he was himself. Alan was married to one of Havilland's daughters, and Toby was betrothed to the other. Havilland might disagree with them, distrust their engineering skills or business practices, but he would not fear personal violence from them.

"Why midnight? And why the stables?" he asked.

Runcorn's eyebrows rose. "Could hardly shoot him much earlier! And obviously he wouldn't want to do it in the house!"

"I mean what reason would Argyll give for meeting in the stables at midnight? And why did Havilland agree?"

Runcorn took the point immediately. "We need to find that letter! Or learn at the very least who sent it."

Monk took one of the chestnuts and ate it. It was sweet and hot. "The maid said Havilland burnt it."

"Maybe he didn't burn the envelope." Runcorn was still hopeful.

Monk ate the last chestnut. "Come on." He turned and started to walk.

Cardman was surprised to see them again, but he invited them in. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

The hall had a bare look. The black crepe had been taken down along with the wreaths, but the clock was still stopped and there was no heating.

It was Monk who spoke first this time. "I know the maid said that Mr. Havilland destroyed the note that took him to the stables the night he was killed, but it is extremely important that we learn everything about it that we can-even the envelope, if it still exists."

Cardman's eyes widened. He had heard the one word that had mattered to him. His voice trembled a little. "You said he was killed, sir. Did you mean that someone else was responsible after all? Miss Mary was right?"

"Yes, Mr. Cardman, it looks very like it," Monk replied.

Cardman's face tightened. "And if you can't find the envelope, sir, does that mean you won't be able to prove who did it?"

"Somebody lured him to the stable," Monk told him gravely. "We are certain it was someone else who actually killed him. Whether we can catch the second person I don't know, but it's the first we want most."

"I'm afraid we've long ago disposed of all the rubbish in the study," Cardman said. "There are only Mr. Havilland's papers there now, and of course household bills and receipts. Miss Mary took care of everything like that. No one has been here yet to… to see to…" He trailed off, swamped by the small realities of loss again.

"I'm sure Mr. Argyll will appoint someone," Monk said. Then the moment the words were spoken he realized the appalling urgency of searching the study.

"Which is the study?" Runcorn asked.

Cardman showed them. "Would you like a pot of tea, sir?" he offered. "I'm afraid the room is extremely cold."

They both accepted, speaking together.

Two hours later they knew a great deal about both Havilland's domestic arrangements and how efficiently Mary had continued with them. Everything had been precisely and carefully dealt with. The bills had been checked and paid on time. There were also no unnecessary papers kept, no unanswered letters, no notes made on envelopes or scraps of paper.

"Perhaps it was always going to be a waste of time," Runcorn said wearily. "Damn!" He swore with sudden fury. "I'd stake my life it was Argyll! How the hell do we catch him? Come on, Monk! You're so clever you could tie an eel in knots. How do we get the bastard?"

Monk's mind was racing. "There'd have been a lot of blood on his clothes," he began, thinking aloud.

Runcorn did not see the point. The irritation flickered across his face. "So there would. What does it matter now?"

"Probably too much to clean off. Anyway, who'd want the clothes a man was wearing when he committed suicide?"

"No one- Oh! You mean they're still somewhere! There might be something in the pockets!" Runcorn stood up as if suddenly regaining energy. He walked towards the door, then remembered that there was a bell in the room for summoning servants. Avoiding Monk's eyes, he turned back, reached for it, and pulled.

Cardman answered, and five minutes later they were in James Havilland's dressing room. The clothes he had been wearing at his death were piled neatly on one of the shelves in the tallboy. It was obvious that Mary had never had the stomach to come into the room since that night, and had not permitted the servants to either. Perhaps she would have done so after she had proved that he was not a suicide. Everything seemed to be waiting.

The trousers were marked only by dust and a few pieces of hay. The jacket was quite heavy-a natural enough choice for a man going out to the stables in the middle of a winter night, possibly to wait a little while until someone arrived.

The question rose again: Why the stables? If Havilland wished to be private, it was easy enough to send the servants to bed and open the front door for the guest himself. Monk had a crowding sense that there was some major fact that had escaped him completely.

Runcorn was waiting, watching him.

He unrolled the jacket and laid it on the dresser. There was blood thick and dark on the left lapel and over the shoulder. It was completely dried now and stiff. A few spots had fallen on the sleeve, though not a great deal. After all, it had been a shot to the head, and Havilland must have died almost instantly.