"No, sir," Cardman said stiffly.

Monk sat down in one of the big leather armchairs and crossed his legs. "Mr. Cardman, I mean to find out whether this was suicide or something else," he said levelly. "I have investigated deaths of many kinds, and I do not give up until I have what I seek. You will assist me, willingly or not. You can remain standing if you wish, but I prefer that you sit. I don't like staring up at you."

Cardman obeyed. Monk noticed a rigidity in his movement, as if he were unused to sitting in the presence of a guest, and certainly not in this room. He had probably been a servant all his life, perhaps starting as a boot boy forty years ago, or more. Yet he could have spent time in the army. There was a ramrod stiffness to him, a sense of dignity as well as self-discipline.

"Were you surprised?" Monk asked suddenly.

Cardman's eyes widened. "Surprised?"

"That Miss Havilland should throw herself off Waterloo Bridge?"

"Yes, sir. We all were."

"What was she like? Retiring or opinionated? Intelligent or not?" Monk was determined to get a meaningful answer from the man, not the bland words of praise a servant would normally give his employer, or anyone would accord to the dead. "Was she pretty? Did she flirt? Was she in love with Mr. Argyll, or did she perhaps prefer someone else? Might she have felt trapped in a marriage to him?"

"Trapped?" Cardman was startled.

"Oh, come now," Monk retorted. "You know as well as I do that not all young women marry for love! They marry suitably, or as opportunity is offered them." He knew this from Hester, and from some of the cases he had taken in his private capacity. The pressure and the humiliation of it barely touched the edges of his experience, but he had seen the marriage market at work, young women paraded like bloodstock for farmers to bid on.

Cardman was caught in an impossible situation. His expression registered his embarrassment and his understanding. Perhaps grief, and the knowledge that he no longer had a mistress to serve, broke down his resistance.

"Yes, sir," he admitted uncomfortably. "I think Miss Havilland did feel rather that she was taking the best offer that she had, and it would be the right thing to do in accepting Mr. Toby."

Monk had expected that answer, and yet it grieved him. The young woman with the passionate face whom he had pulled from the river deserved better than that, and would have hungered for it more than some. "And she broke the agreement after her fathers death?"

"Yes, sir." Cardman's voice dropped and there was a huskiness that once again betrayed his emotion. "She was very distressed by his death indeed. We all were."

"How did it happen?"

Cardman hesitated again, but he seemed to know that Monk would not allow him to go without first answering the question. Like Monk, Cardman was a leader in a tightly knit, hierarchical community with some of the most rigid rules on earth. And perhaps there was something in him that wanted to share his bewilderment and his pain with at least one other person.

"Mr. Havilland was a gentleman in the old sense of the term, sir," he began. "Not titled, you understand, and not with great wealth. He was fair to everybody, and he never carried a grudge. If any man wronged him and apologized, Mr. Havilland forgot the thing entirely. He was a good friend, but he never put friendship above what he thought was right, and he respected a poor man as much as a rich one, if that man was good to his word."

Monk was aware that Cardman was watching him, to see if he caught the unspoken thread bright between the words.

"I see," Monk acknowledged. "Much to be admired, but not one to take the way of many in society, or in business, either." He did not remember his days in merchant banking-they were gone with all the rest of his memory-but he had learned, piece by piece, much about the cost and the dishonor of some of his own acts, and those of people he had loved who had been ruined.

"No, sir, I'm afraid not," Cardman agreed. "He had many friends, but I think perhaps he had enemies as well. He was much worried before his death that the rebuilding of the sewers to Mr. Bazalgette's plans was going ahead rather too hastily, and the use of the big machines was going to cause a bad accident. He became most concerned about it and spent all this time looking into matters, trying to prove he was right."

"And did he prove it?" Monk asked.

"Not so far as I know, sir. It caused some unpleasantness with Mr. Alan Argyll, and Mr. Toby as well, but Mr. Havilland wouldn't stop. He felt he was right."

"That must have been very difficult for him, with both his daughters concerned with the Argyll brothers," Monk observed.

"Indeed, sir. There was some unpleasantness. I'm afraid feelings ran rather high. Miss Mary sided with her father, and that was when matters between her and Mr. Toby became strained."

"And she broke off her arrangement?"

"No, sir, not then." Cardman was obviously wretched speaking about it, and yet Monk could feel the weight of it inside like a dam needing release before the pressure of it burst the walls.

"Mr. Havilland was very concerned," Monk prompted. "You must have seen him frequently, even every day. Did he seem to you on the edge of losing his grip on self-control?"

"No, sir, not in the slightest!" Cardman said vehemently, his lean face alive with sudden, undisguised emotion. "He was not in a mood anything like despair! He was elated, if anything. He believed he was on the brink of finding proof of what he feared. There had been no accident, you see. Rather, he felt one might occur-something appalling, costing scores of lives-and he wanted above all things to prevent it." Admiration shone in his eyes, admiration that was deeper than mere loyalty.

"Have you always been in service, Cardman?" Monk said impulsively.

"I beg your pardon?" Cardman was taken by surprise.

Monk repeated the question.

"No, sir. I served for six years in the army. I don't see what that has to do with Mr. Havilland's death."

"Only your judgment of men under pressure."

Cardman was embarrassed and did not know how to accept what he realized was a compliment. He colored faintly and looked away.

"Were you surprised that Mr. Havilland took his life?" Monk asked.

"Yes, sir. Especially…" Cardman took a moment to master himself. He sat perfectly still, his knuckles white. "Especially in his own house, where Miss Mary was bound to know about it. A man can make such things look like an accident." He breathed in and out slowly. "It broke her heart. She was never the same afterwards." There was anger in his face now. A man he admired had inexplicably let him down; more than that, he had let them all down, most of all the daughter who had trusted him.

"But you did believe it nonetheless?" Monk asked. He felt like a surgeon cutting open a man still conscious and feeling every movement of the knife. He thought of Hester's battlefield surgery. She had steeled herself to do it, knowing the alternative was to let the men die.

"I had no choice," Cardman said quietly. "The stable boy found him out there in the mews in the morning, a bullet through his brain and the gun by his hand. The police proved he'd bought it himself, from a pawn shop just a few days before." There was obviously a great deal more he could have said-the feelings were naked in his eyes-but a lifetime's discretion governed him.

"Did he leave a note as to why he had done such a thing?" Monk asked.

"No, sir."

"And he said nothing to you or any of the other servants?"

"No, sir, simply that he wanted to wait up that night, and we should not concern ourselves, but retire as usual."

"And you detected nothing out of the ordinary in his manner? Even with the wisdom of knowing now what happened?"