Orme looked at Monk but said nothing. Breaking such news to family was immeasurably worse than to a landlady, however sympathetic. Monk nodded very slightly, but there was nothing to say. Orme worked on the river; he was used to death.

The door was answered by a short, portly butler, his white hair thinning across the top of his head. From his steady, unsurprised gaze, he clearly took them to be business acquaintances of his master.

"Mr. Argyll is at dinner, sir," he said to Monk. "If you care to wait in the morning room I am sure he will see you in due course."

"We are from the Thames River Police," Monk told him, having given only his name at first. "I am afraid we have bad news that cannot wait. It might be advisable to have a glass of brandy ready, in case it is needed. I'm sorry."

The butler hesitated. "Indeed, sir. May I ask what has happened? Is it one of the tunnels, sir? It's very sad, but such things seem to be unavoidable."

Monk was aware that such mighty excavations as were at present in progress brought the occasional landslip or even cave-in of the sides, burying machines and sometimes injuring men. There had been a spectacular disaster over the Fleet only days ago.

"Quite so," he agreed. "But this happened on the river, and I am afraid it is bad personal news for Mr. Argyll. He needs to be informed as soon as possible."

"Oh, dear," the butler said quietly. "How very terrible. Yes, sir." He took a deep breath and let it out silently. "If you will come to the morning room, I shall bring Mr. Argyll to you."

The morning room was very somber, in shades of browns and golds. The fire had been allowed to go out, but it was now well into the evening, and presumably the room would not normally be used at this hour. Monk and Orme stood in the center of the Aubusson carpet, waiting. Neither of them spoke. Monk noted the picture of Highland scenery over the mantelshelf and the small stuffed rodent in a glass case on the table by the wall. They were self-conscious suggestions that Argyll's wealth was old money, which brought to his mind that therefore it was probably not.

The door swung open and Alan Argyll stood in the entrance, pale-faced, his eyes dark in the lamplight. He was of more than average height, and lean with a suggestion of physical as well as mental power. His features were well-proportioned, but there was a coldness in them as if he did not laugh easily.

Monk took a step forward. "My name is William Monk, of the Thames River Police, sir. This is Sergeant Orme. I am deeply sorry to tell you that your brother, Mr. Toby Argyll, fell off the Westminster Bridge earlier this evening, and although we reached him within a few minutes, he was already dead."