"Of course I do," Runcorn said gravely. He looked unhappy, as if the presence of the dead had suddenly intruded into this quiet, tidy police room from which he ruled his little kingdom. "Has . . . has she complained to you that her father was murdered?"

Monk was stunned, not by the question, but by the fact that he could see no outrage in Runcorn, no sense of territorial invasion that Monk, of all people, should trespass on his case.

"Who did she think was responsible?" he asked.

Runcorn was too quick for him. "Did she?" he challenged him. "Why did you say did!"

"She fell off Waterloo Bridge yesterday evening," Monk replied.

Runcorn was stunned. He stood motionless, the color receding from his face. For an absurd moment he reminded Monk of the butler who also had grieved so much for Mary Havilland. Yet Runcorn had hardly known her. "Suicide?" he said hoarsely.

"I'm not sure," Monk replied. "It looked like it at first. She was standing near the railing talking to a man. They seemed to be arguing. He took hold of her, and a moment or two later they both were pressed hard against the railing, and then both overbalanced and fell."

"A man?" Runcorn's eyes widened. "Who? Argyll?"

"Why do you think it was Argyll?" Monk demanded.

Runcorn lost his temper, color flooding up his cheeks. "Don't play your damn fool games with me, Monk!" he said harshly. "You always were a heartless bastard! That young woman lost her father, and now she's dead, too! It's my case, and I'll have you thrown out of the River Police, and every other damn force in London, if you try to use that to prove yourself fit to be an officer again. Do you hear me?"

Monk's temper flared also, then died again even more rapidly. He went on in a perfectly level voice. "If you're fit to be a policeman of any rank at all, let alone superintendent, you'll care about the case, and not guard your little patch of authority," he retorted. "I don't know whether Mary Havilland jumped, fell, or was pushed. I was watching when it happened, but I was looking upwards from two hundred feet away-too far to see in the dark." He was not going to explain to Runcorn why he cared so much. Runcorn had no right to know about Hester's history. That was another grief, another time. "If I knew exactly what happened to James Havilland, it might help me."

Runcorn grunted, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His shoulders sagged a little. "Oh. Well, I suppose you do need that. Sit down." He waved at a wooden chair piled with papers, and eased himself into his own leather-padded seat behind his desk.

Monk moved the papers onto the floor and obeyed.

Runcorn's face became somber. He had dealt with death both accidental and homicidal all his adult life, but this one apparently moved him, even in memory.