"Stable boy found him in the morning," he began, looking down at his large hands rather than at Monk. "Seems the boy lived a mile or so away, and used to walk to work every morning. Mews are small there, and the room above the stable was kept for harnesses and the like. He could have slept in the straw, but seems he had an aunt with a lodging house in the area, and he helped out there too, and got fed and looked after for it. He seemed like an honest lad, but we checked it all, and it was the truth. He was home all night, and Havilland's butler said they'd never had a day's bother with him."

Monk nodded.

"Boy arrived about six," Runcorn went on. "Found his master on the floor of the room where they keep the hay and feed. Lying on his back, shot through the head. One clean bullet into the brain. Must've been standing near the middle of the room, and fell backwards. Blood exactly where you'd expect it to be. Gun fallen out of his hand but not more than a foot away."

Monk felt a chill settle over him.

"Boy went in and told the butler-can't remember his name," Runcorn went on. "Carter, or something like that."

"Cardman," Monk supplied.

"That's right," Runcorn agreed, blinking several times. "He went out to look. Saw just what the boy had said, and sent the footman for the police. It was nearer eight o'clock by the time I got there. Didn't know Havilland personally, but I knew him by repute. A very decent man. Hard to believe he'd taken his own life." He looked up at Monk suddenly. "But one thing police work teaches you: You never know what goes on in somebody else's mind. Loves and hates that their own families don't ever dream about."

Monk nodded. For once he had no quibble at all. He tried to imagine Runcorn and the scene: the small stable, the straw, the sound and smell of horses, the leather harnesses, the gleam of lantern light on polished brass, the dead man lying on the floor, the sickly smell of blood.

"Were the horses frightened?" he asked. "Any injuries?"

Runcorn frowned. "No. Bit nervous. They'd smelled blood and they must have heard the shot, but nothing was disturbed as if there'd been a fight. No wounds, no wood kicked, no cuts, neither of 'em really spooked. And before you ask, there were no other marks on the body, no bruises, clothes as neat as you please. I'd lay my reputation no one struggled or fought with him before he was shot. And the way he was lying, either he shot himself, which everything pointed to, or whoever else did it stood within a couple of feet of him, because there was nowhere else to stand in a room that size."