She looked at him, face blanched, eyes wide. "Porter," she supplied. "I looked after Mr. Argyll since 'e first come 'ere. 'Ow could 'e 'ave fallen orff the bridge? It don't make no sense! There's railings! Yer don't fall orff! Are yer sayin' 'e was the worse for wear an' went climbin', or summink daft?" She was shivering now, angry. "I don't believe yer.' 'E weren't like that.' Very sober, 'ard-workin' young gentleman, 'e were! Yer in't got the right person. Yer made a mistake, that's wot yer done!" She lifted her chin and stared at him. "Yer oughter be more careful, scarin' folks all wrong."

"There's no reason to suppose he was drunk, Mrs. Porter." Monk did not prevaricate. "The young man we found had cards saying he was Toby Argyll, of this address. He was about my height, or perhaps a little less, fair-haired, clean-shaven except for a mustache." He stopped. He could see by her wide, fixed eyes and the pinched look of her mouth that he had described Argyll. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Her lips trembled. "Wot 'appened? If 'e weren't drunk, 'ow'd 'e come ter fall in the river? Yer ain't makin' no sense!" It was still a challenge; she was clinging to the last shred of hope as if disbelieving could keep it from being true.

"He was with a young lady," he told her. "They seemed to be having a rather heated discussion. They grasped hold of each other and swayed a little, then she fell back against the rail. They struggled a little more-"

"Wot d'yer mean?" she demanded. "Yer sayin' as they was fightin', or summink?"

This was worse than he had expected. What had they been doing? What had he seen, exactly? He tried to clear his mind of all the ideas since then, the attempts to understand and interpret, and recall exactly what had happened. The two figures had been on the bridge, the woman closer to the railing. Or had she? Yes, she had. The wind had been behind them and Monk had seen the billowing skirts poking between the uprights of the balustrade. The woman had waved her arms and then put her hands on the man's shoulders. A caress? Or pushing him away? He had moved his arm, back and up. Pulling away from her? Or making a motion to strike her? He had grasped hold of her. To save her, or to push her?

Mrs. Porter was waiting, hugging herself, still shivering in the warm kitchen with its dinnertime smells.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "They were above us, outlined against the light, and almost two hundred feet away."

She turned to Orme. "Was you there too, sir?"