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Dark assassin / Anne Perry.

By: Perry, Anne.
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookSeries: Perry, Anne. William Monk novel: 15.Publisher: London : Headline, 2006Description: 281 pages ; 25 cm.Content type: text Media type: unmediated Carrier type: volumeISBN: 0755320581 (hbk.).Subject(s): Monk, William (Fictitious character) -- Fiction | Monk, Hester (Fictitious character) -- Fiction | London (England) -- Social conditions -- 19th century -- FictionGenre/Form: Historical fiction. | Detective and mystery fiction.DDC classification: 823.914 Subject: Two figures had been on the bridge. He had grasped hold of her. To save her, or to push her? Murder, suicide or accident? Inspector William Monk of the Thames Valley Police watches helplessly as the man and woman fall to their deaths.
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Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

The two figures had been on the bridge. He had grasped hold of her. To save her, or to push her?

Murder, suicide or accident? Inspector William Monk of the Thames River Police watches helplessly as the man and woman fall to their deaths. Still feeling his way in a new post, Monk knows he must solve the mystery to gain the respect of his men. Soon both he and Hester find themselves powerfully involved in the story of the dead woman, Mary Havilland, and her quest to vindicate her father.

Two months previously, James Havilland had been found dead. An engineer working for the Argyll Construction Company, he was convinced that a major disaster was about to happen in the tunnels where London's desperately needed new sewer system was being built. Maddened by his obsession, he'd apparently shot himself. Mary had never accepted that. And now she was dead too. Was it chance or more sinister than that?

Two figures had been on the bridge. He had grasped hold of her. To save her, or to push her? Murder, suicide or accident? Inspector William Monk of the Thames Valley Police watches helplessly as the man and woman fall to their deaths.

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Excerpt provided by Syndetics

ONE Waterloo Bridge loomed in the distance as William Monk settled himself more comfortably in the bow of the police boat. There were four men, himself as senior officer, and three to man the four oars. Rowing randan, it was called. Monk sat rigid in his uniform coat. It was January and bitterly cold as he and his companions patrolled the Thames for accidents, missing craft, and stolen cargo. The wind ruffled the water and cut the skin like the edge of a knife, but he did not want anyone to see him shivering. It was five weeks since he had accepted the position leading this section of the River Police. It was a debt of honor he already regretted profoundly, the more so with every freezing, sodden day as 1863 turned into 1864 and the winter settled ruthlessly over London and its teeming waterway. The boat rocked in the wash of a string of barges going upriver on the incoming tide. Orme, at the stern, steadied the boat expertly. He was a man of average height, but deceptive suppleness and strength, and a kind of grace exhibited as he managed the oar. Perhaps he had learned in his years on the water how easy it was to capsize a boat with sudden movement. They were pulling closer to the bridge. In the gray afternoon, before the lamps were lit, they could see the traffic crossing: dark shadows of hansoms and four-wheelers. They were still too far away to hear the clip of horses' hooves above the sound of the water. A man and woman stood on the footpath close to the railing, facing each other as if in conversation. Monk thought idly that whatever they were saying must matter to them intensely for it to hold their attention in such a bleak, exposed place. The wind tugged at the woman's skirts. At that height, where there was no shelter, she must have been even colder than Monk was. Orme guided the boat a little further out into the stream. They were going downriver again, back towards the station at Wapping where they were headquartered. Six weeks ago Inspector Durban had been commander and Monk had been a private agent of enquiry. Monk still could not think of it without a tightening of the throat--a loneliness and a guilt he could not imagine would ever leave him. Each time he saw a group of River Police and one of them walked slowly with a smooth, ambling stride, a little rounded at the shoulder, he expected him to turn and he would see Durban's face. Then memory came back, and he knew it could not be. The bridge was only two hundred feet away now. The couple were still there against the balustrade. The man held her by the shoulders as if he would take her in his arms. Perhaps they were lovers. Of course, Monk could not hear their words--the wind tore them from the couple's mouths--but their faces were alive with a passion that was clearer with every moment as the boat drew towards them. Monk wondered what it was: a quarrel, a last farewell, even both? The police oarsmen were having to pull hard against the incoming tide. Monk looked up again just in time to see the man struggling with the woman, holding her fiercely as she clung to him. Her back was to the railing, bending too far. Instinctively he wanted to call out. A few inches more and she would fall! Orme, too, was staring up at them now. The man grasped at the woman and she pulled away. She seemed to lose her balance and he lunged after her. Clasped together, they teetered for a desperate moment on the edge, then she pitched backwards. He made a wild attempt to catch her. She flung out a hand and gripped him. But it was too late. They both plunged over the side and spun crazily, like a huge, broken-winged bird, until they hit the racing, filthy water and were carried on top of it, not even struggling, while it soaked into them, dragging them down. Orme shouted, and the oarsmen dug their blades in deep. They threw their backs against the weight of the river, heaving, hurtling them forward. Monk, his heart in his mouth, strained to keep the bodies in sight. They had only a hundred feet to go, and yet he knew already that it was too late. The impact of hitting the water would stun them and drive the air out of their lungs. When at last they did gasp inward, it would be the icy water laden with raw sewage, choking them, drowning them. Still, senselessly he leaned forward over the bow, shouting, "Faster, faster! There! No . . . there!" They drew level, turning a little sideways. The oarsmen kept the boat steady in the current and the changing balance as Orme heaved the body of the young woman over the gunwale. Awkwardly, as gently as he could, he laid her inside. Monk could see the other body, but it was too far away to reach, and if he stretched he could tip the boat. "Port!" he instructed, although the oarsmen were already moving to do it. He reached over carefully to the half-submerged body of the young man, whose coat was drifting out in the water, his boots dragging his legs downwards. Awkwardly, straining his shoulders, Monk hauled him up over the gunwale and in, laying him on the bottom of the boat next to the young woman. He had seen many dead people before, but the sense of loss never diminished. From the victim's pale face, smeared with dirt from the river water and plastered with hair across the brow, he appeared about thirty. He had a mustache but was otherwise clean-shaven. His clothes were well cut and of excellent quality. The hat he had been wearing on the bridge was gone. Orme was standing, balancing easily, looking down at Monk and the young man. "Nothing we can do for either of 'em, sir," he said. "Drown quick going off the bridge like that. Pity," he added softly. "Looks no more'n twenty, she does. Nice face." Monk sat back on the bench. "Anything to indicate who she was?" he asked. Orme shook his head. "If she 'ad one of 'em little bags ladies carry, it's gone, but there's a letter in 'er pocket addressed to Miss Mary 'Avilland o' Charles Street. It's postmarked already, like it's bin sent and received, so could be it's 'er." Monk leaned forward and systematically went through the pockets of the dead man, keeping his balance with less ease than Orme as the boat began the journey downstream, back towards Wapping. There was no point in putting a man ashore to look for witnesses to the quarrel, if that was what it had been. They could not identify the traffic that had been on the bridge, and on the water they themselves had seen as much as anyone. Two people quarrelling--or kissing and parting--who lost their balance and fell. There was nothing anyone could add. Actually, as far as Monk could remember, there had been no one passing at exactly that moment. It was the hour when the dusk is not drawn in sufficiently for the lamps to be lit, but the light wanes and the grayness of the air seems to delude the eye. Things are half seen; the imagination fills in the rest, sometimes inaccurately. Monk turned to the man's pockets and found a leather wallet with a little money and a case carrying cards. He was apparently Toby Argyll, of Walnut Tree Walk, Lambeth. That was also south of the river, not far from the girl's address on Charles Street off the Westminster Bridge Road. Monk read the information aloud for Orme. The boat was moving slowly, as only two men were rowing. Orme squatted on the boards near Argyll's body. On the shore the lamps were beginning to come on, yellow moons in the deepening haze. The wind had the breath of ice in it. It was time to trim their own riding lights, or they would be struck by barges--or the ferries going crosscurrent--carrying passengers from one bank to the other. Monk lit the lantern and carefully moved back to where Orme had laid the woman. She lay on her back. Orme had folded her hands and smoothed the hair off her face. Her eyes were closed, her skin already gray-white, as if she had been dead longer than just the few minutes since they had seen her on the bridge. She had a wide mouth and high cheekbones under delicately arched brows. It was a very feminine face, both strong and vulnerable, as if she had been filled with high passions in life. "Poor creature," Orme said softly. "S'pose we'll never know wot made 'er do it. Mebbe 'e were breakin' orff an engagement, or somethin'." The expression on his face was all but masked by the deepening shadows, but Monk could hear the intense pity in his voice. Monk suddenly realized he was wet up to the armpits from having lifted the body out of the water. He was shuddering with cold and it was hard to speak without his teeth chattering. He would have given all the money in his pocket for a hot mug of tea with a lacing of rum in it. He could not remember ever being this perishingly cold on shore. Suicide was a crime, not only against the state but in the eyes of the Church as well. If that was the coroner's verdict, she would be buried in unhallowed ground. And there was the question of the young man's death as well. Perhaps there was no point in arguing it, but Monk did so instinctively. "Was he trying to stop her?" The boat was moving slowly, against the tide. The water was choppy, slapping at the wooden sides and making it difficult for two oarsmen to keep her steady. Orme hesitated for several moments before answering. "I dunno, Mr. Monk, an' that's the truth. Could've bin. Could've bin an accident both ways." His voice dropped lower. "Or could've bin 'e pushed 'er. It 'appened quick." "Do you have an opinion?" Monk could hardly get the words out clearly, he was shaking so much. "You'd be best on an oar, sir," Orme said gravely. "Get the blood movin', as it were." Monk accepted the suggestion. Senior officers might not be supposed to row like ordinary constables, but they were not much use frozen stiff or with pneumonia, either. He moved to the center of the boat and took up one of the oars beside Orme. After several strokes he got into the rhythm and the boat sped forward, cutting the water more cleanly. They rowed a long way without speaking again. They passed under Blackfriars Bridge towards the Southwark Bridge, which was visible in the distance only by its lights. The wind was like a knife edge, slicing the breath almost before it reached the lungs. Monk had accepted his current position in the River Police partly as a debt of honor. Eight years ago he had woken up in hospital with no memory at all. Fact by fact he had assembled an identity, discovering things about himself, not all of which pleased him. At that time he was a policeman, heartily disliked by his immediate superior, Superintendent Runcorn. Their relationship had deteriorated until it became a debatable question whether Monk had resigned before or after Runcorn had dismissed him. Since the detection and solving of crime was the only profession he knew, and he was obliged to earn his living, he had taken up the same work privately. But circumstances had altered in the late autumn of last year. The need for money had compelled him to accept employment with shipping magnate Clement Louvain, his first experience on the river. Subsequently he had met Inspector Durban and had become involved with the Maude Idris and its terrible cargo. Now Durban was dead, but before his death he had recommended Monk to succeed him in his place at the Wapping station. Durban could have had no idea how Monk had previously failed in commanding men. The former policeman was brilliant, but he had never worked easily with others, either in giving or taking orders. Runcorn would have told Durban that, would have told him that--clever or not, brave or not--Monk was not worth the trouble he would cost. Monk had been mellowed by time and circumstance, and above all, perhaps, by marriage to Hester Latterly, who had nursed in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale and was a good deal more forthright than most young women. She loved him with a fierce loyalty and a startling passion, but she also very candidly expressed her own opinions. Even so, Runcorn would have advised Superintendent Farnham to find someone else to take the place of a man like Durban, who had been wise, experienced, and profoundly admired. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from Dark Assassin by Anne Perry All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Perry's 15th William and Hester Monk title finds the Victorian detective joining the Thames River police. The tale opens with his witnessing young Mary Havilland and Toby Argyll falling from Waterloo Bridge to their deaths. Was it an accident, suicide, or murder? William learns that Mary's father recently committed suicide and that the deaths are tied to a massive construction project to create modern sewer lines beneath London's streets. Both William and Hester eventually make their way into the dangerous sewers in search of the truth. The various strands linking the story elements are even more complex than usual for Perry, and the atmosphere of the sewer subculture is compelling. As usual, David Colacci narrates with a mid-Atlantic accent but handles the cockney characters and the suspense quite well. Recommended for popular collections. Michael Adams, CUNY Graduate Ctr. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Publishers Weekly Review

William Monk faces special challenges in bestseller Perry's absorbing 15th novel to feature the Victorian policeman (after 2005's The Shifting Tide), as he must convince skeptical fellow officers of his competence to lead the corruption-ridden Thames River Police during a rampant crime wave. In a fogbound setting evocative of Conan Doyle, newly appointed Superintendent Monk and his river patrol watch helplessly as two young lovers plunge to their deaths from a bridge. Monk's exhaustive investigation, aided by his activist wife, Hester, soon reveals a deadly conflict between the two lovers' families over the hasty construction of a vast sewer complex built to prevent a recurrence of the "Great Stink" and typhoid epidemic of 1863. A riveting pursuit of an unknown assassin brings Monk in contact with the city's most destitute, one of several incidents highlighting the growing conflict between the abject poor and those whose houses have such luxuries as sewers and gas pipes. Some readers may have trouble with the cockney dialogue, but all will relish the last-minute twists that lead to a compelling resolution. (Mar.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Booklist Review

Since first making his appearance in Face of a Stranger0 (1990), William Monk has continued to hunt for the memory that vanished following a nearly fatal accident. By now, much of his background has fallen into place, but he still yearns for proof that he's become a better man. His new job, superintendent of the Thames River Police, brings fresh opportunity. On a routine river patrol, Monk and his men watch in horror as a man and a woman plunge off a bridge to their deaths. Was it an accident? Urged on by his beloved wife, Hester, Monk investigates, and discovers that the woman had a mission that made suicide unlikely; she was in the midst of proving that her father's recent death was murder. To close one case, Monk must solve the other, and his pursuit of the truth leads him into the dark, stinking world beneath the streets of Victorian London. A shaky premise notwithstanding, this fifteenth episode once again demonstrates Perry's artful mastery of the period details and social concerns of the times, and series fans will appreciate the fact that Monk's genuinely appealing combination of uncertainty and determination remains largely unchanged. --Stephanie Zvirin Copyright 2006 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

Inspector William Monk, now with Queen Victoria's River Police, serves a most unlikely function in his 15th case: eyewitness to a pair of mysterious deaths. As he and a crew patrol the Thames one chilly December night in 1863, Monk (Death of a Stranger, 2002, etc.) sees a man and woman arguing on Waterloo Bridge. As he watches in horror, the two go over the edge and into the icy waters, where they're drowned before Monk's men can reach them. Was it a hideous accident? Did Toby Argyll push his ex-fiancée Mary Havilland in deliberately? Or did she pull him in with her? This last fatal act remains mysterious, but there's no mystery about the events that led up to it: the shooting two months ago of Mary's father, who worked for Toby and his brother Alan, and growing evidence of corruption on the job at Argyll Brothers' extensive excavation of sewer lines the metropolis desperately needs. Despite an inventive sequence in which Monk's wife Hester Latterly takes a friend to confront a key witness, only to see her authority squelched in a deplorably ingenious way, the seesaw mystery of who killed Toby, Mary and James Havilland remains slight and unconvincing. Even so, the powerful image of subterranean skullduggery tirelessly proceeding beneath the heart of the city, brilliantly exploited in several key scenes, supplies just the right metaphor for the Victorian muckraking Perry might as well have patented. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.