
There was no point in delaying what she must already know was coming.
"I'm sorry to tell you that Mr. Argyll fell off the Waterloo Bridge," Monk told her. "Mrs?"
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-"
