{"product_id":"dark-assassin-isbn-9780345514202","title":"Dark Assassin","description":"\u003cp\u003eOn a patrol boat near Waterloo Bridge, police superintendent William Monk notices a young couple engaged in an intense discussion. Seconds later, the two plunge to their deaths in the icy waters of the Thames. Was it an accident, a suicide, or a murder? Ever the investigator, Monk learns that the woman, Mary Havilland, had planned to marry the fair-haired man who shared her fate. He also discovers that Mary’s father had recently died in a supposed suicide. But Mary’s friends share their own darks suspicions with Monk, who now faces the mysteries surrounding \u003ci\u003ethree\u003c\/i\u003e deaths. Aided by his intrepid wife, Hester, Monk searches for answers. From luxurious drawing rooms where powerful men hatch their unscrupulous plots, to the sewers beneath the city where poor folk fight crippling poverty, Monk must connect the clues before death strikes again.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Absorbing . . . riveting . . . [Readers] will relish the last-minute twists.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Brilliant . . . a page-turning thriller . . . blending compelling plotting with superbly realized human emotion and exquisite period detail.”—Jeffery Deaver, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Burning Wire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Few mystery writers this side of Arthur Conan Doyle can evoke Victorian London with such relish for detail and mood.”—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Mystery fans who haven’t read Anne Perry are missing a great thing. Those who have probably don’t need this advice, but \u003ci\u003eDark Assassin\u003c\/i\u003e is a don’t-miss thriller.”—\u003ci\u003eOmaha World-Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“You can count on a Perry tale to be superior.”—\u003ci\u003eThe San Diego Union-Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eAnne Perry\u003c\/b\u003e was the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the William Monk novels and the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels. She was also the author of a series featuring Charlotte and Thomas Pitt's son, Daniel, as well as the Elena Standish series; a series of five World War I novels; twenty-one holiday novels; and a historical novel, \u003ci\u003eThe Sheen on the Silk,\u003c\/i\u003e set in the Byzantine Empire. Anne Perry died in 2023.ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The police oarsmen were having to pull hard against the incoming tide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Orme, too, was staring up at them now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Orme shouted, and the oarsmen dug their blades in deep. They threw their  backs against the weight of the river, heaving, hurtling them forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Orme was standing, balancing easily, looking down at Monk and the young  man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Monk sat back on the bench. “Anything to indicate who she was?” he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Orme shook his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “Do you have an opinion?” Monk could hardly get the words out clearly, he  was shaking so much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    “You’d be best on an oar, sir,” Orme said gravely. “Get the blood movin’,  as it were.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    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.New York Times bestselling author","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305392591077,"sku":"NP9780345514202","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345514202.jpg?v=1767724496","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/dark-assassin-isbn-9780345514202","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}