Dark Assassin (William Monk Series #15)

( 20 )

Overview

On 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 ...

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Dark Assassin (William Monk Series #15)

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Overview

On 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 three 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.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“Absorbing . . . riveting . . . [Readers] will relish the last-minute twists.”—Publishers Weekly

“Brilliant . . . a page-turning thriller . . . blending compelling plotting with superbly realized human emotion and exquisite period detail.”—Jeffery Deaver, author of The Burning Wire

“Few mystery writers this side of Arthur Conan Doyle can evoke Victorian London with such relish for detail and mood.”—San Francisco Chronicle
 
“Mystery fans who haven’t read Anne Perry are missing a great thing. Those who have probably don’t need this advice, but Dark Assassin is a don’t-miss thriller.”—Omaha World-Herald
 
“You can count on a Perry tale to be superior.”—The San Diego Union-Tribune

Publishers Weekly
Colacci proves a fine choice as narrator of Perry's latest mystery. In this 15th William Monk adventure, the detective has barely settled into his new position as superintendent of the Thames River Police when he witnesses a young couple fall to their deaths from Waterloo Bridge. Was it suicide, accident or murder? To find the answer, Monk, assisted by his wife, Hester, undertakes an investigation that will take him from the upper realms of London society to the lower depths of the city's poor and homeless, each offering its own particular form of deadly danger. Perry is at her best when she writes about the class distinctions that defined and divided the class-conscious populace of the 19th century, and Colacci syncs perfectly with her as he slips easily from one colloquial accent to another, portraying the wide variety of city dwellers who made up the multitudes occupying London in 1864. Colacci's performance succeeds nicely in bringing the streets and drawing rooms of Monk's Victorian London to life. Simultaneous release with the Ballantine hardcover (Reviews, Jan. 23). (Apr.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
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. Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
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-fiancee 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.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780345514202
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 10/4/2011
  • Series: William Monk Series , #15
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 162,277
  • Product dimensions: 5.20 (w) x 7.90 (h) x 0.90 (d)

Meet the Author

Anne Perry
ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of the World War I novels No Graves as Yet, Shoulder the Sky, Angels in the Gloom, At Some Disputed Barricade, and We Shall Not Sleep; as well as five holiday novels: A Christmas Journey, A Christmas Visitor, A Christmas Guest, A Christmas Secret, and A Christmas Beginning. She is also the creator of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England. Her William Monk novels include Dark Assassin, The Shifting Tide, and Death of a Stranger. The popular novels featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt include Long Spoon Lane, Seven Dials, and Southampton Row. Her short story "Heroes" won an Edgar Award. Anne Perry lives in Scotland. Visit her website at anneperry.net.

Biography

Born in London in October 1938, Anne Perry was plagued with health problems as a young child. So severe were her illnesses that at age eight she was sent to the Bahamas to live with family friends in the hopes that the warmer climate would improve her health. She returned to her family as a young teenager, but sickness and frequent moves had interrupted her formal education to the extent that she was finally forced to leave school altogether. With the encouragement of her supportive parents, she was able to "fill in the gaps" with voracious reading, and her lack of formal schooling has never held her back.

Although Perry held down many jobs—working at various times as a retail clerk, stewardess, limousine dispatcher, and insurance underwriter—the only thing she ever seriously wanted to do in life was to write. (In her '20s, she started putting together the first draft of Tathea, a fantasy that would not see print until 1999.) At the suggestion of her stepfather, she began writing mysteries set in Victorian London; and in 1979, one of her manuscripts was accepted for publication. The book was The Cater Street Hangman, an ingenious crime novel that introduced a clever, extremely untidy police inspector named Thomas Pitt. In this way an intriguing mystery series was born…along with a successful writing career.

In addition to the Thomas and Charlotte Pitt novels, Perry crafts darker, more layered Victorian mysteries around the character of London police detective William Monk, whose memory has been impaired by a coach accident. (Monk debuted in 1990's The Face of a Stranger.) She also writes historical novels set during the First World War (No Graves as Yet, Shoulder the Sky, etc.) and holiday-themed mysteries (A Christmas Journey, A Christmas Secret, etc), and her short stories have been included in several anthologies.

Good To Know

Some fun and fascinating outtakes from our interview with Anne Perry:

The first time I made any money telling a story I was four and a half years old—golden hair, blue eyes, a pink smocked dress, and neat little socks and shoes. I walked home from school (it was safe then) with my lunchtime sixpence unspent. A large boy, perhaps 12 or 13, stopped me. He was carrying a stick and threatened to hit me if I didn't give him my sixpence. I told him a long, sad story about how poor we were—no food at home, not even enough money for shoes! He gave me his half crown—five times sixpence! It's appalling! I didn't think of it as lying, just escaping with my sixpence. How on earth he could have believed me I have no idea. Perhaps that is the knack of a good story—let your imagination go wild, pile on the emotions—believe it yourself, evidence to the contrary be damned. I am not really proud of that particular example!

I used to live next door to people who had a tame dove. They had rescued it when it broke its wing. The wing healed, but it never learned to fly again. I used to walk a mile or so around the village with the dove. Its little legs were only an inch or two long, so it got tired, then it would ride on my head. Naturally I talked to it. It was a very nice bird. I got some funny looks. Strangers even asked me if I knew there was a bird on my head! Who the heck did they think I was talking to? Of course I knew there was a bird on my head. I'm not stupid—just a writer, and entitled to be a little different. I'm also English, so that gives me a second excuse!

On the other hand I'm not totally scatty. I like maths, and I used to love quadratic equations. One of the most exciting things that happened to me was when someone explained non-Euclidean geometry to me, and I suddenly saw the infinite possibilities in lateral thinking! How could I have been so blind before?

Here are some things I like—and one thing I don't:

  • I love wild places, beech trees, bluebell woods, light on water—whether the light is sunlight, moonlight, or lamplight; and whether the water is ocean, rain, snow, river, mist, or even a puddle.

  • I love the setting sun in autumn over the cornstooks.

  • I love to eat raspberries, pink grapefruit, crusty bread dipped in olive oil.

  • I love gardens where you seem to walk from "room to room," with rambling roses and vines climbing into the trees and sudden vistas when you turn corners.

  • I love white swans and the wild geese flying overhead.

  • I dislike rigidity, prejudice, ill-temper, and perhaps above all, self-righteousness.

  • I love laughter, mercy, courage, hope. I think that probably makes me pretty much like most people. But that isn't bad.
  • Read More Show Less
      1. Also Known As:
        Juliet Hulme
      2. Hometown:
        Portmahomack, Ross-shire, U.K
      1. Date of Birth:
        October 28, 1938
      2. Place of Birth:
        Blackheath, London England

    Read an Excerpt

    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.

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    Table of Contents

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    Customer Reviews

    Average Rating 4.5
    ( 20 )
    Rating Distribution

    5 Star

    (12)

    4 Star

    (6)

    3 Star

    (1)

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    Sort by: Showing all of 20 Customer Reviews
    • Posted February 19, 2009

      I Also Recommend:

      the dark assassing review

      from begining to end very exciting and thrilling, did not want to leave book down - very suspenseful, it has you guesing until the end. Very well written by the author. I would recommend this book to everyone who loves action, mysteries, and thrillers.

      1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted April 3, 2013

      TOP FIVE MOST VICIOUS CATS

      5-Hollyclaw 4-Death&Decay 3-Silverdusk 2-Posion 1-Silvermoonstar *$!lv3rd?sk*

      0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted April 3, 2013

      Assasin rating: Venom: sucked. could not even kill a lousy med c

      Assasin rating: Venom: sucked. could not even kill a lousy med cat.

      0 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted September 28, 2007

      Good story

      I thought this was a good story, and I got more into it as I went along, but it didn't do much for me. It didn't culminate into anything, you knew the whole plot from the beginning and I felt like all they did was rehash over and over the same details and issues and it never really amounted to anything interesting. For me, it was Blah.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted September 14, 2006

      Highly recommended

      Always love Anne Perry's William Monk. Like all preceding novels featuring Inspector Monk, the characterizations are excellent, the plot is complex and the details of everyday life are so vivid. It was only the abrupt ending which prevented me from giving this a '5 Star Rating'.

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    • Anonymous

      Posted June 24, 2006

      I COULD FEEL THE FEAR

      The Dark Assassin is probably the best of Anne Perry to date. From the very beginning I felt as if I were in the streets of London feeling the cold, hard winter. The fear the characters experienced each and every step of their journey into the darkness was gripping. Hurray Anne!

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    • Posted February 2, 2009

      more from this reviewer

      MYSTERIES ARE DARKER WHEN SET IN VICTORIAN LONDON

      Mysteries are deeper, villains more frightening when they're set in Victorian London. Anne Perry has proven this time and again with her William Monk series, and she does so once more with Dark Assassin. Now a superintendent with the Thames River Police, Monk is on regular patrol near the Waterloo Bridge when he and his crew helplessly watch as a couple fall into the dark frigid waters. Did they think they had seen a struggle Was it a murder suicide or some grisly death pact? The pair were young and in love, planning to marry. The man was Toby Argyll and the girl Mary Havilland. She had recently lost her father who worked for the Argyll Company, a mega firm involved in the building of what was purported to be a splendid new sewer system. However, Mr. Havilland had serious doubts about the efficiency of the proposed system. He voiced these doubts too often, Mary believed, and was murdered for his claims. With Hester, his steadfast wife, by his side Monk begins to investigate the deaths of the young couple. There seems to be no question that there has been skullduggery at the Argyll Company, but who took the lives of Toby, Mary, and her father? Shades of Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle, Dark Assassin is a gripping listen as narrated by David Colacci who perfectly captures the voices of upper class Brits as well as the poor who labor beneath the city. - Gail Cooke

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    • Posted December 9, 2008

      more from this reviewer

      Monk is at his best in his fifteenth appearance

      In 1864 recently promoted to Superintendent of the Thames River Police William Monk, accompanied by three direct report cops, is ¿Rowing random¿ on a patrol boat when he observes the young couple on Waterloo Bridge. She places her hands on his shoulders while he grabs her and both tumble into the river. Appalled and feeling helpless especially after finding the two corpses, William wonders whether this was a double suicide, a murder-suicide, or a freak accident. The male was Toby Argyle and the woman Mary Havilland.------ Monk and Sergeant Orme inform the next of kin, whose reactions vary. From there he begins to dig into the backgrounds of the two victims even as he hates being in charge of the Thames River Police. His wife, Hester, provides his first break when she informs him that the families have feuded for about a year ever since the rushed construction of a sewer complex to prevent another typhoid epidemic. As Monk switches his line of inquiries based on that information, he soon finds himself embroiled in a sewage building scandal that makes last year¿s ¿Great Stink¿ smell like fresh roses.------ Monk is at his best in his fifteenth appearance as he struggles to adjust to a job he does not want, but feels obligated to accept. The case is fascinating especially the twists and turns as Monk with Hester and Orme at first as his only allies until he begins to persuade his team he can handle the job. The use of cockney adds to the realism of a wonderful atmospheric historical police procedural.----- Harriet Klausner

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    • Anonymous

      Posted May 4, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted April 22, 2013

      No text was provided for this review.

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      Posted June 5, 2011

      No text was provided for this review.

    • Anonymous

      Posted July 5, 2013

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