Dark Assassin

by Anne Perry

Rose was making some trivial conversation. They were waiting for Hester to play her part.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, hoping it was a reasonably appropriate response.

  Argyll was looking at her, his eyes cold and guarded.

  Jenny’s voice sounded strained, too sharp and too high. The conversation was all trivial: a remembrance of the dead man and the causes he had supported. A footman passed by with a tray of glasses filled with mulled wine and lemonade.

  They were a little crowded. There was no room for the footman to pass between them. Argyll took the tray from him and offered it to Hester. Considering the potency of the mulled wine she had drunk on entering, she decided that lemonade might be wiser this time.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting a glass.

  Because of the way they were standing, Jenny next to her husband, it was natural to pass the tray to her next. Jenny hesitated a moment over the lemonade, then chose the wine.

  Rose took the lemonade, as before. She lifted her glass. “To the brave men who pioneer social reform!” she said, and drank deeply.

  The rest of them echoed the sentiment. More food was offered. This time it was sweet pastries filled with crushed dried fruit, or delicate custards with unusual flavors.

  A portly man with heavy side whiskers took Argyll’s attention.

  A three-piece musical ensemble began playing a slow, solemn tune.

  Rose turned to Jenny. “Isn’t it awful?” she said confidentially, pulling her mouth down at the corners.

  Jenny appeared startled. So far they had shared the artificial conversation of acquaintances who did not care for each other but were civil in their mutual interest.

  Suddenly Rose giggled. It was a rich, absurdly happy sound. “Not the food! The music, if you can call it that. Why on earth can’t we be honest? Nobody feels like playing a dirge because the old fool is dead. Most of them couldn’t wait for him to go. Death is about the only thing that finally made him hold his tongue.”

  Jenny pretended she was not taken aback. She took a deep breath and answered with a slightly shaky voice. “That may be true, but we would be wiser not to say so, Mrs. Applegate.”

  Hester realized she had been holding her breath, almost till it hurt. What on earth was the matter with Rose? This was not part of their plan.

  “To be wise all the time is the utmost foolishness!” Rose said rather loudly. “We are so careful being wise, we never commit any indiscretions, unless they are colossal and catastrophic!” She swung her arms wide to show how very huge the indiscretions were, nearly knocking Jenny’s glass out of her hand. “Look what you’re doing!” she reproached her. “Bad wine stains, you know.”

  Jenny looked embarrassed. Several other people turned to look at Rose, then away again quickly.

  A waiter passed, and Rose took another glass from his tray, but this time she took the wine. She drank it down in one long draught, then tossed the glass over her shoulder. It fell on the floor with a tinkle as it broke. She ignored it entirely and strode over towards the musicians. She made a magnificent figure, head high, skirts swaying, her handsome face bristling with life. She stood in front of the dais.

  “For heaven’s sake, stop that awful screeching!” she commanded fiercely. “You on the violin, you sound like a cat wailing for a fish head. Unless you think the poor old sod went to dismal torment, which I admit is likely, try to sound as if you believed in the forgiveness of God, and some chance of heaven for him!”

  The violinist clasped her hands to her bosom and let the violin slither down her dress and fall onto the floor.

  Rose stooped and picked it up. She put it under her chin, seized the bow, and began to play astonishingly well. She began with the same music they had been playing, but she altered the tempo to that of the music hall, and then slid into one of the concert songs, swift and bawdy.

  The pianist gave a little squawk of horror and sat stark still with her mouth open. The cellist burst into tears.

  “Oh, stop it!” Rose commanded her. “Pull yourself together! And hold that thing properly!” She pointed to the cello. “Like a lover, not as if it just made you an indecent proposal!”

  The cellist flung the instrument on the ground and fled, the bow trailing behind her.

  Someone in the audience fainted, or pretended to. Another began to laugh hysterically. A man started to sing the words to the song. He had a rich baritone voice and—most unfortunately—knew all the words.

  Hester stood frozen, aware of Jenny beside her and Alan Argyll a few feet away, paralyzed.

  Rose did not hesitate a stroke but kept on playing in perfect time, swaying and tapping her feet.

  Suddenly the pianist abandoned all propriety and joined in. Her face was fixed in a terrified smile, showing all her teeth.

  Alan Argyll jerked to life, moving to stand at Hester’s elbow. “For heaven’s sake,” he hissed. “Can’t you do anything to stop her? This is appalling! Morgan Applegate will never live it down!”

  Hester realized she was probably the only person who could do anything. She was Rose’s friend. Therefore it was an act of the utmost compassion and necessity that she intervene. She walked forward to the dais, picked up her borrowed and rather long skirts and stepped up. Rose was still playing very elegantly. She was on to a different song now, but no better.

  “Rose!” Hester said quietly, but with as much authority as she could manage. “That’s enough now. Let the violinist have her instrument back. It’s time we went home.”

  “Home, sweet home!” Rose said cheerfully, and loudly. “That’s a terrible song, Hester. Positively maudlin! We’re celebrating Sir what’s-hisname’s death. At least—I mean we’re remembering his life with…with regrets…I shouldn’t have said that!” She started to laugh. “Far too close to the truth. Should never speak the truth at funerals. If a man was a crashing bore like Lord Kinsdale, you say he was fearfully well-bred.”

  There was a gasp of horror from the maid. “If a woman had a face like a burst boot, such as Lady Alcott,” she went on, “you say what a kind heart she had.” She laughed again, stepping back out of Hester’s reach and speaking even more loudly. “If he was a liar and a cheat, like Mr. Worthington, you praise his wit. If he betrayed his wife with half the neighborhood, you talk all about his generosity. Everyone keeps a straight face, and weeps a lot into their handkerchiefs to hide their laughter.” She hiccupped and ignored it. “You don’t understand,” she went on, looking a little dizzily at Hester. “You’ve spent too much time in the army.”

  “Oh, God!” someone groaned.

  Someone else began to giggle and couldn’t stop. It was wild, hilarious, hysterical laughter, soaring higher and higher.

  Rose was hopelessly drunk. She must have had far more than Hester had seen or realized. Was this the terrible weakness that Morgan Applegate had been trying to guard her against? Had he the faintest idea what she was like? What she was saying so devastatingly loudly was awful! The worse for being perfectly true, and what everyone was secretly thinking.

  Rose was about to start playing the violin again. The pianist was waiting, half in agony, half in ecstasy. It was probably a night she would remember for the rest of her life. She kept her eyes straight ahead and took a deep breath, then plunged in with a resounding bass chord, and then a trill on the top notes.

  Hester was desperate. It was all completely out of control, and part of her was on the edge of laughter. It was only the knowledge of ruin that stopped her joining in. She snatched the violin bow from Rose, gripping it around the middle in a fashion that probably did it little good. She flung it behind her, towards the back of the dais, where at least no one would tread on it. The original violinist was still collapsed in a heap, and someone was waving a fan at her quite uselessly. The cellist had disappeared completely.

  “You are going home because you are no longer welcome here,” Hester told Rose as sternly as she could. “Put that violin down and take my arm! Do as you are told!”


  “I thought we could play a game,” Rose protested. “Charades, don’t you think? Or perhaps not—we’re playing it all the time, really, aren’t we? Or blindman’s buff? We could all grope around, bumping into each other and grabbing hold of the prettiest, or the richest…no, that’s being done too. All the time. What do you suggest?” She looked at Hester expectantly.

  Hester could feel her face burning. “Come home,” she said between her teeth, suddenly overtaken with fury at the senseless destruction of a reputation. “Now!”

  Rose was startled by the tone rather than the words. Reluctantly she obeyed.

  Hester put an arm around her and grasped her wrist with her other hand. Awkwardly but efficiently she marched her to the edge of the dais. Rose, however, misjudged the step, tripped over her skirt, and pitched forwards, only just saving herself from serious hurt by dragging Hester with her, and at the last moment by putting out her hands to break her fall.

  Hester landed hard, knocking the breath out of her lungs. This saved her from using a word that had not passed her lips since the days in the army that Rose had referred to. Struggling to disentangle herself from her skirts and stand up without treading on Rose and falling flat again, she rose with great difficulty to her feet. “Get up!” she commanded furiously.

  Rose rolled over slowly and sat up, looking stunned, then began to laugh again.

  Hester leaned forward, caught Rose’s hand, and jerked hard. Rose slid forward but remained on the floor.

  It was Alan Argyll who came out of the crowd. Everyone else was milling around, trying to pretend nothing had happened, and either surreptitiously looking at the spectacle or studiously avoiding looking.

  “For God’s sake get her out of here!” he snarled at Hester. “Don’t just stand there! Lift!” He bent and hauled Rose to her feet, balancing her with some skill so that she would not buckle at the knees. Then, as she began to subside again, he picked her up, put her over his shoulder, and marched her towards the door. Hester could do nothing but follow behind.

  Outside it was not a difficult matter to send for Rose’s coachman. Ten minutes later Argyll assisted her, with considerable strength, into the coach.

  “I assume you will go with her?” he said, looking at Hester with disdain. “You seem to have arrived with her. Somebody needs to explain this to her husband. She can’t make a habit of it, or she’ll be locked up.”

  “I shall manage very well,” Hester assured him tartly. “I think she has gone to sleep. Her servants will help as soon as we get that far. Thank you for your assistance. Good night.” She was angry, embarrassed, and, now that it was over, a little frightened. What on earth was she going to say to Morgan Applegate? As Argyll had pointed out, his political career would never recover from this. It would be spoken of for years, even decades.

  The ride was terrible, not for anything Rose did but for what Hester feared she would do. They sped through the lamplit streets in the rain, the cobbles glistening, the gutters spilling over, the constant sound of drumming on the roof, splashing beneath, and the clatter of hooves and hiss of wheels. They lurched from side to side because they were going too fast, as the coachman was afraid Rose was ill and needed help.

  Hester was dreading what Applegate would say. No words had been exchanged, but she felt he had trusted her to care for Rose. From the first time they had met, Hester had seen a protectiveness in him, as if he was aware of a peculiar vulnerability in his wife, one he could not share with others. Now it seemed that Hester had quite extraordinarily let them both down.

  Except that she had had no idea how it had happened.

  The carriage came to an abrupt halt, but Rose did not seem to wake up. There was shouting outside and more lights, then the carriage door opened and a footman appeared. He leaned in without even glancing at Hester, lifted Rose with great care, and carried her across the mews and in through the back door of the house.

  The coachman handed Hester out and accompanied her across the yard and through the scullery. Her skirts were sodden around her ankles; her shoulders and hair were wet. Nothing had been further from her mind on leaving the memorial reception than sending someone to fetch her cloak—or to be more exact, Rose’s cloak.

  Inside the warmth of the kitchen, she realized how very cold she was. Her body was shuddering, her feet numb. Her head was beginning to pound as if it were she who had drunk far too much.

  The cook took pity on her and made her a hot cup of tea, but gave her nothing to go with it, no biscuit or slice of bread, as if Hester were to blame for Rose’s condition.

  It was half an hour before Morgan Applegate came to the kitchen door. He was in his shirtsleeves, his face flushed but white about the lips, his hair tangled.

  “Mrs. Monk,” he said with barely suppressed rage. “Will you be so good as to come with me?” It was a command rather than a question.

  Hester rose and followed him. She was deeply sorry for his distress, but she had no intention of being spoken to like a naughty child.

  He walked into the library, where there was a brisk fire burning. He held the door for her, then slammed it shut. “Explain yourself!” he said simply.

  She looked at him with as much dignity as she could manage, being sodden wet, wearing borrowed clothes, and having endured one of the most embarrassing evenings of her life. She reminded herself that she had survived and been useful in fever hospitals and on battlefields. This was a minor tragedy. She refused even to be formal.

  “I believe Rose has had too much to drink, Mr. Applegate. And although it cannot have been more than one or two glasses, she seems to be unusually susceptible to alcohol. Unless, of course, it was remarkably strong.”

  He was breathing deeply, as if he could not immediately find words to retaliate.

  “I am extremely sorry it happened,” Hester continued. “I’m afraid you know only the simplest part of it yet.” Better to get it over now rather than leave it for him to discover in the most acutely embarrassing way.

  “There was a dismal musical trio playing, and Rose took the violin from the fiddler and played it herself, extremely well. Unfortunately, she soon changed to a funny but rather vulgar song from the music halls. The whole scene is something you would probably prefer not to know about, but it was…memorable.”

  “Oh, God!” He went ash white. “How?”

  She hesitated.

  “How?” he repeated.

  “She was very forthright over what people say about each other, and what they really mean. With names. I’m sorry.” She meant it deeply.

  He stared at her, the anger draining out of him. “I should have told you. She…she used to…” He spread his hands helplessly. “She hasn’t done it for years! Why now?” His eyes pleaded with her for a reason for the devastation that had descended on him with no warning.

  Then suddenly she knew the answer. It was as obvious as a slap across the face. “Alan Argyll!” she said aloud. “He must have put something in her drink! He knew we were there to try to persuade Jenny to testify! It was after he joined us that Rose started to behave differently. Could he have known about her…weakness?” She would not insult either of them by mincing words. It was far too late now.

  “If he had cared to find out,” Applegate admitted. He sat down slowly in the large leather seat just behind him, leaving her to do as she wished. He looked crumpled, like a rag doll someone had torn the stuffing from. “Was it awful?” he asked, without raising his eyes.

  To lie would only leave him more vulnerable. “Yes,” she said simply. “It was also very funny and perfectly true, and it is the truth of it I fear people will neither forget nor forgive.”

  He sat silently.

  The fire was beginning to warm her through. The hem of her gown was steaming gently. She knelt down in front of him. “I’m sorry. We believed it was a good cause, and that we could win.”

  “It is a good cause,” he said quietly. He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind.

 
“Will she be all right?” Hester asked. “Tomorrow? The next day?” Then she thought with a chill how clumsy that was. It would never be all right for Applegate himself. His position would become untenable. He would never be able to take Rose to any social event after this. Possibly he would find it unbearable to go himself.

  He lifted his head suddenly. His eyes were blurred with fear and exhaustion, but there was a light of decision in them. “I’ll give up my seat in Parliament. We’ll go back to the country. We have a house in Dorset. We can do a lot of good there, without ever coming to London again. It’s quiet and beautiful, and we can be more than happy. We’ll have each other, and that will be enough.”

  Ridiculously, Hester felt her eyes fill with tears. He must love her so deeply and unquestioningly that all his happiness lay in being with her. His anger had been on her behalf, not against her. Perhaps it was even against himself, because he knew her weakness and had not protected her from it. Would Monk have been as gentle with Hester, as forgiving, as willing to sacrifice? She would probably never know.

  “I’m sorry,” Applegate apologized. “Would you like something to eat? You must be frozen. It’s…I shouldn’t have blamed you. You couldn’t guard against something you knew nothing of. Or would you rather simply go home?”

  She made herself smile at him. “I think actually I would like to go home and put on some dry clothes. It’s been a rotten night.”

  “I’ll have my coachman take you,” he answered.

  Monk flung the front door open almost before the carriage had stopped. When Hester alighted he strode out into the street, disregarding the rain.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded. “You’re soaked and you look terrible. You were supposed to…” Then he saw the expression on her face and stopped. “What is it?”

  Hester thanked the coachman and went inside. She was shivering again, so she sat down in the chair nearest the fire and huddled into herself. Now that she was no longer faced with Morgan Applegate’s grief or Rose’s urgent need, a profound sense of defeat settled over her. She wondered how she could ever have been so stupid as to think they could beat such vested interests. Her hubris had created her own downfall, and in her unthinking ignorance she had taken Rose with her.