The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  Monk hesitated from politeness, and before he could speak Basil asked Myles the questions that Monk would have, but without explanation as to their purpose or the need for them. He was correct in his assumption; Myles could tell them nothing of use. He had risen late and gone out in the morning for luncheon, where he did not say, and spent the afternoon at the merchant bank where he was a director. He too had dined at home, but had not seen Octavia, except at table in the company of everyone else. He had noticed nothing remarkable.

  When he had left Monk asked if there was anyone else, apart from Lady Moidore, to whom he should speak.

  “Aunt Fenella and Uncle Septimus.” Cyprian answered this time, cutting his father off. “We would be obliged if you could keep your questions to Mama as brief as possible. In fact it would be better if we could ask her and relay her answers to you, if they are of any relevance.”

  Basil looked at his son coldly, but whether for the suggestion or simply because Cyprian stole his prerogative by making it first, Monk did not know: he guessed the latter. At this point it was an easy concession to make; there would be time enough later to see Lady Moidore, when he had something better than routine and very general questions to ask her.

  “Certainly,” he allowed. “But perhaps your aunt and uncle? One sometimes confides in aunts especially, when no one else seems as appropriate.”

  Basil let out his breath in a sharp round of contempt and turned away towards the window.

  “Not Aunt Fenella.” Cyprian half sat on the back of one of the leather-upholstered chairs. “But she is very observant—and inquisitive. She may have noticed something the rest of us did not—if she hasn’t forgotten it.”

  “Has she a short memory?” Monk inquired.

  “Erratic,” Cyprian replied with an oblique smile. He reached for the bell, but when the butler arrived it was Basil who instructed him to fetch first Mrs. Sandeman, and then Mr. Thirsk.

  Fenella Sandeman bore an extraordinary resemblance to Basil. She had the same dark eyes and short, straight nose, her mouth was similarly wide and mobile, but her whole head was narrower and the lines were smoothed out. In her youth she must have had an exotic charm close to real beauty, now it was merely extraordinary. Monk did not need to ask the relationship; it was too plain to miss. She was of approximately the same age as Basil, perhaps nearer sixty than fifty, but she fought against time with every artifice imagination could conceive. Monk did not know enough of women to realize precisely what tricks they were, but he knew their presence. If he had ever understood them it was forgotten, with so much else. But he saw an artificiality in her face: the color of the skin was unnatural, the line of her brows harsh, her hair stiff and too dark.

  She looked at Monk with great interest and refused Basil’s invitation to sit down.

  “How do you do,” she said with a charming husky voice, just a fraction blurred at the edges.

  “Fenella, he’s a policeman, not a social acquaintance,” Basil snapped. “He is investigating Octavia’s death. It seems she was killed by someone here in the house, presumably one of the servants.”

  “One of the servants?” Fenella’s black-painted eyebrows rose startlingly. “My dear, how appalling.” She did not look in the least alarmed; in fact, if it were not absurd, Monk would have thought she found a kind of excitement in it.

  Basil caught the inflection also.

  “Remember your conduct!” he said tartly. “You are here because it begins to appear that Octavia may have discovered some secret, albeit accidentally, for which she was killed. Inspector Monk wonders if she may have confided such a thing to you. Did she?”

  “Oh my goodness.” She did not even glance at her brother, her eyes were intent on Monk. Had it not been socially ridiculous, and she at the very least twenty years his senior, he would have thought she considered flirting with him. “I shall have to think about it,” she said softly. “I’m sure I cannot recall all that she said over the last few days. Poor child. Her life was full of tragedy. Losing her husband in the war, so soon after her marriage. How awful that she should be murdered over some wretched secret.” She shivered and hunched her shoulders. “Whatever could it be?” Her eyes widened dramatically. “An illegitimate child, do you think? No—yes! It would lose a servant her position—but could it really have been a woman? Surely not?” She came a step closer to Monk. “Anyway, none of our servants has had a child—we would all know about it.” She made a sound deep in her throat, almost a giggle. “One can hardly keep such a thing secret, can one? A crime of passion—that’s it. There has been a fateful passion, which no one else knows about, and Tavie stumbled on it by chance—and they killed her—poor child. How can we help, Inspector?”

  “Please be careful, Mrs. Sandeman,” Monk replied with a grim face. He was very uncertain how seriously to regard her, but he felt compelled to warn her against jeopardizing her own safety. “You may discover the secret yourself, or allow the person concerned to fear you may. You would be wise to observe in silence.”

  She took a step backward, drew in her breath, and her eyes grew even wider. For the first time he wondered, even though it was mid-morning, if she were entirely sober.

  Basil must have had the same thought. He extended his hand perfunctorily and guided her to the door.

  “Just think about it, Fenella, and if you remember anything, tell me, and I will call Mr. Monk. Now go and have breakfast, or write letters or something.”

  For an instant the glamour and excitement vanished from her face and she looked at him with intense dislike; then as quickly it was gone, and she accepted his dismissal, closing the door behind her softly.

  Basil looked at Monk, searching to judge his perception, but Monk left his face blank and polite.

  The last person to come in had an equally apparent relationship to the family. He had the same wide blue eyes as Lady Moidore, and although his hair was now gray, his skin was fair with the pinkness that would have been natural with light auburn hair, and his features echoed the sensitivity and fine bones of hers. However he was obviously older than she, and the years had treated him harshly. His shoulders were stooped and there was an indelible weariness in him as of the flavor of many defeats, small perhaps, but sharp.

  “Septimus Thirsk.” He announced himself with a remnant of military precision, as if an old memory had unaccountably slipped through and prompted him. “What can I do for you, sir?” He ignored his brother-in-law, in whose house he apparently lived, and Cyprian, who had retreated to the window embrasure.

  “Were you at home on Monday, the day before Mrs. Haslett was killed, sir?” Monk asked politely.

  “I was out, sir, in the morning and for luncheon,” Septimus answered, still standing almost to attention. “I spent the afternoon here, in my quarters most of the time. Dined out.” A shadow of concern crossed his face. “Why does that interest you, sir? I neither saw nor heard any intruder, or I should have reported it.”

  “Mrs. Haslett was killed by someone already in the house, Uncle Septimus,” Cyprian explained. “We thought Tavie might have said something to you which would give us some idea why. We’re asking everyone.”

  “Said something?” Septimus blinked.

  Basil’s face darkened with irritation. “For heaven’s sake, man, the question is simple enough! Did Octavia say or do anything that led you to suppose she had stumbled on a secret unpleasant enough to cause someone to fear her! It’s hardly likely, but it is necessary to ask!”

  “Yes she did!” Septimus said instantly, two spots of color burning on his pale cheeks. “When she came in in the late afternoon she said a whole world had been opened up to her and it was quite hideous. She said she had one more thing to discover to prove it finally. I asked her what it was, but she refused to say.”

  Basil was stunned and Cyprian stood paralyzed on the spot.

  “Where had she been, Mr. Thirsk?” Monk asked quietly. “You said she was coming in.”

  “I have no idea,” Septimus r
eplied with the grief replacing anger in his eyes. “I asked her, but she would not tell me, except that one day I would understand, better than anyone else. That was all she would say.”

  “Ask the coachman,” Cyprian said immediately. “He’ll know.”

  “She didn’t go in our coaches.” Septimus caught Basil’s eye. “I mean your coaches,” he corrected pointedly. “She walked in. I presume she either walked all the way or found a hansom.”

  Cyprian swore under his breath. Basil looked confused, and yet his shoulders eased under the black cloth of his jacket and he stared beyond them all out of the window. He spoke with his back to Monk.

  “It seems, Inspector, as if the poor girl did hear something that day. It will be your task to discover what it was—and if you cannot do that, to deduce in some other way who it was who killed her. It is possible we may never discover why, and it hardly matters.” He hesitated, for a moment more absorbed in his own thoughts. No one intruded.

  “If there is any further help the family can give you, we shall of course do so,” he continued. “Now it is past midday and I can think of no purpose in which we can assist you at present. Either you or your juniors are free to question the servants at any time you wish, without disturbing the family. I shall instruct Phillips to that effect. Thank you for your courtesy so far. I trust it will continue. You may report any progress you make to me, or if I am not present, to my son. I would prefer you did not distress Lady Moidore.”

  “Yes, Sir Basil.” He turned to Cyprian. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Moidore.” Monk excused himself, and was shown out, not by the butler this time but by a very striking footman with bold eyes and a face whose handsomeness was spoiled only by a small, clever mouth.

  In the hallway he saw Lady Moidore and had every intention of passing her with no more than a polite acknowledgment, but she came towards him, dismissing the footman with a wave of her hand, and he had no option but to stop and speak with her.

  “Good day, Lady Moidore.”

  It was hard to tell how much the pallor of her face was natural, an accompaniment to her remarkable hair, but the wide eyes and the nervous movements were unmistakable.

  “Good morning, Mr. Monk. My sister-in-law tells me you believe there was no intruder in the house. Is that so?”

  He could save her nothing by lying. The news would be no easier coming from someone else, and the mere fact that he had lied would make it impossible for her to believe him in future. It would add another confusion to those already inevitable.

  “Yes ma’am. I am sorry.”

  She stood motionless. He could not even see the slight motion of her breathing.

  “Then it was one of us who killed Tavie,” she said. She surprised him by not flinching from it or dressing it in evasive words. She was the only one in the family to make no pretense that it must have been one of the servants, and he admired her intensely for the courage that must have cost.

  “Did you see Mrs. Haslett after she came in that afternoon, ma’am?” he asked more gently.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “It seems she learned something while she was out which distressed her, and according to Mr. Thirsk, she intended to pursue it and discover a final proof of the matter. Did she confide anything of it to you?”

  “No.” Her eyes were so wide she seemed to stare at something so close to her she could not blink. “No. She was very quiet during dinner, and there was some slight unpleasantness with—” She frowned. “With both Cyprian and her father. But I assumed she had one of her headaches again. People are occasionally unpleasant with each other, especially when they live in the same house day in and day out. She did come and say good-night to me immediately before she went to bed. Her dressing robe was torn. I offered to mend it for her—she was never very good with a needle—” Her voice broke for just a moment. Memory must have been unbearably sharp, and so very close. Her child was dead. The loss was not yet wholly grasped. Life had only just slipped into the past.

  He hated having to press her, but he had to know.

  “What did she say to you, ma’am? Even a word may help.”

  “Nothing but ‘good night,’ ” she said quietly. “She was very gentle, I remember that, very gentle indeed, and she kissed me. It was almost as if she knew we should not meet again.” She put her hands up to her face, pushing the long, slender fingers till they held the skin tight across her cheekbones. He had the powerful impression it was not grief which shook her most but the realization that it was someone in her own family who had committed murder.

  She was a remarkable woman, possessed of an honesty which he greatly respected. It cut his emotion, and his pride, that he was socially so inferior he could offer her no comfort at all, only a stiff courtesy that was devoid of any individual expression.

  “You have my deep sympathy, ma’am,” he said awkwardly. “I wish it were not necessary to pursue it—” He did not add the rest. She understood without tedious explanation.

  She withdrew her hands.

  “Of course,” she said almost under her breath.

  “Good day, ma’am.”

  “Good day, Mr. Monk. Percival, please see Mr. Monk to the door.”

  The footman reappeared, and to Monk’s surprise he was shown out of the front door and down the steps into Queen Anne Street, feeling a mixture of pity, intellectual stimulation, and growing involvement which was familiar, and yet he could remember no individual occasion. He must have done this a hundred times before, begun with a crime, then learned experience by experience to know the people and their lives, their tragedies.

  How many of them had marked him, touched him deeply enough to change anything inside him? Whom had he loved—or pitied? What had made him angry?

  He had been shown out of the front door, so it was necessary to go around to the back areaway to find Evan, whom he had detailed to speak to the servants and to make at least some search for the knife. Since the murderer was still in the house, and had not left it that night, the weapon must be there too, unless he had disposed of it since. But there would be many knives in any ordinary kitchen of such a size, and several of them used for cutting meat. It would be a simple thing to have wiped it and replaced it. Even blood found in the joint of the handle would mean little.

  He saw Evan coming up the steps. Perhaps word had reached him of Monk’s departure, and he had left at the same time intentionally. Monk looked at Evan’s face as he ran up, feet light, head high.

  “Well?”

  “I had P.C. Lawley help me. We went right through the house, especially servants’ quarters, but didn’t find the missing jewelry. Not that I really expected to.”

  Monk had not expected it either. He had never thought robbery the motive. The jewelry was probably flushed down the drain, and the silver vase merely mislaid. “What about the knife?”

  “Kitchen full of knives,” Evan said, falling into step beside him. “Wicked-looking things. Cook says there’s nothing missing. If it was one of them, it was replaced. Couldn’t find anything else. Do you think it was one of the servants? Why?” He screwed up his face doubtfully. “A jealous ladies’ maid? A footman with amorous notions?”

  Monk snorted. “More likely a secret of some sort that she discovered.” And he told Evan what he had learned so far.

  Monk was at the Old Bailey by half past three, and it took him another half hour and the exertion of considerable bribery and veiled threats to get inside the courtroom where the trial of Menard Grey was winding to its conclusion. Rathbone was making his final speech. It was not an impassioned oration as Monk had expected—after all he could see that the man was an exhibitionist, vain, pedantic and above all an actor. Instead Rathbone spoke quite quietly, his words precise, his logic exact. He made no attempt to dazzle the jurors or to appeal to their emotions. Either he had given up or he had at last realized that there could be only one verdict and it was the judge to whom he must look for any compassion.

  The victim had been a gent
leman of high breeding and noble heritage. But so was Menard Grey. He had struggled long with his burden of knowledge and terrible, continuing injustice which would afflict more and more innocent people if he did not act.

  Monk saw the jury’s faces and knew they would ask for clemency. But would that be enough?

  Without realizing it he was searching the crowd for Hester Latterly. She had said she would be there. He could never think of the Grey case, or any part of it, without remembering her. She should be here now to see its close.

  Callandra Daviot was here, sitting in the first row behind the lawyers, next to her sister-in-law, Fabia Grey, the dowager Lady Shelburne. Lovel Grey was beside his mother at the farther end, pale, composed, not afraid to look at his brother in the dock. The tragedy seemed to have added a stature to him, a certainty of his own convictions he had lacked before. He was not more than a yard away from his mother, and yet the distance between them was a gulf which he never once looked at her to cross.

  Fabia sat like stone, white, cold and relentless. The wound of disillusion had destroyed her. There was nothing left now but hatred. The delicate face which had once been beautiful was sharpened by the violence of her emotions, and the lines around her mouth were ugly, her chin pointed, her neck thin and ropey. If she had not destroyed so many others with her dreams, Monk would have pitied her, but as it was all he could feel was a chill of fear. She had lost the son she idolized to a shocking death. With him had gone all the excitement and glamour from her life. It was Joscelin who had made her laugh, flattered her, told her she was lovely and charming and gay. It was hard enough that he should have had to go to war in the Crimea and return wounded, but when he had been battered to death in his flat in Mecklenburg Square it was more than she could bear. Neither Lovel nor Menard could take his place, and she would not let them try—or accept from them such love or warmth as they would have given.