by Anne Perry
Now she was as pale as the cambric handkerchief between her clenched fingers.
“Are you suggesting that Myles tried to force himself upon Octavia?” The idea appalled her. Now the horror touched her other daughter as well. Monk felt a stab of guilt for forcing her to think of it—and yet he had no alternative that was honest.
“Is it impossible, ma’am? I believe she was most attractive, and that he had previously been known to admire her.”
“But—but she was not—I mean …” Her voice died away; she was unable to bring herself to speak the words aloud.
“No. No, she was not molested in that way,” he assured her. “But it is possible she had some forewarning he would come and was prepared to defend herself, and in the struggle it was she who was killed, and not he.”
“That is—grotesque!” she protested, her eyes wide. “To assault a maid is one thing—to go deliberately and cold-bloodedly to your sister-in-law’s bedroom at night, intent upon the same thing, against her will—is—is quite different, and appalling. It is quite wicked!”
“Is it such a great step from one to the other?” He leaned a little closer to her, his voice quiet and urgent. “Do you really believe that Martha Rivett was not equally unwilling? Just not as well prepared to defend herself—younger, more afraid, and more vulnerable since she was a servant in this house and could look for little protection.”
She was so ashen now that it was not only Hester who was afraid she might collapse; Monk himself was concerned that he had been too brutal. Hester took a step forward, but remained silent, staring at Beatrice.
“That is terrible!” Beatrice’s voice was dry, difficult to force from her throat. “You are saying that we do not care for our servants properly—that we offer them no—no decency—that we are immoral!”
He could not apologize. That was exactly what he had said.
“Not all of you, ma’am—only Mr. Kellard, and that perhaps to spare your daughter the shame and the distress of knowing what her husband had done, you concealed the offense from her—which effectively meant getting rid of the girl and allowing no one else to know of it either.”
She put the hands up to her face and pushed them over her cheeks and upward till her fingers ran through her hair, disarranging its neatness. After a moment’s painful silence she lowered them and stared at him.
“What would you have us do, Mr. Monk? If Araminta knew it would ruin her life. She could not live with him, and she could not divorce him—he has not deserted her. Adultery is no grounds for separation, unless it is the woman who commits it. If it is the man that means nothing at all. You must know that. All a woman can do is conceal it, so she is not publicly ruined and becomes a creature of pity for the kindly—and of contempt for the others. She is not to blame for any of it, and she is my child. Would you not protect your own child, Mr. Monk?”
He had no answer. He did not know the fierce, consuming love for a child, the tenderness and the bond, and the responsibility. He had no child—he had only a sister, Beth, and he could recall very little about her, only how she had followed him, her wide eyes full of admiration, and the white pinafore she wore, frilled on the edges, and how often she fell over as she tried to run after him, to keep up. He could remember holding her soft, damp little hand in his as they walked down on the shore together, he half lifting her over the rocks till they reached the smooth sand. A wave of feeling came back to him, a mixture of impatient exasperation and fierce, consuming protectiveness.
“Perhaps I would, ma’am. But then if I had a daughter she would more likely be a parlormaid like Martha Rivett,” he said ruthlessly, leaving all that that meant hanging in the air between them, and watched the pain, and the guilt, in her face.
The door opened and Araminta came in, the evening’s menu in her hand. She stopped, surprised to see Monk, then turned and looked at her mother’s face. She ignored Hester as she would any other servant doing her duty.
“Mama, you look ill. What has happened?” She swung around to Monk, her eyes brilliant with accusation. “My mother is unwell, Inspector. Have you not the common courtesy to leave her alone? She can tell you nothing she has not already said. Miss Latterly will open the door for you and the footman will show you out.” She turned to Hester, her voice tense with irritation. “Then, Miss Latterly, you had better fetch Mama a tisane and some smelling salts. I cannot think what possessed you to allow this. You should take your duties a great deal more seriously, or we shall be obliged to find someone else who will.”
“I am here with Sir Basil’s permission, Mrs. Kellard,” Monk said tartly. “We are all quite aware the discussion is painful, but postponing it will only prolong the distress. There has been murder in this house, and Lady Moidore wishes to discover who was responsible as much as anyone.”
“Mama?” Araminta challenged.
“Of course I do,” Beatrice said very quietly. “I think—”
Araminta’s eyes widened. “You think? Oh—” And suddenly some realization struck her with a force so obvious it was like a physical blow. She turned very slowly to Monk. “What were your questions about, Mr. Monk?”
Beatrice drew in her breath and held it, not daring to let it out until Monk should have spoken.
“Lady Moidore has already answered them,” Monk replied. “Thank you for your offer, but it concerns a matter of which you have no knowledge.”
“It was not an offer.” Araminta did not look at her mother but kept her hard, straight gaze level at Monk’s eyes. “I wished to be informed for my own sake.”
“I apologize,” Monk said with a thin thread of sarcasm. “I thought you were trying to assist.”
“Are you refusing to tell me?”
He could no longer evade. “If you wish to phrase it so, ma’am, then yes, I am.”
Very slowly a curious expression of pain, acceptance, almost a subtle pleasure, came into her eyes.
“Because it is to do with my husband.” She turned fractionally towards Beatrice. This time the fear was palpable between them. “Are you trying to protect me, Mama? You know something which implicates Myles.” The rage of emotions inside her was thick in her voice. Beatrice half reached towards her, then dropped her hands.
“I don’t think it does,” she said almost under her breath. “I see no reason to think of Myles.…” She trailed off, her disbelief heavy in the air.
Araminta swung back to Monk.
“And what do you think, Mr. Monk?” she said levelly. “That is what matters, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know yet, ma’am. It is impossible to say until I have learned more about it.”
“But it does concern my husband?” she insisted.
“I am not going to discuss the matter until I know much more of the truth,” he replied. “It would be unjust—and mischief making.”
Her curious, asymmetrical smile was hard. She looked from him to her mother again. “Correct me if I am unjust, Mama.” There was a cruel mimicry of Monk’s tone in her voice. “But does this concern Myles’s attraction towards Octavia, and the thought that he might have forced his attentions upon her, and as a result of her refusal killed her?”
“You are unjust,” Beatrice said in little more than a whisper. “You have no reason to think such a thing of him.”
“But you have,” Araminta said without hesitation, the words hard and slow, as if she were cutting her own flesh. “Mama, I do not deserve to be lied to.”
Beatrice gave up; she had no heart left to go on trying to deceive. Her fear was too great; it could be felt like an electric presage of storm in the room. She sat unnaturally motionless, her eyes unfocused, her hands knotted together in her lap.
“Martha Rivett charged that Myles forced himself upon her,” she said in a level voice, drained of passion. “That is why she left. Your father dismissed her. She was—” She stopped. To have added the child was an unnecessary blow. Araminta had never borne a child. Monk knew what Beatrice had been going to say as surely
as if she had said it. “She was irresponsible,” she finished lamely. “We could not keep her in the house saying things like that.”
“I see.” Araminta’s face was ashen white with two high spots of color in her cheeks.
The door opened again and Romola came in, saw the frozen tableau in front of her, Beatrice sitting upright on the sofa, Araminta stiff as a twig, her face set and teeth clenched tight, Hester still standing behind the other large armchair, not knowing what to do, and Monk sitting uncomfortably leaning forward. She glanced at the menu in Araminta’s hand, then ignored it. It was apparent even to her that she had interrupted something acutely painful, and dinner was of little importance.
“What is wrong?” she demanded, looking from one to another of them. “Do you know who killed Octavia?”
“No we don’t!” Beatrice turned toward her and spoke surprisingly sharply. “We were discussing the parlormaid who was dismissed two years ago.”
“Whatever for?” Romola’s voice was heavy with disbelief. “Surely that can hardly matter now?”
“Probably not,” Beatrice agreed.
“Then why are you wasting time discussing it?” Romola came over to the center of the room and sat down in one of the smaller chairs, arranging her skirts gracefully. “You all look as if it were fearful. Has something happened to her?”
“I have no idea,” Beatrice snapped, her temper broken at last. “I should think it is not unlikely.”
“Why should it?” Romola was confused and frightened; this was all too much for her. “Didn’t you give her a character? Why did you dismiss her anyway?” She twisted around to look at Araminta, her eyebrows raised.
“No, I did not give her a character,” Beatrice said flatly.
“Well why not?” Romola looked at Araminta and away again. “Was she dishonest? Did she steal something? No one told me!”
“It was none of your concern,” Araminta said brusquely. “It was if she was a thief! She might have taken something of mine!”
“Hardly. She charged that she had been raped!” Araminta glared at her.
“Raped?” Romola was amazed, her expression changed from fear to total incredulity. “You mean—raped! Good gracious!” Relief flooded her, the color returning to her beautiful skin. “Well if she was of loose morals of course you had to dismiss her. No one would argue with that. I daresay she took to the streets; women of that sort do. Why on earth are we concerned about it now? There is nothing we can do about it, and probably there never was.”
Hester could contain herself no longer.
“She was raped, Mrs. Moidore—taken by force by someone heavier and stronger than herself. That does not stem from immorality. It could happen to any woman.”
“Romola stared at her as if she had grown horns.” Of course it stems from immorality! Decent women don’t get violated—they don’t lay themselves open to it—they don’t invite it—or frequent such places in such company. I don’t know what kind of society you come from that you could suggest such a thing. “She shook her head a little.” I daresay your experiences as a nurse have robbed you of any finer feelings—I beg your pardon for saying such a thing, but you force the issue. Nurses have a reputation for loose conduct which is well known—and scarcely to be envied. Respectable women who behave moderately and dress with decorum do not excite the sort of passions you are speaking of, nor do they find themselves in situations where such a thing could occur. The very idea is quite preposterous—and repulsive
“It is not preposterous,” Hester contradicted flatly. “It is frightening, certainly. It would be very comfortable to suppose that if you behave discreetly you are in no danger of ever being assaulted or having unwelcome attentions forced upon you.” She drew in her breath. “It would also be completely untrue, and a quite false sense of safety—and of being morally superior and detached from the pain and the humiliation of it. We would all like to think it could not happen to us, or anyone we know—but it would be wrong.” She stopped, seeing Romola’s incredulity turning to outrage, Beatrice’s surprise and a first spark of respect, and Araminta’s extraordinary interest and something that looked almost like a momentary flicker of warmth.
“You forget yourself!” Romola said. “And you forget who we are. Or perhaps you never knew? I am not aware what manner of person you nursed before you came here, but I assure you we do not associate with the sort of people who assault women.”
“You are a fool,” Araminta said witheringly. “Sometimes I wonder what world it is you live in.”
“Minta,” Beatrice warned, her voice on edge, her hands clenched together again. “I think we have discussed the matter enough. Mr. Monk will pursue whatever course he deems appropriate. There is nothing more we can offer at the moment. Hester, will you please help me upstairs? I wish to retire. I will not be down for dinner, nor do I wish to see anyone until I feel better.”
“How convenient,” Araminta said coldly. “But I am sure we shall manage. There is nothing you are needed for. I shall see to everything, and inform Papa.” She swung around to Monk. “Good day, Mr. Monk. You must have enough to keep you busy for some time—although whether it will serve any purpose other than to make you appear diligent, I doubt. I don’t see how you can prove anything, whatever you suspect.”
“Suspect?” Romola looked first at Monk, then at her sister-in-law, her voice rising with fear again. “Suspect of what? What has this to do with Octavia?”
But Araminta ignored her and walked past her out of the door.
Monk stood up and excused himself to Beatrice, inclined his head to Hester, then held the door open for them as they left, Romola behind them, agitated and annoyed, but helpless to do anything about it.
As soon as Monk stepped inside the police station the sergeant looked up from the desk, his face sober, his eyes gleaming.
“Mr. Runcorn wants to see you, sir. Immediate, like.”
“Does he,” Monk replied dourly. “Well I doubt he’ll get much joy of it, but I’ll give him what there is.”
“He’s in his room, sir.”
“Thank you,” Monk said. “Mr. Evan in?”
“No sir. He came in, and then he went out again. Didn’t say where.”
Monk acknowledged the reply and went up the stairs to Runcorn’s office. He knocked on the door and at the command went in. Runcorn was sitting behind his large, highly polished desk, two elegant envelopes and half a dozen sheets of fine notepaper written on and half folded lying next to them. The other surfaces were covered with four or five newspapers, some open, some folded.
He looked up, his face dark with anger and his eyes narrow and bright.
“Well. Have you seen the newspapers, eh? Have you seen what they are saying about us?” He held one up and Monk saw the black headlines halfway down the page: QUEEN ANNE STREET MURDERER STILL LOOSE: POLICE BAFFLED. And then the writer went on to question the usefulness of the new police force, and was it money well spent or now an unworkable idea. “Well?” Runcorn demanded.
“I hadn’t seen that one,” Monk answered. “I haven’t spent much time reading newspapers.”
“I don’t want you reading the newspapers, damn it,” Runcorn exploded. “I want you doing something so they don’t write rubbish like this. Or this.” He snatched up the next one. “Or this.” He threw them away, disregarding the mess as they slid on the polished surface and fell onto the floor in a rattling heap. He grasped one of the letters. “From the Home Office.” His fingers closed on it, knuckles white. “I’m getting asked some very embarrassing questions, Monk, and I can’t answer them. I’m not prepared to defend you indefinitely—I can’t. What in hell’s name are you doing, man? If someone in that house killed the wretched woman, then you haven’t far to look, have you? Why can’t you get this thing settled? For heaven’s sake, how many suspects can you have? Four or five at the most. What’s the matter with you that you can’t finish it up?”
“Because four or five suspects is three or four too many-sir
. Unless, of course, you can prove a conspiracy?” Monk said sarcastically.
Runcorn slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t be impertinent, damn you! A smart tongue won’t get you out of this. Who are your suspects? This footman, what’s his name—Percival. Who else? As far as I can see, that’s it. Why can’t you settle it, Monk? You’re beginning to look incompetent.” His anger turned to a sneer. “You used to be the best detective we had, but you’ve certainly lost your touch lately. Why can’t you arrest this damned footman?”
“Because I have no proof he did anything,” Monk replied succinctly.
“Well who else could it be? Think clearly. You used to be the sharpest and most rational man we had.” His lip curled. “Before that accident you were as logical as a piece of algebra—and about as charming—but you knew your job. Now I’m beginning to wonder.”
Monk kept his temper with difficulty. “As well as Percival, sir,” he said heavily, “it could be one of the laundrymaids—”
“What?” Runcorn’s mouth opened in disbelief close to derision. “Did you say one of the laundrymaids? Don’t be absurd. Whatever for? If that’s the best you can do, I’d better put someone else on the case. Laundrymaid. What in heaven’s name would make a laundrymaid get out of her bed in the middle of the night and creep down to her mistress’s bedroom and stab her to death? Unless the girl is raving mad. Is she raving mad, Monk? Don’t say you couldn’t recognize a lunatic if you saw one.”
“No, she is not raving mad; she is extremely jealous,” Monk answered him.
“Jealous? Of her mistress? That’s ludicrous. How can a laundrymaid compare herself with her mistress? That needs some explaining, Monk. You are reaching for straws.”
“The laundrymaid is in love with the footman—not a particularly difficult circumstance to understand,” Monk said with elaborate, hard-edged patience. “The footman has airs above his station and imagines the mistress admired him—which may or may not be true. Certainly he had allowed the laundrymaid to suppose so.”
