by Anne Perry
Runcorn frowned. “Then it was the laundrymaid? Can’t you arrest her?”
“For what?”
Runcorn glared at him. “All right, who are your other suspects? You said four or five. So far you have only mentioned two.”
“Myles Kellard, the other daughter’s husband—”
“What for?” Runcorn was worried now. “You haven’t made any accusations, have you?” The blood was pink in his narrow cheeks. “This is a very delicate situation. We can’t go around charging people like Sir Basil Moidore and his family. For God’s sake, where’s your judgment?”
Monk looked at him with contempt.
“That is exactly why I am not charging anyone, sir,” he said coldly. “Myles Kellard apparently was strongly attracted by his sister-in-law, which his wife knew about—”
“That’s no reason for him to kill her,” Runcorn protested. “If he’d killed his wife, maybe. For heaven’s sake, think clearly, Monk!”
Monk refrained from telling him about Martha Rivett until he should find the girl, if he could, and hear her side of the story and make some judgment himself as to whom he could believe.
“If he forced his attentions on her,” Monk said with continued patience, “and she defended herself, then there may have been a struggle, in which she was knifed—”
“With a carving knife?” Runcorn’s eyebrows went up. “Which she just conveniently chanced to have in her bedroom?”
“I don’t imagine it was chance,” Monk bit back savagely. “If she had reason to think he was coming she probably took it there on purpose.”
Runcorn grunted.
“Or it may have been Mrs. Kellard,” Monk continued. “She would have good reason to hate her sister.”
“Something of an immoral woman, this Mrs. Haslett.” Runcorn’s lips curled in distaste. “First the footman, now her sister’s husband.”
“There is no proof she encouraged the footman,” Monk said crossly. “And she certainly did not encourage Kellard. Unless you think it’s immoral to be beautiful, I don’t see bow you can find fault with her for either case.”
“You always did have some strange ideas of right.” Runcorn was disgusted—and confused. The ugly headlines in the newspapers threatened public opinion. The letters from the Home Office lay stiff and white on his desk, polite but cold, warning that it would be little appreciated if he did not find a way to end this case soon, and satisfactorily.
“Well don’t stand there,” he said to Monk. “Get about finding out which of your suspects is guilty. For heaven’s sake, you’ve only got five; you know it has to be one of them. It’s a matter of exclusion. You can stop thinking about Mrs. Kellard, to begin with. She might have a quarrel, but I doubt she’d knife her sister in the night. That’s cold-blooded. She couldn’t expect to get away with it.”
“She couldn’t know about Chinese Paddy in the street,” Monk pointed out.
“What? Oh—well, neither could the footman. I’d look for a man in this—or the laundrymaid, I suppose. Either way, get on with it. Don’t stand here in front of my fire talking.”
“You sent for me.”
“Yes—well now I’m sending you out again. Close the door as you go—it’s cold in the passage.”
Monk spent the next two and a half days searching the workhouses, riding in endless cabs through narrow streets, pavements gleaming in the lamplight and the rain, amid the rattle of carts and the noise of street cries, carriage wheels, and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles. He began to the east of Queen Anne Street with the Clerkenwell Workhouse in Farringdon Road, then Holborn Workhouse on the Grey’s Inn Road. The second day he moved westward and tried the St. George’s Workhouse on Mount Street, then the St. Marylebone Workhouse on Northumberland Street. On the third morning he came to the Westminster Workhouse on Poland Street, and he was beginning to get discouraged. The atmosphere depressed him more than any other place he knew. There was some deeply ingrained fear that touched him at the very name, and when he saw the flat, drab sides of the building rearing up he felt its misery enter into him, and a coldness that had nothing to do with the sharp November wind that whined along the street and rattled an old newspaper in the gutter.
He knocked at the door, and when it was opened by a thin man with lank dark hair and a lugubrious expression, he stated immediately who he was and his profession, so there should be no mistaking his purpose in being here. He would not allow them even for an instant to suppose he was seeking shelter, or the poor relief such places were built and maintained to give.
“You’d better come in. I’ll ask if the master’ll see yer,” the man said without interest. “But if yer want ’elp, yer’d best not lie,” he added as an afterthought.
Monk was about to snap at him that he did not, when he caught sight of one of the “outdoor poor” who did, who were reduced by circumstance to seeking charity to survive from one of these grim institutions which robbed them of decision, dignity, individuality, even of dress or personal appearance; which fed them bread and potatoes, separated families, men from women, children from parents, housed them in dormitories, clothed them in uniforms and worked them from dawn until dusk. A man had to be reduced to despair before he begged to be admitted to such a place. But who would willingly let his wife or his children perish?
Monk found the hot denial sticking in his throat. It would humiliate the man further, to no purpose. He contented himself with thanking the doorkeeper and following him obediently.
The workhouse master took nearly a quarter of an hour to come to the small room overlooking the labor yard where rows of men sat on the ground with hammers, chisels and piles of rocks.
He was a pallid man, his gray hair clipped close to his head, his eyes stardingly dark and ringed around with hollow circles as if he never slept.
“What’s wrong, Inspector?” he said wearily. “Surely you don’t think we harbor criminals here? He’d have to be desperate indeed to seek this asylum—and a very unsuccessful scoundrel.”
“I’m looking for a woman who may have been the victim of rape,” Monk replied, a dark, savage edge to his voice. “I want to hear her side of the story.”
“You new to the job?” the workhouse master said doubtfully, looking him up and down, seeing the maturity in his face, the smooth lines and powerful nose, the confidence and the anger. “No.” He answered his own question. “Then what good do you imagine that will do? You’re not going to try and prosecute on the word of a pauper, are you?”
“No—it’s just corroborative evidence.”
“What?”
“Just to confirm what we already know—or suspect.”
“What’s her name?”
“Martha Rivett. Probably came about two years ago—with child. I daresay the child would be born about seven months later, if she didn’t lose it.”
“Martha Rivett—Martha Rivett. Would she be a tall girl with fairish hair, about nineteen or twenty?”
“Seventeen—and I’m afraid I don’t know what she looked like—except she was a parlormaid, so I expect she was handsome, and possibly tall.”
“We’ve got a Martha about that age, with a baby. Can’t remember her other name, but I’ll send for her. You can ask her,” the master offered.
“Couldn’t you take me to her?” Monk suggested. “Don’t want to make her feel—” He stopped, uncertain what word to choose.
The workhouse master smiled wryly. “More likely she’ll feel like talking away from the other women. But whatever you like.”
Monk was happy to concede. He had no desire to see more of the workhouse than he had to. Already the smell of the place—overboiled cabbage, dust and blocked drains—was clinging in his nose, and the misery choked him.
“Yes—thank you. I don’t doubt you’re right.”
The workhouse master disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with a thin girl with stooped shoulders and a pale, waxen face. Her brown hair was thick but dull, and her wide blue eyes had no
life in them. It was not hard to imagine that two years ago she might have been beautiful, but now she was apathetic and she stared at Monk with neither intelligence nor interest, her arms folded under the bib of her uniform apron, her gray stuff dress ill fitting and harsh.
“Yes sir?” she said obediently.
“Martha.” Monk spoke very gently. The pity he felt was like a pain in his stomach, churning and sick. “Martha, did you work for Sir Basil Moidore about two years ago?”
“I didn’t take anything.” There was no protest in her voice, simply a statement of fact.
“No, I know you didn’t,” he said quickly. “What I want to know is did Mr. Kellard pay you any attention that was more than you wished?” What a mealymouthed way of expressing himself, but he was afraid of being misunderstood, of having her think he was accusing her of lying, troublemaking, raking up old and useless accusations no one would believe, and perhaps being further punished for slander. He watched her face closely, but he saw no deep emotion in it, only a flicker, too slight for him to know what it meant. “Did he, Martha?”
She was undecided, staring at him mutely. Misfortune and workhouse life had robbed her of any will to fight.
“Martha,” he said very softly. “He may have forced himself on someone else, not a maid this time, but a lady. I need to know if you were willing or not—and I need to know if it was him or if it was really someone else?”
She looked at him silently, but this time there was a spark in her eyes, a little life.
He waited.
“Does she say that?” she said at last. “Does she say she weren’t willing?”
“She doesn’t say anything—she’s dead.”
Her eyes grew huge with horror—and dawning realization, as memory became sharp and focused again.
“He killed her?”
“I don’t know,” he said frankly. “Was he rough with you?” She nodded, the memory of pain sharp in her face and fear rekindling as she thought of it again. “Yes.”
“Did you tell anyone that?”
“What’s the point? They didn’t even believe me I was unwilling. They said I was loose-tongued, a troublemaker and no better than I should be. They dismissed me without a character. I couldn’t get another position. No one would take me on with no character. An’ I was with child—” Her eyes hazed over with tears, and suddenly there was life there again, passion and tenderness.
“Your child?” he asked, although he was afraid to know. He felt himself cringe inside as if waiting for the blow.
“She’s here, with the other babes,” she said quietly. “I get to see her now and again, but she’s not strong. How could she be, born and raised here?”
Monk determined to speak to Callandra Daviot. Surely she could use another servant for something? Martha Rivett was one among tens of thousands, but even one saved from this was better than nothing.
“He was violent with you?” he repeated. “And you made it quite plain you didn’t want his attentions?”
“He didn’t believe me—he didn’t think any woman meant it when she said no,” she replied with a faint, twisted smile. “Even Miss Araminta. He said she liked to be took—but I don’t believe that. I was there when she married him—an’ she really loved him then. You should have seen her face, all shining and soft. Then after her wedding night she changed. She looked like a sparkling fire the night before, all dressed in cherry pink and bright as you like. The morning after she looked like cold ashes in the grate. I never saw that softness back in her as long as I was there.”
“I see,” Monk said very quietly. “Thank you, Martha. You have been a great help to me. I shall try to be as much help to you. Don’t give up hope.”
A fraction of her old dignity returned, but there was no life in her smile.
“There’s nothing to hope for, sir. Nobody’d marry me. I never see anyone except people that haven’t a farthing of their own, or they’d not be here. And nobody looks for servants in a workhouse, and I wouldn’t leave Emmie anyway. And even if she doesn’t live, no one takes on a maid without a character, and my looks have gone too.”
“They’ll come back. Just please—don’t give up,” he urged her.
“Thank you, sir, but you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes I do.”
She smiled patiently at his ignorance and took her leave, going back to the labor yard to scrub and mend.
Monk thanked the workhouse master and left also, not to the police station to tell Runcorn he had a better suspect than Percival. That could wait. First he would go to Callandra Daviot.
8
MONK’S SENSE OF ELATION was short-lived. When he returned to Queen Anne Street the next day he was greeted in the kitchen by Mrs. Boden, looking grim and anxious, her face very pink and her hair poking in wild angles out of her white cap.
“Good morning, Mr. Monk. I am glad you’ve come!”
“What is it, Mrs. Boden?” His heart sank, although he could think of nothing specific he feared. “What has happened?”
“One of my big kitchen carving knives is missing, Mr. Monk.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I could have sworn I had it last time we had a roast o’ beef, but Sal says she thinks as it was the other one I used, the old one, an’ now I reckon she must be right.” She poked her hair back under her cap and wiped her face agitatedly. “No one else can remember, and May gets sick at the thought. I admit it fair turns my stomach when I think it could’ve been the one that stabbed poor Miss Octavia.”
Monk was cautious. “When did this thought come to you, Mrs. Boden?” he asked guardedly.
“Yesterday, in the evening.” She sniffed. “Miss Araminta sent down for a little thin-cut beef for Sir Basil. He’d come in late and wanted a bite to eat.” Her voice was rising and there was a note of hysteria in it. “I went to get my best knife, an’ it weren’t there. That’s when I started to look for it, thinking as it had been misplaced. And it in’t here—not anywhere.”
“And you haven’t seen it since Mrs. Haslett’s death?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Monk!” Her hands jerked up in the air. “I thought I ’ad, but Sal and May tell me as they ’aven’t, and when I last cut beef I did it with the old one. I was so upset I can’t recall what I did, and that’s the truth.”
“Then I suppose we’d better see if we can find it,” Monk agreed. “I’ll get Sergeant Evan to organize a search. Who else knows about this?”
Her face was blank; she understood no implication.
“Who else, Mrs. Boden?” he repeated calmly.
“Well I don’t know, Mr. Monk. I don’t know who I might have asked. I looked for it, naturally, and asked everyone if they’d seen it.”
“Who do you mean by ‘everyone,’ Mrs. Boden? Who else apart from the kitchen staff?”
“Well—I’m sure I can’t think.” She was beginning to panic because she could see the urgency in him and she did not understand. “Dinah. I asked Dinah because sometimes things get moved through to the pantry. And I may have mentioned it to ’Arold. Why? They don’t know where it is, or they’d ’ave said.”
“Someone wouldn’t have,” he pointed out.
It was several seconds before she grasped what he meant, then her hand flew to her mouth and she let out a stifled shriek.
“I had better inform Sir Basil.” That was a euphemism for asking Sir Basil’s permission for the search. Without a warrant he could not proceed, and it would probably cost him his job if he were to try against Sir Basil’s wishes. He left Mrs, Boden in the kitchen sitting in the chair and May running for smelling salts—and almost certainly a strong nip of brandy.
He was surprised to find himself shown to the library and left barely five minutes before Basil came in looking tense, his face creased, his eyes very dark.
“What is it, Monk? Have you learned anything at last? My God, it is past time you did!”
“The cook reports one of her kitchen carving knives missing, sir. I would like
your permission to search the house for it.”
“Well of course search for it!” Basil said. “Do you expect me to look for it for you?”
“It was necessary to have your permission, Sir Basil,” Monk said between his teeth. “I cannot go through your belongings without a warrant, unless you permit me to.”
“My belongings.” He was startled, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“Is not everything in the house yours, sir, apart from what is Mr. Cyprian’s, or Mr. Kellard’s—and perhaps Mr. Thirsk’s?”
Basil smiled bleakly, merely a slight movement of the corner of the lips. “Mrs. Sandeman’s personal belongings are her own, but otherwise, yes, they are mine. Of course you have my permission to search anywhere you please. You will need assistance, no doubt. You may send one of my grooms in the small carriage to fetch whomever you wish—your sergeant.…” He shrugged, but his shoulders under the black barathea of his coat were tense. “Constables?”
“Thank you,” Monk acknowledged. “That is most considerate. I shall do that immediately.”
“Perhaps you should wait for them at the head of the male servants’ staircase?” Basil raised his voice a little. “If whoever has the knife gets word of this they may be tempted to move it before you can begin your task. From there you can see the far end of the passage where the female servants’ staircase emerges.” He was explaining himself more than usual. It was the first real crack in his composure that Monk had seen. “That is the best position I can offer. I imagine there is little point in having any one of the servants stand guard—they must all be suspect.” He watched Monk’s face.
“Thank you,” Monk said again. “That is most perceptive of you. May I also have one of the upstairs maids stay on the main landing? They would observe anyone coming or going on other than an ordinary duty—which they would be used to. Perhaps the laundrymaids and other domestic staff could remain downstairs until this is over—and the footmen of course?”
