The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  The jury was patently disturbed, and their expressions betrayed it.

  “I had no idea he would do such a thing,” she protested. “You are trying to say I deliberately allowed it to happen. That is monstrous!” She looked at O’Hare for help.

  “No, Mrs. Sandeman,” Rathbone corrected. “I am questioning how it is that a lady of your experience and sensitive observation and judgment of character should see that a footman was amorously drawn towards your niece, and that she had behaved foolishly in not making her distaste quite plain to him, and yet you did not take matters into your own hands sufficiently at least to speak to some other member of the household.”

  She stared at him with horror.

  “Her mother, for example,” he continued. “Or her sister, or even to warn Percival yourself that his behavior was observed. Any of those actions would almost certainly have prevented this tragedy. Or you might simply have taken Mrs. Haslett to one side and counseled her, as an older and wiser woman who had had to rebuff many inappropriate advances yourself, and offered her your assistance.”

  Fenella was flustered now.

  “Of course—if I had r-realized—” she stammered. “But I didn’t. I had no idea it—it would—”

  “Hadn’t you?” Rathbone challenged.

  “No.” Her voice was becoming shrill. “Your suggestion is appalling. I had not the slightest notion!”

  Beatrice let out a little groan of disgust.

  “But surely, Mrs. Sandeman,” Rathbone resumed, turning and walking back to his place, “if Percival had made amorous advances to you—and you had seen all his offensive behavior towards Mrs. Haslett, you must have realized how it would end? You are not without experience in the world.”

  “I did not, Mr. Rathbone,” Fenella protested. “What you are saying is that I deliberately allowed Octavia to be raped and murdered. That is scandalous, and totally untrue.”

  “I believe you, Mrs. Sandeman.” Rathbone smiled suddenly, without a vestige of humor.

  “I should think so!” Her voice shook a little. “You owe me an apology, sir.”

  “It would make perfect sense that you should not have any idea,” he went on. “If this observation of yours did not in fact cover any of these things you relate to us. Percival was extremely ambitious and of an arrogant nature, but he made no advances towards you, Mrs. Sandeman. You are—forgive me, ma’am—of an age to be his mother!”

  Fenella blanched with fury, and the crowd drew in an audible gasp. Someone tittered. A juryman covered his face with his handkerchief and appeared to be blowing his nose.

  Rathbone’s face was almost expressionless.

  “And you did not witness all these distasteful and impertinent scenes with Mrs. Haslett either, or you would have reported them to Sir Basil without hesitation, for the protection of his daughter, as any decent woman would.”

  “Well—I—I …” She stumbled into silence, white-faced, wretched, and Rathbone returned to his seat. There was no need to humiliate her further or add explanation for her vanity or her foolishness, or the unnecessarily vicious exposure of the small secrets of the servants’ hall. It was an acutely embarrassing scene, but it was the first doubt cast on the evidence against Percival.

  The next day the courtroom was even more tightly packed, and Araminta took the witness stand. She was no vain woman displaying herself, as Fenella had been. She was soberly dressed and her composure was perfect. She said that she had never cared for Percival, but it was her father’s house, and therefore not hers to question his choice of servants. She had hitherto considered her judgments of Percival to be colored by her personal distaste. Now of course she knew differently, and deeply regretted her silence.

  When pressed by O’Hare she disclosed, with what appeared to be great difficulty, that her sister had not shared her distaste for the footman, and had been unwise in her laxity towards servants in general. This, she found it painful to admit, was sometimes due to the fact that since the death of her husband, Captain Haslett, in the recent conflict in the Crimea, her sister had on a large number of occasions taken rather more wine than was wise, and her judgment had been correspondingly disturbed, her manners a good deal easier than was becoming, or as it now transpired, well advised.

  Rathbone asked if her sister had confided in her a fear of Percival, or of anyone else. Araminta said she had not, or she would naturally have taken steps to protect her.

  Rathbone asked her if, as sisters, they were close. Araminta regretted deeply that since the death of Captain Haslett, Octavia had changed, and they were no longer as affectionate as they had been. Rathbone could find no flaw in her account, no single word or attitude to attack. Prudently he left it alone.

  Myles added little to what was already in evidence. He substantiated that indeed Octavia had changed since her widowhood. Her behavior was unfortunate; she had frequently, it pained him to admit, been emotional and lacking in judgment as a result of rather too much wine. No doubt it was on such occasions she had failed to deal adequately with Percival’s advances, and then in a soberer moment realized what she had done, but had been too ashamed to seek help, instead resorted to taking a carving knife to bed with her. It was all very tragic and they were deeply grieved.

  Rathbone could not shake him, and was too aware of public sympathy to attempt it.

  Sir Basil himself was the last witness O’Hare called. He took the stand with immense gravity, and there was a rustle of sympathy and respect right around the room. Even the jury sat up a little straighter, and one pushed back as if to present himself more respectfully.

  Basil spoke with candor of his dead daughter, her bereavement when her husband had been killed, how it had unbalanced her emotions and caused her to seek solace in wine. He found it deeply shaming to have to admit to it—there was a ripple of profound sympathy for him. Many had lost someone themselves in the carnage at Balaclava, Inkermann, the Alma, or from hunger and cold in the heights above Sebastopol, or dead of disease in the fearful hospital at Scutari. They understood grief in all its manifestations, and his frank admission of it formed a bond between them. They admired his dignity and his openness. The warmth of it could be felt even from where Hester was sitting. She was aware of Beatrice beside her, but through the veil her face was all but invisible, her emotions concealed.

  O’Hare was brilliant. Hester’s heart sank.

  At last it was Rathbone’s turn to begin what defense he could.

  He started with the housekeeper, Mrs. Willis. He was courteous to her, drawing from her her credentials for her senior position, the fact that she not only ran the household upstairs but was responsible for the female staff, apart from those in the kitchen itself. Their moral welfare was her concern.

  Were they permitted to have amorous dalliances?

  She bristled at the very suggestion. They most certainly were not. Nor would she allow to be employed any girl who entertained such ideas. Any girl of loose behavior would be dismissed on the spot—and without a character. It was not necessary to remind anyone what would happen to such a person.

  And if a girl were found to be with child?

  Instant dismissal, of course. What else was there?

  Of course. And Mrs. Willis took her duties in the regard most earnestly?

  Naturally. She was a Christian woman.

  Had any of the girls ever come to her to say, in however roundabout a manner, that any of the male staff, Percival or anyone else, had made improper advances to them?

  No they had not. Percival fancied himself, to be true, and he was as vain as a peacock; she had seen his clothes and boots, and wondered where he got the money.

  Rathbone returned her to the subject: had anyone complained of Percival?

  No, it was all a lot of lip, nothing more; and most maids were quite able to deal with that for what it was worth—which was nothing at all.

  O’Hare did not try to shake her. He simply pointed out that since Octavia Haslett was not part of her charge, all thi
s was of peripheral importance.

  Rathbone rose again to say that much of the character evidence as to Percival’s behavior rested on the assessment of his treatment of the maids.

  The judge observed that the jury would make up their own minds.

  Rathbone called Cyprian, not asking him anything about either his sister or Percival. Instead he established that his bedroom in the house was next door to Octavia’s, then he asked him if he had heard any sound or disturbance on the night she was killed.

  “No—none at all, or I should have gone to see if she were all right,” Cyprian said with some surprise.

  “Are you an extremely heavy sleeper?” Rathbone asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you indulge in much wine that evening?”

  “No—very little.” Cyprian frowned. “I don’t see the point in your question, sir. My sister was undoubtedly killed in the room next to me. That I did not hear the struggle seems to me to be irrelevant. Percival is much stronger than she …” He looked very pale and had some difficulty in keeping his voice under control. “I presume he overpowered her quickly—”

  “And she did not cry out?” Rathbone looked surprised.

  “Apparently not.”

  “But Mr. O’Hare would have us believe she took a carving knife to bed with her to ward off these unwelcome attentions of the footman,” Rathbone said reasonably. “And yet when he came into her room she rose out of her bed. She was not found lying in it but on it, across from a normal position in which to sleep—we have Mr. Monk’s evidence for that. She rose, put on her peignoir, pulled out the carving knife from wherever she had put it, then there was a struggle in which she attempted to defend herself—”

  He shook his head and moved a little, shrugging his shoulders. “Surely she must have warned him first? She would not simply run at him with dagger drawn. He struggled and wrested the knife from her”—he held up his hands—“and in the battle that ensued, he stabbed her to death. And yet in all this neither of them uttered a cry of any sort! This whole tableau was conducted in total silence? Do you not find that hard to believe, Mr. Moidore?”

  The jury fidgeted, and Beatrice drew in her breath sharply.

  “Yes!” Cyprian admitted with dawning surprise. “Yes, I do. It does seem most unnatural. I cannot see why she did not simply scream.”

  “Nor I, Mr. Moidore,” Rathbone agreed. “It would surely have been a far more effective defense; and less dangerous, and more natural to a woman than a carving knife.”

  O’Hare rose to his feet.

  “Nevertheless, Mr. Moidore, gentlemen of the jury, the fact remains that she did have the carving knife—and she was stabbed to death with it. We may never know what bizarre, whispered conversation took place that night. But we do know-beyond doubt that Octavia Haslett was stabbed to death—and the bloodstained knife, and her robe gashed and dark with her blood, were found in Percival’s room. Do we need to know every word and gesture to come to a conclusion?”

  There was a rustle in the crowd. The jury nodded. Beside Hester, Beatrice let out a low moan.

  Septimus was called, and recounted to them how he had met Octavia returning home on the day of her death, and how she had told him that she had discovered something startling and dreadful, and that she lacked only one final proof of its truth. But under O’Hare’s insistence he had to admit that no one else had overheard this conversation, nor had he repeated it to anyone. Therefore, O’Hare concluded triumphantly, there was no reason to suppose this discovery, whatever it was, had had anything to do with her death. Septimus was unhappy. He pointed out that simply because he had not told anyone did not mean that Octavia herself had not.

  But it was too late. The jury had already made up its mind, and nothing Rathbone could do in his final summation could sway their conviction. They were gone only a short while, and returned white-faced, eyes set and looking anywhere but at Percival. They gave the verdict of guilty. There were no mitigating circumstances.

  The judge put on his black cap and pronounced sentence. Percival would be taken to the place from whence he came, and in three weeks he would be led out to the execution yard and hanged by the neck until he was dead. May God have mercy upon his soul, there was none other to look for on earth.

  10

  “IAM SORRY,” Rathbone said very gently, looking at Hester with intense concern. “I did everything I could, but the passion was rising too high and there was no other person whom I could suggest with a motive powerful enough.”

  “Maybe Kellard?” she said without hope or conviction. “Even if she was defending herself, it doesn’t have to have been from Percival. In fact it would make more sense if it was Myles, then’ screaming wouldn’t do much good. He would only say she’d cried out and he’d heard her and come to see what was wrong. He would have a far better excuse than Percival for being there. And Percival she could have crushed with a threat of having him dismissed. She could hardly do that with Myles, and she may not have wanted Araminta ever to know about his behavior.”

  “I know that.” He was standing by the mantel in his office and she was only a few feet away from him, the defeat crushing her and making her feel vulnerable and an appalling failure. Perhaps she had misjudged, and Percival was guilty after all? Everyone else, apart from Monk, seemed to believe it. And yet there were things that made so little sense.

  “Hester?”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “My attention was wandering.”

  “I could not raise Myles Kellard as a suspect.”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled very slightly. “My dear, what evidence should I call that he had the least amorous interest in his sister-in-law? Which of his family do you imagine would testify to that? Araminta? She would become the laughingstock of London society, and she knows that. If it were rumored she might be pitied, but if she openly admits she knows of it, she will be despised. From what I have seen of her, she would find them equally intolerable.”

  “I doubt Beatrice would lie,” Hester said, and then knew instantly it was foolish. “Well, he raped the maid Martha Rivett. Percival knew that.”

  “And what?” he finished for her. “The jury will believe Percival? Or I should call Martha herself? Or Sir Basil, who dismissed her?”

  “No, of course not,” she said miserably, turning away. “I don’t know what else we can do. I’m sorry if I seem unreasonable. It is just so—” She stopped and looked across at him. “They’ll hang him, won’t they?”

  “Yes.” He was watching her, his face grave and sad. “There are no mitigating circumstances this time. What can you say in defense of a footman who lusts after his master’s daughter, and when she refuses him, knifes her to death?”

  “Nothing,” she said very quietly. “Nothing at all, except that he is human, and by hanging him we diminish ourselves as well.”

  “My dear Hester.” Slowly and quite deliberately, his lashes lowered but his eyes open, he leaned forward until his lips touched hers, not with passion but with utmost gentleness and long, delicate intimacy.

  When he drew away she felt both more and less alone than she ever had before, and she knew at once from his face that it had caught him in some way by surprise also.

  He drew breath as if to speak, then changed his mind and turned away, going over to the window and standing with his back half towards her.

  “I am truly sorry I could not do better for Percival,” he said again, his voice a little rough and charged with a sincerity she could not doubt. “For him, and because you trusted me.”

  “You have discharged that trust completely,” she said quickly. “I expected you to do all you could—I did not expect a miracle. I can see how passion is rising among the public. Perhaps we never had a chance. It was simply necessary that we try everything within our power. I am sorry I spoke so foolishly. Of course you could not have suggested Myles—or Araminta. It would only have turned the jury even more against Percival; I can see that if I free my mind
from frustration and apply a little intelligence.”

  He smiled at her, his eyes bright. “How very practical.”

  “You are laughing at me,” she said without resentment. “I know it is considered unwomanly, but I see nothing attractive in behaving like a fool when you don’t have to.”

  His smile broadened. “My dear Hester, neither do I. It is extremely tedious. It is more than enough to do so when we cannot help ourselves. What are you going to do now? How will you survive, once Lady Moidore no longer considers herself in need of a nurse?”

  “I shall advertise for someone else who does—until I am able to search for a job in administration somewhere.”

  “I am delighted. From what you say you have not abandoned your hope of reforming English medicine.”

  “Certainly not—although I do not expect to do it in the lifetime your tone suggests. If I initiate anything at all I will be satisfied.”

  “I am sure you will.” His laughter vanished. “A determination like yours will not be thwarted long, even by the Pomeroys of the world.”

  “And I shall find Mr. Monk and go over the whole case again,” she added. “Just so I am sure there is nothing whatever we can still do.”

  “If you find anything, bring it to me.” He was very grave indeed now. “Will you promise me that? We have three weeks in which it might still be possible to appeal.”

  “I will,” she said with a return of the hard, gray misery inside her. The moment’s ineffable warmth was gone, Percival remembered. “I will.” And she bade him good-bye and took her leave to seek Monk.

  Hester returned to Queen Anne Street light-footed, but the leaden feeling was at the edge of her mind waiting to return now that she was forced to think of reality again.

  She was surprised to learn from Mary, as soon as she was in the house, that Beatrice was still confining herself to her room and would take her evening meal upstairs. She had gone into the ironing room for a clean apron, and found Mary there folding the last of her own linen.