The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  There was nothing Hester could say to help, and she was wise enough not to try. Words of ease would only belittle his pain. Instead she set about trying to make him more physically comfortable, and spent the next several hours doing so. She fetched clean linen and remade the bed while he sat wrapped up and huddled in the dressing chair. Then she brought up hot water in the great ewer and filled the basin and helped him wash so that he felt fresh. She also brought from the laundry a clean nightshirt, and when he was back in bed again she returned to the kitchen, prepared and brought him up a light meal. After which he was quite ready to sleep for over three hours.

  He woke considerably restored, and so obliged to her she was embarrassed. After all, Sir Basil was paying her for her skill, and this was the first time she had exercised the latter in the manner in which he intended.

  The following day Septimus was so much better she was able to attend to him in the early morning, then seek Beatrice’s permission to leave Queen Anne Street for the entire afternoon, as long as she returned in sufficient time to prepare Septimus for the night and give him some slight medication to see he rested.

  In a gray wind laden with sleet, and with ice on the footpaths, she walked to Harley Street and took a cab, requesting the driver take her to the War Office. There she paid him and alighted with all the aplomb of one who knows precisely where she is going, and that she will be admitted with pleasure, which was not at all the case. She intended to learn all she could about Captain Harry Haslett, without any clear idea of where it might lead, but he was the only member of the family about whom she had known almost nothing until yesterday. Septimus’s account had brought him so sharply to life, and made him so likable and of such deep and abiding importance to Octavia, that Hester understood why two years after his death she still grieved with the same sharp and unendurable loneliness. Hester wished to know of his career.

  Suddenly Octavia had become more than just the victim of the crime, a face Hester had never seen and therefore for whom she felt no sense of personality. Since listening to Septimus, Octavia’s emotions had become real, her feelings those Hester might so easily have had herself, had she loved and been loved by any of the young officers she had known.

  She climbed the steps of the War Office and addressed the man at the door with all the courtesy and charm she could muster, plus, of course, the due deference from a woman to a man of the military, and just a touch of her own authority, which was the least difficult, since it came to her quite naturally.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she began with an inclination of her head and a smile of friendly openness. “I wonder if I might be permitted to speak with Major Geoffrey Tallis? If you would give him my name I believe he will know it. I was one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses”—she was not above using that magic name if it would help—“and I had occasion to tend Major Tallis in Scutari when he was injured. It concerns the death of a widow of a former officer of distinction, and there is a matter to which Major Tallis may be able to assist—with information that would considerably ease the family’s distress. Would you be good enough to have that message conveyed to him?”

  It was apparently the right mixture of supplication, good reasoning, feminine appeal, and the authority of a nurse which draws from most well-bred men an automatic obedience.

  “I will certainly have that message delivered to him, ma’am,” he agreed, standing a trifle straighter. “What name shall I give?”

  “Hester Latterly,” she answered. “I regret seeking him at such short notice, but I am still nursing a gentleman late of active service, and he is not well enough that I should leave him for above a few hours.” That was a very elastic version of the truth, but not quite a downright lie.

  “Of course.” His respect increased. He wrote down the name “Hester Latterly” and added a note as to her occupation and the urgency of her call, summoned an orderly and dispatched him with the message to Major Tallis.

  Hester was quite happy to wait in silence, but the doorman seemed disposed to converse, so she answered his questions on the battles she had witnessed and found they had both been present at the battle of Inkermann. They were deep in reminiscences when the orderly returned to say Major Tallis would receive Miss Latterly in ten minutes, if she would care to wait upon him in his office.

  She accepted with a trifle more haste than she had meant to; it was a definite subtraction from the dignity she had tried to establish, but she thanked the doorman for his courtesy. Then she walked very uprightly behind the orderly inside the entrance hall, up the wide staircase and into the endless corridors until she was shown into a waiting room with several chairs, and left.

  It was rather more than ten minutes before Major Tallis opened the inner door. A dapper lieutenant walked out past Hester, apparently without seeing her, and she was shown in.

  Geoffrey Tallis was a handsome man in his late thirties, an ex-cavalry officer who had been given an administrative post after a serious injury, from which he still walked with a limp. But without Hester’s care he might well have lost his leg altogether and been unable to continue a career of any sort. His face lit with pleasure when he saw her, and he held out his hand in welcome.

  She gave him hers and he grasped it hard.

  “My dear Miss Latterly, what a remarkable pleasure to see you again, and in so much more agreeable circumstances. I hope you are well, and that things prosper with you?”

  She was quite honest, not for any purpose but because the words were spoken before she thought otherwise.

  “I am very well, thank you, and things prosper only moderately. My parents died, and I am obliged to make my way, but I have the means, so I am fortunate. But I admit it is hard to adjust to England again, and to peace, where everyone’s preoccupations are so different—” She left the wealth of implication unsaid: the withdrawing room manners, the stiff skirts, the emphasis on social position and manners. She could see that he read it all in her face, and his own experiences had been sufficiently alike for more explanation to be redundant.

  “Oh indeed.” He sighed, letting go of her hand. “Please be seated and tell me what I may do to be of help to you.”

  She knew enough not to waste his tune. The preliminaries had already been dealt with.

  “What can you tell me of Captain Harry Haslett, who was killed at Balaclava? I ask because his widow has recently met a most tragic death. I am acquainted with her mother; indeed I have been nursing her through her time of bereavement, and am presently nursing her uncle, a retired officer.” If he asked her Septimus’s name she would affect not to know the circumstances of his “retirement.”

  Major Tallis’s face clouded over immediately.

  “An excellent officer, and one of the nicest men I ever knew. He was a fine commander of men. It came to him naturally because he had courage and a sense of justice that men admired. There was humor in him, and some love of adventure, but not bravado. He never took unnecessary chances.” He smiled with great sadness. “I think more than most men, he wanted to live. He had a great love for his wife—in fact the army was not the career he would have chosen; he entered it only to earn himself the means to support his wife in the manner he wished and to make some peace with his father-in-law, Sir Basil Moidore—who paid for his commission as a wedding gift, I believe, and watched over his career with keen interest. What an ironic tragedy.”

  “Ironic?” she said quickly.

  His face creased with pain and his voice lowered instinctively, but his words were perfectly clear.

  “It was Sir Basil who arranged his promotion, and thus his transfer from the regiment in which he was to Lord Cardigan’s Light Brigade, and of course they led the charge at Balaclava. If he had remained a lieutenant as he was, he would very probably be alive today.”

  “What happened?” An awful possibility was opening up in front of her, so ugly she could not bear to look at it, nor yet could she look away. “Do you know of whom Sir Basil asked his favor? A great deal of honor depend
s upon it,” she pressed with all the gravity she could. “And, I am beginning to think, the truth of Octavia Haslett’s death. Please, Major Tallis, tell me about Captain Haslett’s promotion?”

  He hesitated only a moment longer. The debt he owed her, their common memories, and his admiration and grief over Haslett’s death prevailed.

  “Sir Basil is a man of great power and influence, perhaps you are not aware quite how much. He has far more wealth than he displays, although that is considerable, but he also had obligations owed him, debts both of assistance and of finance from the past, and I think a great deal of knowledge—” He left the uses of that unspoken. “He would not find it difficult to accomplish the transfer of an officer from one regiment to another in order to achieve his promotion, if he wished it. A letter—sufficient money to purchase the new commission—”

  “But how would Sir Basil know whom to approach in the new regiment?” she pressed, the idea taking firmer shape in her mind all the time.

  “Oh—because he is quite well acquainted with Lord Cardigan, who would naturally be aware of all the possible vacancies in command.”

  “And of the nature of the regiment,” she added.

  “Of course.” He looked puzzled.

  “And their likely dispositions?”

  “Lord Cardigan would—naturally. But Sir Basil hardly—”

  “You mean Sir Basil was unaware of the course of the campaign and the personalities of the commanders?” She allowed the heavy doubt through her expression for him to see.

  “Well—” He frowned, beginning to glimpse what he also found too ugly to contemplate. “Of course I am not privy to his communication with Lord Cardigan. Letters to and from the Crimea take a considerable time; even on the fastest packet boats it would not be less than ten or fourteen days. Things can change greatly in that time. Battles can be won or lost and a great deal of ground altered between opposing forces.”

  “But regiments do not change their natures, Major.” She forced him to realism. “A competent commander knows which regiments he would choose to lead a charge, the more desperate the charge the more certain would he be to pick exactly the right man—and the right captain, who had courage, flair, and the absolute loyalty of his men. He would also choose someone tried in the field, yet uninjured so far, and not weary from defeat, or failure, or so scarred in spirit as to be uncertain of his mettle.”

  He stared at her without speaking.

  “In fact once raised to captain, Harry Haslett would be ideal, would he not?”

  “He would,” he said almost under his breath.

  “And Sir Basil saw to his promotion and his change of posting to Lord Cardigan’s Light Brigade. Do you suppose any of the correspondence on the subject is still extant?”

  “Why, Miss Latterly? What is it you are seeking?”

  To lie to him would be contemptible—and also alienate his sympathies.

  “The truth about Octavia Haslett’s death,” she answered.

  He sighed heavily. “Was she not murdered by some servant or other? I seem to recollect seeing it in the newspapers. The man was just hanged, was he not?”

  “Yes,” she agreed with a heavy weariness of failure inside her. “But the day she died she learned something which shook her so deeply she told her uncle it was the most dreadful truth, and she wanted only one more piece of evidence to prove it. I am beginning to believe that it may have concerned the death of her husband. She was thinking of it the day of her own death. We had previously assumed that what she discovered concerned her family still living, but perhaps it did not. Major Tallis, would it be possible to learn if she came here that day—if she saw someone?”

  Now he looked very troubled.

  “What day was it?”

  She told him.

  He pulled a bell rope and a young officer appeared and snapped to attention.

  “Payton, will you convey my compliments to Colonel Sidgewick and ask him if at any time around the end of November last year the widow of Captain Harry Haslett called upon his office. It is a matter of considerable importance, concerning both honor and life, and I would be most obliged if he would give me an answer of exactness as soon as may be possible. This lady, who is one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses, is waiting upon the answer.”

  “Sir!” The junior snapped to attention once again, turned on his heel and departed.

  While he was gone Major Tallis apologized for requiring Hester to spend her time in the waiting room, but he had other business obligations which he must discharge. She understood and assured him it was precisely what she expected and was perfectly content. She would write letters and otherwise occupy herself.

  It was not long, a matter of fifteen or twenty minutes, before the door opened and the lieutenant returned. As soon as he left, Major Tallis called Hester in. His face was white, his eyes full of anxiety and fearful pity.

  “You were perfectly correct,” he said very quietly. “Octavia Haslett was here on the afternoon of her death, and she spoke with Colonel Sidgewick. She learned from him exactly what you learned from me, and from her words and expression on hearing, it appears she drew the same conclusions. I am most profoundly grieved, and I feel guilty—I am not sure for what. Perhaps that the whole matter occurred, and no one did anything to prevent it. Truly, Miss Latterly, I am deeply sorry.”

  “Thank you—thank you, Major Tallis.” She forced a sickly smile, her mind whirling. “I am most grateful to you.”

  “What are you going to do?” he said urgently.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure what I can do. I shall consult with the police officer on the case; I think that would be wisest.”

  “Please do, Miss Latterly—please be most careful. I—”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “I have learned much in confidence. Your name will not be mentioned, I give you my word. Now I must go. Thank you again.” And without waiting for him to add anything further, she turned and left, almost running down the long corridor and making three wrong turnings before she finally came to the exit.

  She found Monk at some inconvenience, and was obliged to wait at his lodgings until after dark, when he returned home. He was startled to see her.

  “Hester! What has happened? You look fearful.”

  “Thank you,” she said acidly, but she was too full of her news to carry even an irritation for more than an instant. “I have just been to the War Office—at least I was this afternoon. I have been waiting here for you interminably—”

  “The War Office.” He took off his wet hat and overcoat, the rain falling from them in a little puddle on the floor. “From your expression I assume you learned something of interest?”

  Only hesitating to draw breath when it was strictly necessary, she told him everything she had learned from Septimus, then all that had been said from the instant of entering Major Tallis’s office.

  “If that was where Octavia had been on the afternoon of her death,” she said urgently, “if she learned what I did today, then she must have gone back to Queen Anne Street believing that her father had deliberately contrived her husband’s promotion and transfer from what was a fine middle-order regiment to Lord Cardigan’s Light Brigade, where he would be honor- and duty-bound to lead a charge in which casualties would be murderous.” She refused to visualize it, but it crowded close at the back of her mind. “Cardigan’s reputation is well known. Many would be bound to die in the first onslaught itself, but even of those who survived it, many would be so seriously wounded the field surgeons could do little to help them. They’d be transferred piled one upon another in open carts to the hospital in Scutari, and there they’d face a long convalescence where gangrene, typhus, cholera and other fevers killed even more than the sword or the cannon had.”

  He did not interrupt her.

  “Once he was promoted,” she went on, his chances of glory, which he did not want, were very slight; his chances of death, quick or slow, were appallingly high.

  “If Octavia
did learn this, no wonder she went home ashen-faced and did not speak at dinner. Previously she thought it fate and the chances of war which bereaved her of the husband she loved so deeply and left her a dependent widow in her father’s house, without escape.” She shivered. “Trapped even more surely than before.”

  Monk agreed tacitly, allowing her to go on uninterrupted.

  “Now she discovered it was not a blind misfortune which had taken everything from her.” She leaned forward. But a deliberate betrayal, and she was imprisoned with her betrayer, day after day, for as far as she could see into a gray future.

  “Then what did she do? Perhaps when everyone else was asleep, she went to her father’s study and searched his desk for letters, the communication which would prove beyond doubt the terrible truth.” She stopped.

  “Yes,” he said very slowly. “Yes—then what? Basil purchased Harry’s commission, and then when he proved a fine officer, prevailed upon his friends and purchased him a higher commission in a gallant and reckless regiment. In whose eyes would that be more than a very understandable piece of favor seeking?”

  “No one’s,” she answered bitterly. “He would protest innocence. How could he know Harry Haslett would lead in the charge and fall?”

  “Exactly,” he said quickly. “These are the fortunes of war. If you marry a soldier, it is the chance you take—all women do. He would say he grieved for her, but she was wickedly ungrateful to charge him with culpability in it all. Perhaps she had taken a little too much wine with dinner—a fault which she was apt to indulge rather often lately. I can imagine Basil’s face as he said it, and his expression of distaste.”

  “She looked at Monk urgently.” That would be useless. Octavia knew her father and was the only one who had ever had the courage to defy him—and reap his revenge.