by Anne Perry
“But what defiance was left her? She had no allies. Cyprian was content to remain a prisoner in Queen Anne Street. To an extent he had a hostage to fortune in Romola, who obeyed her own instinct for survival, which would never include disobeying Basil. Fenella was uninterested in anyone but herself, Araminta seemed to be on her father’s side in apparently everything. Myles Kellard was an additional problem, hardly a solution. And he too would never override Basil’s wishes; certainly he would not do it for someone else!”
“Lady Moidore?” he prompted.
“She seemed driven, or else had retreated, to the periphery of things. She fought for Octavia’s marriage in the first place, but after that it seems her resources were spent. Septimus might have fought for her, but he had no weapons.”
“And Harry was dead.” He took up the thread. “Leaving a void in her life nothing else could begin to heal. She must have felt an overwhelming despair, grief, betrayal and a sense of being trapped that were almost beyond endurance, and she was without a weapon to fight back.”
“Almost?” she demanded. “Almost beyond endurance? Tired, stunned, confused and alone—what is ‘almost’ about it? And she did have a weapon, whether she intended it as such or not. Perhaps the thought had never entered her mind, but scandal would hurt Basil more than anything else—the fearful scandal of a suicide.” Her voice became harsh with the tragedy and the irony of it. His daughter, living in his home, under his care, so wretched, so comfortless, so un-Christian as to take her own life, not peacefully with laudanum, not even over the rejection of a lover, and it was too late to be the shock of Harry’s death, but deliberately and bloodily in her own bedroom. Or perhaps even in his study with the betraying letter in her hand.
“She would be buried in unhallowed ground, with other sinners beyond forgiveness. Can you imagine what people would say? The shame of it, the looks, the whispers, the sudden silences. The invitations that would no longer come, the people one calls upon who would be unaccountably not at home, in spite of the fact that their carriages were in the mews and all the lights blazing. And where there had been admiration and envy, now there would be contempt—and worst of all, derision.”
His face was very grave, the dark tragedy of it utterly apparent.
“If it had not been Annie who had found her, but someone else,” he said, one of the family, it would have been an easy thing to remove the knife, put her on the bed, tear her nightgown to make it seem as if there had been some struggle, however brief, then break the creeper outside the window and take a few ornaments and jewels. Then it would seem murder, appalling, grieving, but not shameful. There would be acute sympathy, no ostracism, no blame. It could happen to anyone.
“Then I seemed about to ruin it all by proving that no one had broken into the house, so a murderer must be found among the residents.”
“So that is the crime—not the stabbing of Octavia, but the slow, judicial murder of Percival. How hideous, how immeasurably worse,” she said slowly. “But how can we possibly prove it? They will go undiscovered and unpunished. They will get away with it! Whoever it is—”
“What a nightmare. But who? I still don’t know. The scandal would harm them all. It could have been Cyprian and Romola, or even Cyprian alone. He is a big man, quite strong enough to carry Octavia from the study, if that was where it happened, up to her room and lay her on the bed. He would not even run much risk of disturbing anyone, since his room was next to hers.”
It was a startlingly distressing thought. Cyprian’s face with its imagination and capacity for humor and pain came sharply to her mind. It would be like him to want to conceal his sister’s act, to save her name and see that she might be grieved for, and buried in holy ground.
But Percival had been hanged for it.
“Was Cyprian so weak he would have permitted that, knowing Percival could not be guilty?” she said aloud. She wished profoundly she could dismiss that as impossible, but Cyprian yielding to Romola’s emotional pressure was too clear in her mind, as was the momentary desperation she had seen in his face when she had watched him unobserved. And he of all of them seemed to grieve most deeply for Octavia, with the most wounding pity.
“Septimus?” Monk asked.
It was the kind of reckless, compassionate act Septimus might perform.
“No,” she denied vehemently. “No—he would never permit Percival to hang.”
“Myles would.” Monk was looking at her with intense emotion now, his face bleak and strained. “He would have done it to save the family name. His own status is tied inextricably with the Moidores’— in fact it is totally dependent on it. Araminta might have helped him—and might not.”
A sharp memory returned to Hester of Araminta in the library, and of the charged emotion between her and Myles. Surely she knew he had not killed Octavia—and yet she was prepared to let Monk think he had, and watch Myles sweat with fear. That was a very peculiar kind of hatred—and power. Was it fueled by the horror of her own wedding night and its violence, or by his rape of the maid Martha—or by the fact that they were conspirators in concealing the manner of Octavia’s death, and then of allowing Percival to hang for it?
“Or Basil himself?” she suggested.
“Or even Basil for reputation—and Lady Moidore for love?” he said. “In fact Fenella is the only one for whom I can find no reason and no means.” His face was white, and there was a look of such grief and guilt in his eyes she felt the most intense admiration for his inner honesty, and a warmth towards the pity he was capable of but so rarely showed.
“Of course it is all only speculation,” she said much more gently. “I know of no proof for any of it. Even if we had learned this before Percival was ever charged, I cannot even imagine how we might prove it. That is why I have come to you—and of course I wished to share the knowledge with you.”
There was a look of profound concentration on his face. She waited, hearing the sounds of Mrs. Worley working in the kitchen and the rattle of hansoms and a dray cart passing in the street outside.
“If she killed herself,” he said at last, “then someone removed the knife at the time they discovered her body, and presumably replaced it in the kitchen—or possibly kept it, but that seems unlikely. It does not seem, so far as we can see, the act of someone in panic. If they put the knife back … no.” His face screwed up in impatience. “They certainly did not put the peignoir back. They must have hidden them both in some place we did not search. And yet we found no trace of anyone having left the house between the time of her death and the time the police constable and the doctor were called.” He stared at her, as if seeking her thoughts, and yet he continued to speak. “In a house with as many staff as that, and maids up at five, it would be difficult to leave unseen—and to be sure of being unseen.”
“But surely there were places in the family’s rooms you did not search?” she said.
“I imagine so.” His face was dark with the ugliness of it. “God! How brutal! They must have kept the knife and the peignoir, stained with her blood, just in case they were needed—to incriminate some poor devil.” He shuddered involuntarily, and she felt a sudden coldness in the room that had nothing to do with the meager fire or the steady sleet outside, now turning to snow.
“Perhaps if we could find the hiding place,” she said tentatively, “we might know who it was who used it?”
He laughed, a jerky, painful sound.
“The person who put it in Percival’s room behind the drawers in his dresser? I don’t think we can assume that the hiding place incriminates them.”
She felt foolish.
“Of course not,” she admitted quietly. “Then what can we look for?”
He sank into silence again for a long time, and she waited, racking her brains.
“I don’t know,” he said at last, with obvious difficulty. “Blood in the study might be indicative—Percival would not have killed her there. The whole premise is that he forced his way into her bedroom and she
fought him off and was killed in the process—”
She stood up, suddenly full of energy now that there was something to do.
“I will look for it. It won’t be difficult—”
“Be careful,” he said so sharply that it was almost a bark. “Hester!”
She opened her mouth to be dismissive, full of the excitement of at last having some idea to pursue.
“Hester!” He caught her by the shoulder, his hands hard.
She winced and would have pulled away had she the strength.
“Hester—listen to me!” he said urgently. “This man—or woman—has done far more than conceal a suicide. They have committed a slow and very deliberate murder.” His face was tight with distress. “Have you ever seen a man hanged? I have. And I watched Percival struggle as the net tightened around him for the weeks before—and then I visited him in Newgate. It is a terrible way to die.”
She felt a little sick, but she did not retreat.
“They will have no pity for you,” he went on relentlessly, “if you threaten them in even the slightest way. In fact I think now that you know this, it would be better if you were to send in your notice. Tell them by letter that you have had an accident and cannot return. No one is needing a nurse; a ladies’ maid could perfectly well perform all that Lady Moidore wants.”
“I will not.” She stood almost chest to chest with him and glared. “I am going back to Queen Anne Street to see if I can discover what really happened to Octavia—and possibly who did it and caused Percival to be hanged.” She realized the enormity of what she was saying, but she had left herself no retreat.
“Hester.”
“What?”
He took a deep breath and let her go. “Then I will remain in the street nearby, and shall look to see you at least every hour at a window that gives to the street. If I don’t, I shall call Evan at the police station and have him enter the place—”
“You can’t!” she protested.
“I can!”
“On what pretext, for heaven’s sake?”
He smiled with bitter humor. “That you are wanted in connection with a domestic theft. I can always release you afterwards—with unblemished character—a case of mistaken identity.”
She was more relieved than she would show.
“I am obliged to you.” She tried to say it stiffly, but her emotion showed through, and for a moment they stared at each other with that perfect understanding that occasionally flashed between them. Then she excused herself, picked up her coat again and allowed him to help her into it, and took her leave.
She entered the Queen Anne Street house discreetly and avoided all but the most essential conversation, going upstairs to check that Septimus was still recovering well. He was pleased to see her and greeted her with interest. She found it hard not to tell him anything of her discoveries or conclusions, and she made excuses to escape and go to Beatrice as soon as she could without hurting his feelings.
After she had brought up her dinner she asked permission to retire early, saying she had letters to write, and Beatrice was content to acquiesce.
She slept very restlessly, and it was no difficulty to rise at a little after two in the morning and creep downstairs with a candle. She dared not turn up the gas. It would glare like the sun and be too far away for her to reach to turn it down should she hear anyone else about. She slipped down the female servants’ staircase to the landing, then down the main staircase to the hall and into Sir Basil’s study. With an unsteady hand she knelt down, candle close to the floor, and searched the red-and-blue Turkey carpet to find an irregularity in the pattern that might mark a bloodstain.
It took her about ten minutes, and it seemed like half the night, before she heard the clock in the hall chime and it nearly startled her into dropping the candle. As it was she spilled hot wax and had to pick it off the wool with her fingernail.
It was then she realized the irregularity was not simply the nature of the carpet maker but an ugliness, an asymmetry nowhere else balanced, and on bending closer she saw how large it was, now nearly washed out, but still quite discernible. It was behind the large oak desk, where one might naturally stand to open any of the small side drawers, only three of which had locks.
She rose slowly to her feet. Her eye went straight to the second drawer, where she could see faint scoring marks around the keyhole, as if someone had forced it open with a crude tool and a replacement lock and repolishing of the bruised wood could not completely hide it.
There was no way in which she could open it; she had neither skill nor instrument—and more than that, she did not wish to alarm the one person who would most notice a further damage to the desk. But she could easily guess what Octavia had found—a letter, or more than one, from Lord Cardigan, and perhaps even the colonel of the regiment, which had confirmed beyond doubt what she already had learned from the War Office.
Hester stood motionless, staring at the desk with its neatly laid-out dish of sand for blotting ink on a letter, sticks of scarlet wax and tapers for seals, stand of carved sardonyx and red jasper for ink and quills, and a long, exquisite paper knife in imitation of the legendary sword of King Arthur, embedded in its magical stone. It was a beautiful thing, at least ten inches long and with an engraved hilt. The stone itself which formed its stand was a single piece of yellow agate, the largest she had ever seen.
She stood, imagining Octavia in exactly the same spot, her mind whirling with misery, loneliness and the ultimate defeat. She must have stared at that beautiful thing as well.
Slowly Hester reached out her hand and took it. If she had been Octavia she would not have gone to the kitchen for Mrs. Boden’s carving knife; she would have used this lovely thing. She took it out slowly, feeling its balance and the sharpness of its tip. It was many seconds in the silent house, the snow falling past the uncurtained window, before she noticed the faint dark line around the joint between the blade and the hilt. She moved it to within a few inches of the candle’s flame. It was brown, not the gray darkness of tarnish or inlaid dirt, but the rich, reddish brown of dried blood.
No wonder Mrs. Boden had not missed her knife until just before she told Monk of it. It had probably been there in its rack all the time; she simply confused herself with what she assumed to be the facts.
But there had been blood on the knife they found. Whose blood, if this slender paper knife was what had killed Octavia?
Not whose. It was a kitchen knife—a good cook’s kitchen would have plenty of blood available from time to time. One roast, one fish to be gutted, or a chicken. Who could tell the difference between one sort of blood and another?
And if it was not Octavia’s blood on the knife, was it hers on the peignoir?
Then a sudden shaft of memory caught her with a shock like cold water. Had not Beatrice said something about Octavia having torn her peignoir, the lace, and not being skilled at such fine needlework, she had accepted Beatrice’s offer to mend it for her? Which would mean she had not even been wearing it when she died. But no one knew that except Beatrice—and out of sensitivity to her grief, no one had shown her the blood-soaked garment. Araminta had identified it as being the one Octavia had worn to her room that night—and so it was—at least as far as the upstairs landing. Then she had gone to say good-night to her mother and left the garment there.
Rose too could be mistaken, for the same reason. She would only know it was Octavia’s, not when she had worn it.
Or would she? She would at least know when it was last laundered. It was her duty to wash and iron such things—and to mend them should it be necessary. How had she overlooked mending the lace? A laundrymaid should do better.
She would have to ask her about it in the morning.
Suddenly she was returned to the present—and the realization that she was standing in her nightgown in Sir Basil’s study, in exactly the same spot where Octavia in her despair must have killed herself—holding the same blade in her hand. If anyone found her here she
would have not a shred of an excuse—and if it was whoever found Octavia, they would see immediately that she also knew.
The candle was low and the bowl filling with melted wax. She replaced the knife, setting it exactly as it had been, then picked up the candle and went as quickly as she could to the door and opened it almost soundlessly. The hallway was in darkness; she could make out only the dimmest luminescence from the window that faced onto the front of the house, and the falling snow.
Silently she tiptoed across the hall, the tiles cold on her bare feet, and up the stairs, seeing only a tiny pool of light around herself, barely enough to place her feet without tripping. At the top she crossed the landing and with difficulty found the bottom of the female servants’ stairway.
At last in her own room she snuffed out the candle and climbed into her cold bed. She was chilled and shaking, the perspiration wet on her body and her stomach sick.
In the morning it took all the self-control she possessed to see first to Beatrice’s comfort, and her breakfast, and then to Septimus, and to leave him without seeming hasty or neglectful in her duty. It was nearly ten o’clock before she was able to make her way to the laundry and find Rose.
“Rose,” she began quietly, not to catch Lizzie’s attention. She would certainly want to know what was going on, to supervise if it was any kind of work, and to prevent it until a more suitable time if it was not.
“What do you want?” Rose looked pale; her skin had lost its porcelain clarity and bloom and her eyes were very dark, almost hollow. She had taken Percival’s death hard. There was some part of her still intrigued by him, and perhaps she was haunted by her own evidence and the part she had played before the arrest, the petty malice and small straw of direction that might have led Monk to him.
“Rose,” Hester spoke again, urgently, to draw Rose’s attention away from the apron of Dinah’s she was smoothing with the flatiron. “It is about Miss Octavia—”
“What about her?” Rose was uninterested, and her hand moved back and forth with the iron, her eyes bent on her work.
