The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  “But nothing happened to make you think it would end in murder?”

  “Good God, no! No, nothing at all. It was just…” He stopped, his face bleak, lost for any words adequate to explain his feelings.

  “Thank you, Mr. Furnival.” Monk could think of nothing further to ask at this point. He thanked Louisa also and took his leave, going out into the patchy sunshine of Albany Street with his mind crowded with thoughts and impressions: Louisa’s arrogant walk and her confident, inviting face with an element of coldness in it in repose; Valentine’s hidden pain; and Maxim’s innocence.

  Next Monk visited Alexandra Carlyon’s younger daughter, Sabella. The elder daughter lived in Bath, and was no part of this tragedy, except as it deprived her of her father, and almost certainly in due course of the law, of her mother also. But Sabella might well be at the heart of it, either the true motive for Alexandra’s crime or even the murderer herself.

  The Poles’ house was on George Street, only a short walk away, the other side of the Hampstead Road, and it took him ten minutes on foot to reach the step. When the door opened he explained to the parlormaid that he was engaged to do all he could to assist Mrs. Carlyon, and he would be obliged if he might speak to Mr. or Mrs. Pole to that end.

  He was shown into the morning room, a small, chilly place even in the bright, gusty winds of May with a sudden rain squall battering against the heavily curtained windows. And to be fair, they were very newly in mourning for Sabella’s father.

  It was not Sabella who came, but Fenton Pole, a pleasant, unremarkable young man with strawberry fair hair and an earnest face, regular features and china-blue eyes. He was fashionably dressed in a shawl-collared waistcoat, very white shirt and somber suit. He closed the door behind him and regarded Monk with misgiving.

  “I am sorry to disturb you in a time of such family grief,” Monk began straightaway. “But the matter of helping Mrs. Carlyon cannot wait.”

  Fenton Pole’s frown became deeper and he moved towards Monk with a candid expression, as if he would confide something, then stopped a few feet away.

  “I cannot think what anyone can do to help her,” he said anxiously. “Least of all my wife or I. We were present that evening, but anything I saw or heard only adds to her troubles. I think, Mr. Monk, that the least damage we can do would be to say as little as possible and let the end be as mercifully rapid as may be.” He looked down at his shoes, then up at Monk with a frown. “My wife is not well, and I refuse to add anymore to her distress. She has lost both father and mother, in the most dreadful circumstances. I am sure you appreciate that?”

  “I do, Mr. Pole,” Monk conceded. “It would be hard to imagine anything worse than what appears to have happened. But so far it is only an appearance. We owe it to her, as well as ourselves, to see if there are other explanations, or mitigating circumstances. I am sure your wife, in love for her mother, would wish that too.”

  “My wife is not well …” Pole repeated rather sharply.

  “I regret it profoundly,” Monk interrupted. “But events will make no allowance for individual illness or grief.” Then before Pole could protest again, “But perhaps if you would tell me what you recall of the evening, I will have to disturb your wife very little—only to see if she can add anything you do not know.”

  “I don’t see that it can help.” Pole’s jaw hardened and there was a stubborn light in his blue eyes.

  “Neither do I, until I hear what you have to say.” Monk was beginning to grow irritated, and he concealed it with difficulty. He did not suffer foolishness, prejudice or complacency with any grace, and this man was exhibiting at least two of these faults. “But it is my profession to learn such things, and I have been employed by Mrs. Carlyon’s barrister to discover what I can.”

  Pole regarded him without answering.

  Deliberately Monk sat down on one of the higher chairs as if he intended to be there for some time.

  “The dinner party, Mr. Pole,” he insisted. “I understand your wife quarreled with her father almost as soon as she arrived at the Furnivals’ house. Do you know what was the cause of that difference?”

  Pole looked discomfited. “I cannot see what that has to do with the general’s death, but since you ask, I don’t know what the cause was. I imagine it was some old misunderstanding and nothing new or of any importance.”

  Monk looked at him with disbelief as civil as he could make it.

  “Surely something was said? It is impossible to have a quarrel without mentioning what it is about, at least nominally, even if what is spoken of is not the real cause.”

  Pole’s blond eyebrows rose. He pushed his hands even deeper into his pockets and turned away irritably. “If that is what you want. I thought from what you were saying that you wished to know the real cause—although it can hardly matter now.”

  Monk felt his anger rising. His muscles were tight and his voice was harsh when he replied.

  “What did they say to each other, Mr. Pole?”

  Pole sat down and crossed his legs. He looked at Monk coldly.

  “The general made some observation about the army in India, and Sabella said she had heard there was a very tense situation there. The general told her it was nothing. In fact he was rather dismissive of her opinions, and it angered her. She felt he was being condescending and told him so. Sabella imagines that she knows something about India—and I am afraid that perhaps I have indulged her. At that point Maxim Furnival intervened and tried to turn the subject to something else, not entirely successfully. It was not anything remarkable, Mr. Monk. And it certainly had no bearing upon Mrs. Carlyon’s quarrel with him.”

  “What was that about?”

  “I have no idea!” he snapped. “I simply assume there was one, because she could not possibly have killed him unless there was a most violent difference between them. But none of us were aware of anything of the sort, or naturally we should have done something to prevent it.” He looked annoyed, as if he could not believe Monk was so stupid intentionally.

  Before Monk could reply the door opened and a lovely but disheveled young woman stood facing them, her fair hair over her shoulders, her gown wrapped around by a shawl. She held it with one slender, pale hand grasped close to her throat. She stared at Monk, disregarding Pole.

  “Who are you? Polly said you are trying to help Mama. How can you do that?”

  Monk rose to his feet. “William Monk, Mrs. Pole. I am employed by your mother’s barrister, Mr. Rathbone, to see if I can learn something to mitigate her case.”

  She stared at him in silence. Her eyes were very wide and fixed, and there was a hectic color in her cheeks.

  Pole had risen when she came in, and now he turned to her gently. “Sabella, my dear, there is no cause to let this concern you. I think you should go back and lie down …”

  She pushed him away angrily and came towards Monk. Pole put his hand on her arm and she snatched it away from him.

  “Mr. Monk, is it possible you can do something to help my mother? You said ‘mitigation.’ Does that mean the law might take into account what manner of man he was? How he bullied us, forced us to his will regardless of our own desires?”

  “Sabella …” Pole said urgently. He glared at Monk. “Really, Mr. Monk, this is all irrelevant and I—”

  “It is not irrelevant!” Sabella said angrily, cutting across him. “Will you be good enough to answer me, Mr. Monk?”

  He heard the rising hysteria in her voice and it was quite obvious she was on the edge of losing control altogether. It was hardly remarkable. Her family had been shattered by the most appalling double tragedy. She had effectively lost both her parents in a scandal which would ruin their reputations and tear her family life apart and expose it to public ignominy. What could he say to her that would not either make it worse or be totally meaningless? He forced his dislike of Pole out of his mind.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Pole,” he said very gently. “I hope so. I believe she must have had some
reason to do such a thing—if indeed it was she who did it. I need to learn what the reason was: it may be grounds for some sort of defense.”

  “For God’s sake, man!” Pole exploded furiously, his face tight with rage. “Have you no sense of decency at all? My wife is ill—can you not see that? I am sorry, but Mrs. Carlyon’s defense, if indeed there can be any, lies with her solicitors, not with us. You must do what you can and not involve my wife. Now I must ask you to leave, without causing any more distress than you already have.” He stood, holding his position rather than moving towards Monk, but his threat was plain. He was a very angry man, and Monk thought he was also frightened, although his fear might well be for his wife’s mental state and nothing more. Indeed she did look on the border of complete collapse.

  Monk no longer had authority to insist, as he had when a policeman. He had no choice but to leave, and do it with as much dignity as possible. Being asked to leave was galling enough, being thrown out would be a total humiliation, which he would not endure. He turned from Pole to Sabella, but before he could collect his own excuses, she spoke.

  “I have the deepest affection for my mother, Mr. Monk, and regardless of what my husband says, if there is anything at all I can do …” She stood rigidly, her body shaking, very deliberately ignoring Pole. “I shall do it! You may feel free to call upon me at any time. I shall instruct the servants that you are to be allowed in, and I am to be told.”

  “Sabella!” Pole was exasperated. “I forbid it! You really have no idea what you are saying—”

  Before he could finish she swung around on him in fury, her face spotted with color, her eyes brilliant, lips twisted.

  “How dare you forbid me to help my mother! You are just like Papa—arrogant, tyrannical, telling me what I may and may not do, regardless of my feelings or what I know to be right.” Her voice was getting higher and more and more shrill. “I will not be dictated to—I—”

  “Sabella! Keep your voice down!” he said furiously. “Remember who you are—and to whom you speak. I am your husband, and you owe me your obedience, not to mention your loyalty.”

  “Owe you?” She was shouting now. “I do not owe you anything! I married you because my father commanded me and I had no choice.”

  “You are hysterical!” Pole’s face was scarlet with fury and embarrassment. “Go to your room! That is an order, Sabella, and I will not be defied!” He waved his arm towards the door. “Your father’s death has unhinged you, which is understandable, but I will not have you behave like this in front of a—a—” He was lost for words to describe Monk.

  As if she had just remembered his presence, Sabella looked back at Monk, and at last realized the enormity of her behavior. Her color paled and with shuddering breath she turned and went out of the room without speaking again, leaving the door swinging.

  Pole looked at Monk with blazing eyes, as if it were Monk’s fault he had witnessed the scene.

  “As you can see, Mr. Monk,” he said stiffly, “my wife is in a very distressed state. It will be perfectly clear to you that nothing she says can be of any use to Mrs. Carlyon, or to anyone else.” His face was hard, closed to all entreaty. “I must ask you not to call again. In spite of what she says, you will not be permitted in. I regret I cannot help, but it must be plain to anyone that we are in no state to do so. Good day to you. The maid will show you to the door.” And so saying he turned around on his heel and went out, leaving Monk alone.

  There was nothing to do but leave also, his mind filled with images and doubts. Surely Sabella Pole was passionate enough, and lightly balanced enough as Edith Sobell had apparently believed, to have pushed her father downstairs and then lifted that halberd and speared him to death. And she certainly seemed to have no idea at all of propriety, or what her station required of her, or perhaps even of sanity.

  Monk met Hester Latterly, by arrangement, the following day. It was not that he entirely wanted to—his emotions were very mixed—but she was an excellent ally. She had acute observation, an understanding of women he would never achieve simply because he was a man. Also she was born of a different social class, and so would perceive and interpret nuances he might easily misunderstand. And of course in this instance she knew Edith Sobell, and had access to the Carlyon family, which might be invaluable if the case proved worth fighting and there was any weapon to use.

  He had first met her in the Grey case nearly a year ago. She had been staying at Shelburne Court, the Grey country seat, and he had bumped into her when out walking on the estate. She had been conceited, opinionated, extremely bossy, far too outspoken, and as far as he was concerned, in no way attractive. She had proved to be resourceful, courageous, determined, and her candid tongue had at times been a blessing. She had bullied him out of defeat with her rudeness and her blind refusal to accept despair.

  In fact there had been moments when he had felt a kind of friendship for her more totally honest than he had for anyone else, even John Evan. She saw him without any deluding mists of admiration, self-interest or fear for her own position, and there was something extraordinarily sweet and comfortable about a friend who knows you and accepts you at your worst, your most bitter, or defeated, who sees your emotional ugliness naked and is not afraid to call it by name, and yet does not turn from you or allow you to cease to struggle, who wills your survival as precious.

  Therefore he went out in the early afternoon to meet Hester just outside Major Tiplady’s apartment in Great Titchfield Street, and walk with her down to Oxford Street, where they could find an agreeable place to take tea or hot chocolate. Perhaps her company would even be pleasant.

  He had barely arrived at Tiplady’s house when she came down the steps, head high, back stiff as if she were on parade. It reminded him sharply of the first occasion on which they had met; she had a very individual way of carrying herself. It both jarred on him for its assurance and sense of purpose, not a feminine characteristic at all, rather more like a soldier; and also was oddly comforting because of its familiarity. It evoked most sharply the way she alone had been willing to fight the Grey case and had not recoiled from him in horror or disappointment when his part in it all had looked not only hopeless but inexcusable.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Monk,” she said rather stiffly. She made no concession to ordinary civilities and the small trifles that most people indulged in as a preamble to more serious conversation. “Have you begun on the Carlyon case? I imagine it is not easy. I admit, from what Edith Sobell says, there can be little chance of a happy outcome. Still, to send the wrong person to the gallows would be even worse—as, I presume, we are agreed?” She shot him a sharp, very candid glance.

  There was no need to make any comment; memory was a blade pointed between them, full of pain, but there was no blame in it, only shared emotion.

  “I haven’t seen Mrs. Carlyon herself yet.” He set a smart pace and she kept up with him without difficulty. “I shall do that tomorrow; Rathbone has arranged it for me in the morning. Do you know her?”

  “No—I know only the general’s family, and that very slightly.”

  “What is your opinion?”

  “That is a very large question.” She hesitated, uncertain what her considered judgment was.

  He looked at her with unconcealed scorn.

  “You have become uncharacteristically genteel, Miss Latterly. You were never backwards in expressing your opinions of people in the past.” He smiled wryly. “But of course that was when your opinion was unasked for. The fact that I am interested seems to have frozen your tongue.”

  “I thought you wanted a considered opinion,” she retorted brusquely. “Not something merely given on the spur of the moment and without reflection.”

  “Assuming your opinions in the past have been on the spur of the moment, perhaps a considered opinion would be better,” he agreed with a tight smile.

  They came to the curb, hesitated while a carriage went past, harness gleaming, horses stepping high, then crossed Margaret
Street into Market Place. Oxford Street was clearly visible ahead of them, crowded with traffic, all manner of vehicles of fashion, business, leisure and trade, pedestrians, idlers and street sellers of every sort.

  “Mrs. Randolf Carlyon seems to be the most powerful member of the family,” Hester answered when they reached the farther pavement. “A very forceful person, I should judge, ten years younger than her husband, and perhaps in better health—”

  “It is unlike you to be so diplomatic,” he interrupted. “Do you mean the old man is senile?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  He glanced at her with surprise. “It is unlike you not to say what you mean. You used to err on the side of being far too frank. Have you suddenly become tactful, Hester? Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I am not tactful,” she snapped back. “I am trying to be accurate—which is not at all the same thing.” She lengthened her stride a fraction. “I am not sure whether he is senile or not. I have not seen him at sufficient length to judge. It is my opinion so far that he is definitely losing his vitality but that she was always the stronger personality of the two.”

  “Bravo,” he said with slightly sarcastic approval. “And Mrs. Sobell, who seems to think her sister-in-law innocent? Is she a rose-gathering optimist? It seems, in the face of a confession, about the only sort of person who could still imagine there is anything to be done for Mrs. Carlyon, apart from pray for her soul.”