by Anne Perry
Lady Callandra’s proposition (in case you do not know!) is that I should become a private investigating detective, which she will finance, and promote as she can. In return for which I will work, and share such profits as there may be—? And all she requires of me is that I keep her informed as to my cases, what I learn, and something of the process of detection. I hope she finds it as interesting as she expects!
I shall accept—I see no better alternative. I have done all I can to explain to her the unlikelihood of there being much financial return. Police are not paid on results, and private agents would be—or at least if results were not satisfactory a very large proportion of the time, they would cease to find clients. Also the victims of injustice are very often not in a position to pay anything at all. However she insists that she has money beyond her needs, and this will be her form of philanthropy—and she is convinced she will find it both more satisfying than donating her means to museums or galleries or homes for the deserving poor; and more entertaining. I shall do all I can to prove her right.
You write that Lady Moidore is still deeply concerned, and that Fenella is less than honest, but you are not certain yet whether it is anything to do with Octavia’s death. This is interesting, but does not do more than increase our conviction that the case is not yet solved. Please be careful in your pursuit, and above all, remember that if you do appear to be close to discovering anything of significance, the murderer will then turn his, or her, attention towards you.
I am still in touch with Evan and he informs me how the police case is being prepared. They have not bothered to seek anything further. He is as sure as he can be that there is more to learn, but neither of us knows how to go about it. Even Lady Callandra has no ideas on that subject.
Again, please take the utmost care,
I remain, yours sincerely,
William Monk
She closed it with her decision already made. There was nothing else she could hope to learn in Queen Anne Street herself, and Monk was effectively prevented from investigating anything to do with the case. The trial was Percival’s only hope. There was one person who could perhaps give her advice on that—Oliver Rathbone. She could not ask Callandra again; if she had been willing to do such a thing she would have suggested it when they met previously and Hester told her of the situation. Rathbone was for hire. There was no reason why she should not go to his offices and purchase half an hour of his time, which was very probably all she could afford.
First she asked Beatrice for permission to take an afternoon off duty to attend to her family matter, which was granted with no difficulty. Then she wrote a brief letter to Oliver Rathbone explaining that she required legal counsel in a matter of some delicacy and that she had only Tuesday afternoon on which to present herself at his offices, if he would make that available to her. She had previously purchased several postage stamps so she could send the letter, and she asked the bootboy if he would put it in the mailbox for her, which he was pleased to do.
She received her answer the following noon, there being several deliveries of post each day, and tore it open as soon as she had a moment unobserved.
December 20th, 1856
Dear Miss Latterly,
I shall be pleased to receive you at my offices in Vere Street, which is just off Lincoln’s Inn Fields, on the afternoon on Tuesday 23rd of December, at three in the afternoon. I hope at that time to be of assistance to you in whatever matter at present concerns you. Until that time, I remain yours sincerely,
Oliver Rathbone
It was brief and to the point. It would have been absurd to expect more, and yet its very efficiency reminded her that she would be paying for each minute she was there and she must not incur a charge she could not meet. There must be no wasted words, no time for pleasantries or euphemisms.
She had no appealing clothes, no silk and velvet dresses like Araminta’s or Romola’s, no embroidered snoods or bonnets, and no lace gloves such as ladies habitually wore. They were not suitable for those in service, however skilled. Her only dresses, purchased since her family’s financial ruin, were gray or blue, and made on modest and serviceable lines and of stuff fabric. Her bonnet was of a pleasing deep pink, but that was about the best that could be said for it. It also was not new.
Still, Rathbone would not be interested in her appearance; she was going to consult his legal ability, not enjoy a social occasion.
She regarded herself in the mirror without pleasure. She was too thin, and taller than she would have liked. Her hair was thick, but almost straight, and required more time and skill than she possessed to form it into fashionable ringlets. And although her eyes were dark blue-gray, and extremely well set, they had too level and plain a stare, it made people uncomfortable; and her features generally were too bold.
But there was nothing she, or anyone, could do about it, except make the best of a very indifferent job. She could at least endeavor to be charming, and that she would do. Her mother had frequently told her she would never be beautiful, but if she smiled she might make up for a great deal.
It was an overcast day with a hard, driving wind, and most unpleasant.
She took a hansom from Queen Anne Street to Vere Street, and alighted a few minutes before three. At three o’clock precisely she was sitting in the spare, elegant room outside Oliver Rathbone’s office and becoming impatient to get the matter begun.
She was about to stand and make some inquiry when the door opened and Rathbone came out. He was as immaculately dressed as she remembered from last time, and immediately she was conscious of being shabby and unfeminine.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Rathbone.” Her resolve to be charming was already a little thinner. “It is good of you to see me at such short notice.”
“It is a pleasure, Miss Latterly.” He smiled, a very sweet smile, showing excellent teeth, but his eyes were dark and she was aware only of their wit and intelligence. “Please come into my office and be comfortable.” He held the door open for her, and she accepted rapidly, aware that from the moment he had greeted her, no doubt her half hour was ticking away.
The room was not large, but it was furnished very sparsely, in a fashion reminiscent more of William IV than of the present Queen, and the very leanness of it gave an impression of light and space. The colors were cool and the woodwork white. There was a picture on the farthest wall which reminded her of a Joshua Reynolds, a portrait of a gentleman in eighteenth-century dress against a romantic landscape.
All of which was irrelevant; she must address the matter in hand.
She sat down on one of the easy chairs and left him to sit on the other and cross his legs after neatly hitching his trousers so as not to lose their line.
“Mr. Rathbone, I apologize for being so blunt, but to do otherwise would be dishonest. I can afford only half an hour’s worth of your time. Please do not permit me to detain you longer than that.” She saw the spark of humor in his eyes, but his reply was completely sober.
“I shall not, Miss Latterly. You may trust me to attend the clock. You may concentrate your mind on informing me how I may be of assistance to you.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It is concerning the murder in Queen Anne Street. Are you familiar with any of the circumstances?”
“I have read of it in the newspapers. Are you acquainted with the Moidore family?”
“No—at least not socially. Please do not interrupt me, Mr. Rathbone. If I digress, I shall not have sufficient time to tell you what is important.”
“I apologize.” Again there was that flash of amusement.
She suppressed her desire to be irritated and forgot to be charming.
“Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter, Octavia Haslett, was found stabbed in her bedroom.” She had practiced what she intended to say, and now she concentrated earnestly on remembering every word in the exact order she had rehearsed, for clarity and brevity. “At first it was presumed an intruder had disturbed her during the night and murdered her. Then it was p
roved by the police that no one could have entered, either by the front or from the back of the house, therefore she was killed by someone already there—either a servant or one of her own family.”
He nodded and did not speak.
“Lady Moidore was very distressed by the whole affair and became ill. My connection with the family is as her nurse.”
“I thought you were at the infirmary?” His eyes widened and his brows rose in surprise.
“I was,” she said briskly. “I am not now.”
“But you were so enthusiastic about hospital reform.”
“Unfortunately they were not. Please, Mr. Rathbone, do not interrupt me! This is of the utmost importance, or a fearful injustice may be done.”
“The wrong person has been charged,” he said.
“Quite.” She hid her surprise only because there was not time for it. “The footman, Percival, who is not an appealing character—he is vain, ambitious, selfish and something of a lothario—”
“Not appealing,” he agreed, sitting a little farther back in his chair and regarding her steadily.
“The theory of the police,” she continued, “is that he was enamored of Mrs. Haslett, and with or without her encouragement, he went up to her bedroom in the night, tried to force his attentions upon her, and she, being forewarned and having taken a kitchen knife upstairs with her”—she ignored his look of amazement—“against just such an eventuality, attempted to save her virtue, and in the struggle it was she, not he, who was stabbed—fatally.”
He looked at her thoughtfully, his fingertips together. “How do you know all this, Miss Latterly? Or should I say, how do the police deduce it?”
“Because on hearing, some considerable time into the investigation—in fact, several weeks—that the cook believed one of her kitchen knives to be missing,” she explained, “they instituted a second and very thorough search of the house, and in the bedroom of the footman in question, stuffed behind the back of a drawer in his dresser, between the drawer itself and the outer wooden casing, they found the knife, bloodstained, and a silk peignoir belonging to Mrs. Haslett, also blood-stained.”
“Why do you not believe him guilty?” he asked with interest.
Put so bluntly it was hard to be succinct and lucid in reply. “He may be, but I do not believe it has been proved,” she began, now less certain. “There is no real evidence other than the knife and the peignoir, and anyone could have placed them there. Why would he keep such things instead of destroying them? He could very easily have wiped the knife clean and replaced it, and put the peignoir in the range. It would have burned completely.”
“Some gloating in the crime?” Rathbone suggested, but there was no conviction in his voice.
“That would be stupid, and he is not stupid,” she said immediately. “The only reason for keeping them that makes sense is to use them to implicate someone else—”
“Then why did he not do so? Was it not known that the cook had discovered the loss of her knife, which must surely provoke a search?” He shook his head fractionally. “That would be a most unusual kitchen.”
“Of course it was known,” she said. “That is why whoever had them was able to hide them in Percival’s room.”
His brows furrowed and he looked puzzled, his interest more acutely engaged.
“What I find most pertinent,” he said, looking at her over the tops of his fingers, “is why the police did not find these items in the first place. Surely they were not so remiss as not to have searched at the time of the crime—or at least when they deduced it was not an intruder but someone resident?”
“Those things were not in Percival’s room then,” she said eagerly. “They were placed there, without his knowledge, precisely so someone would find them—as they did.”
“Yes, my dear Miss Latterly, that may well be so, but you have not taken my point. One presumes the police searched everywhere in the beginning, not merely the unfortunate Percival’s room. Wherever they were, they should have been found.”
“Oh!” Suddenly she saw what he meant. “You mean they were removed from the house, and then brought back. How unspeakably cold-blooded! They were preserved specifically to implicate someone, should the need arise.”
“It would seem so. But one wonders why they chose that time, and not sooner. Or perhaps the cook was dilatory in noticing that her knife was gone. They may well have acted several days before her attention was drawn to it. It might be of interest to learn how she did observe it, whether it was a remark of someone else’s, and if so, whose.”
“I can endeavor to do that.”
He smiled. “I presume that the servants do not get more than the usual time off, and that they do not leave the house during their hours of duty?”
“No. We—” How odd that word was in connection with servants. It rankled especially in front of Rathbone, but this was no time for self-indulgence. “We have half a day every second week, circumstances permitting.”
“So the servants would have little or no opportunity to remove the knife and the peignoir immediately after the murder, and to fetch it from its hiding place and return it between the time the cook reported her knife missing and the police conducted their search,” he concluded.
“You are right.” It was a victory, small, but of great meaning. Hope soared inside her and she rose to her feet and walked quickly over to the mantel shelf and turned. “You are perfectly right. Runcorn never thought of that. When it is put to him he will have to reconsider—”
“I doubt it,” Rathbone said gravely. “It is an excellent point of logic, but I would be pleasantly surprised if logic is now what is governing the police’s procedure, if, as you say, they have already arrested and charged the wretched Percival. Is your friend Mr. Monk involved in the affair?”
“He was. He resigned rather than arrest Percival on what he believed to be inadequate evidence.”
“Very noble,” Rathbone said sourly. “If impractical.”
“I believe it was temper,” Hester said, then instantly felt a traitor. “Which I cannot afford to criticize. I was dismissed from the infirmary for taking matters into my own hands when I had no authority to do so.”
“Indeed?” His eyebrows shot up and his face was alive with interest. “Please tell me what happened.”
“I cannot afford your time, Mr. Rathbone.” She smiled to soften her words—and because what she was about to say was impertinent. “If you wish to know sufficiently, then you may have half an hour of my time, and I shall tell you with pleasure.”
“I should be delighted,” he accepted. “Must it be here, or may I invite you to dine with me? What is your time worth?” His expression was wry and full of humor. “Perhaps I cannot afford it? Or shall we come to an accommodation? Half an hour of your time for an additional half an hour of mine? That way you may tell me the rest of the tale of Percival and the Moidores, and I shall give you what advice I can, and you shall then tell me the tale of the infirmary.”
It was a singularly appealing offer, not only for Percival’s sake but because she found Rathbone’s company both stimulating and agreeable.
“If it can be within the time Lady Moidore permits me, I should be very pleased,” she accepted, then felt unaccountably shy.
He rose to his feet in one graceful gesture.
“Excellent. We shall adjourn to the coaching house around the corner, where they will serve us at any hour. It will be less reputable than the house of a mutual friend, but since we have none, nor the time to make any, it will have to do. It will not mar your reputation beyond recall.”
“I think I may already have done that in any sense that matters to me,” she replied with a moment of self-mockery. “Dr. Pomeroy will see to it that I do not find employment in any hospital in London. He was very angry indeed.”
“Were you right in your treatment?” he asked, picking up his hat and opening the door for her.
“Yes, it seemed so.”
“Then you are
correct, it was unforgivable.” He led the way out of the offices into the icy street. He walked on the outside of the pavement, guiding her along the street, across the corner, dodging the traffic and the crossing sweeper, and at the far side, into the entrance of a fine coaching inn built in the high day when post coaches were the only way of travel from one city to another, before the coming of the steam railway.
The inside was beautifully appointed, and she would have been interested to take greater notice of pictures, notices, the copper and pewter plates and the post horns, had there been more time. The patrons also caught her attention, well-to-do men of business, rosy faced, well clothed against the winter chill, and most of all in obvious good spirits.
But Rathbone was welcomed by the host the moment they were through the door, and was immediately offered a table advantageously placed in a good corner and advised as to the specialty dishes of the day.
He consulted Hester as to her preference, then ordered, and the host himself set about seeing that only the best was provided. Rathbone accepted it as if it were pleasing, but no more than was his custom. He was gracious in his manner, but kept the appropriate distance between gentleman and innkeeper.
Over the meal, which was neither luncheon nor dinner, but was excellent, she told him the rest of the case in Queen Anne Street, so far as she knew it, including Myles Kellard’s attested rape of Martha Rivett and her subsequent dismissal, and more interestingly, her opinion of Beatrice’s emotions, her fear, which was obviously not removed by Percival’s arrest, and Septimus’s remarks that Octavia had said she heard something the afternoon before her death which was shocking and distressing, but of which she still lacked any proof.
She also told him of John Airdrie, Dr. Pomeroy and the loxa quinine.
By that time she had used an hour and a half of his time and he had used twenty-five minutes of hers, but she forgot to count it until she woke in the night in her room in Queen Anne Street.
“What do you advise me?” she said seriously, leaning a little across the table. “What can be done to prevent Percival being convicted without proper proof?”
