A Dangerous Mourning

by Anne Perry

  “Oh—just before you leave, Mrs. Sandeman.” O’Hare looked up as if he had almost forgotten. “You said Percival was greedy. In what way?”

  “Money, of course,” she replied softly, her eyes bright and spiteful. “He liked fine things he could not afford on a footman’s wages.”

  “How do you know this, ma’am?”

  “He was a braggart,” she said clearly. “He told me once how he got—little—extras.”

  “Indeed? And how was that?” O’Hare asked as innocently as if the reply might have been honorable and worthy of anyone.

  “He knew things about people,” she replied with a small, vicious smile. “Small things, trivial to most of us, just little vanities, but ones people would rather their fellows did not know about.”

  She shrugged delicately. “The parlormaid Dinah boasts about her family—actually she is a foundling and has no one at all. Her airs annoyed Percival, and he let her know he knew. The senior laundrymaid, Lizzie, is a bossy creature, very superior, but she had an affair once. He knew about that too, maybe from Rose, I don’t know. Small things like that. The cook’s brother is a drunkard; the kitchen maid has a sister who is a cretin.”

  O’Hare hid his distaste only partially, but whether it was entirely for Percival or included Fenella for betraying such small domestic tragedies it was impossible to tell.

  “A most unpleasant man,” he said aloud. “And how did he know all these things, Mrs. Sandeman?”

  Fenella seemed unaware of the chill in him.

  “I imagine he steamed open letters,” she said with a shrug. “It was one of his duties to bring in the post.”

  “I see.”

  He thanked her again, and Oliver Rathbone rose to his feet and walked forward with almost feline grace.

  “Mrs. Sandeman, your memory is much to be commended, and we owe a great deal to your accuracy and sensitivity.”

  She gazed at him with sharpened interest. There was an element in him which was more elusive, more challenging and more powerful than O’Hare, and she responded immediately.

  “You are most kind.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Sandeman.” He waved his hand. “I assure you I am not. Did this amorous, greedy and conceited footman ever admire other ladies in the house? Mrs. Cyprian Moidore, for instance? Or Mrs. Kellard?”

  “I have no idea.” She was surprised.

  “Or yourself, perhaps?”

  “Well—” She lowered her eyelashes modestly.

  “Please, Mrs. Sandeman,” he urged. “This is not a time for self-effacement.”

  “Yes, he did step beyond the bounds of what is—merely courteous.”

  Several members of the jury looked expectant. One middle-aged man with side whiskers was obviously embarrassed.

  “He expressed an amorous regard for you?” Rathbone pressed.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do about it, ma’am?”

  Her eyes flew open and she glared at him. “I put him in his place, Mr. Rathbone. I am perfectly competent to deal with a servant who has got above himself.”

  Beside Hester, Beatrice stiffened in her seat.

  “I am sure you are.” Rathbone’s voice was laden with meaning. “And at no danger to yourself. You did not find it necessary to go to bed carrying a carving knife?”

  She paled visibly, and her mittened hands tightened on the rail of the box in front of her.

  “Don’t be absurd. Of course I didn’t!”

  “And yet you never felt constrained to counsel your niece in this very necessary art?”

  “I—er—” Now she was acutely uncomfortable.

  “You were aware that Percival was entertaining amorous intentions towards her.” Rathbone moved very slightly, a graceful stride as he might use in a withdrawing room. He spoke softly, the sting in his incredulous contempt. “And you allowed her to be so alone in her fear that she resorted to taking a knife from the kitchen and carrying it to bed to defend herself, in case Percival should enter her room at night.”

  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 sometime
s 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 this 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

  “I AM 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.”