by Anne Perry
He crossed the road opposite the Trinity Church and turned right into Albany Street, running parallel to the park, and set his mind to think as he strode the length of it to the Furnivals’ house. He brushed past other pedestrians without noticing them: ladies flirting, gossiping; gentlemen taking the air, discussing sport or business; servants about errands, dressed in livery; the occasional peddler or newsboy. Carriages bowled past in both directions.
He looked a gentleman, and he had every intention of behaving as if he were one. When he arrived at Albany Street he presented himself at the front door of the Furnivals’ house and asked the maid who answered it if he might speak with Mrs. Louisa Furnival. He also presented her with his card, which stated only his name and address, not his occupation.
“It concerns a legal matter in which Mrs. Furnival’s assistance is required,” he told her, seeing her very understandable indecision. She knew he had not called before, and in all probability her mistress did not know him. Still, he was very presentable …
“Yes sir. If you’ll come in I’ll find out if Mrs. Furnival’s at home.”
“Thank you,” he accepted, not questioning the euphemism. “May I wait here?” he asked when they were in the hall.
“Yes sir, if you’d rather.” She seemed to see nothing to object to, and as soon as she was gone he looked around. The stairway was very beautiful, sweeping down the righthand wall as he stood facing it. The balcony stretched the full width of the landing above, a distance of about thirtyfive feet as far as he could judge, and at least twenty feet above the hall. It would be an unpleasant fall, but not by any means necessarily a fatal one. In fact it would be quite possible to have overbalanced across the banister and dropped the distance without serious injury at all.
And the suit of armor was still there below the corner where the banister turned to come down. One would have had to fall over the very corner of it to land on the armor. It was a fine piece, although a trifle ostentatious, perhaps, in a London house. It belonged in a baronial hall with interior stonework and great open fireplaces, but it was extremely decorative here, and an excellent conversation piece, making the house one to remain in the memory, which was presumably the purpose of it. It was full late medieval knight’s armor, covering the entire body, and the right-hand gauntlet was held as if to grasp a spear or pike of some sort, but was empty now. No doubt the police would have the halberd as evidence to be presented at Alexandra Carlyon’s trial.
He looked around to see the disposition of the rest of the reception rooms. There was a door to his right, just beyond the foot of the stairs. If that were the withdrawing room, surely anyone in it must have heard that suit of armor fall to the ground, even though the hall was well scattered with carpets, either Bokhara or a good imitation. The metal pieces would crash against each other, even on cushions.
There was another door to the right, under the high point of the stairs, but that was more likely a library or billiard room. One did not often have a main reception room entrance so masked.
To the left was a very handsome double door. He went across and opened it softly. Since the maid had not gone to it, but towards the back of the house, he trusted it was empty at the moment.
He looked in. It was a very large, lavishly appointed dining room, with an oak table big enough to seat at least a dozen people. He pulled the door closed again quickly and stepped back. They could not have been dining when Thaddeus Carlyon fell onto the armor. Here too they could not have failed to hear it.
He had resumed his place in the center of the hall only just in time as the maid reappeared.
“Mrs. Furnival will see you, sir, if you like to come this way,” she said demurely.
She led him to a wide corridor towards the back of the house, past another doorway, straight ahead to the withdrawing room, which opened onto the garden, as far as possible from the hall.
There was no time to look at the furnishings, except to get the briefest impression of crowding with overstuffed sofas and chairs in hot pinks and reds, rich curtains, some rather ordinary pictures, and at least two gilt-framed mirrors.
The woman who commanded his attention was actually physically quite small, but of such striking personality that she dominated the room. Her bones were slender, yet his overriding impression was of voluptuousness. She had a mass of dark hair, much fuller around her face than the current fashion; but it was also far more flattering to her broad, high cheekbones and long eyes, which were so narrow he could not at first be sure of their color, whether they were green or brown. She was not at all like a real cat, and yet there was an intensely feline quality in her, a grace and a detachment that made him think of small, fierce wild animals.
She would have been beautiful, in a sensuous and highly individual way, had not a meanness in her upper lip sent a tingling jar through him, like a warning.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monk.” Her voice was excellent, strong and level, much more immediate than he had expected, more candid. From such a woman he had expected something self-consciously childlike and artificially sweet. This was a most pleasant surprise. “How may I help you with a legal matter? I presume it is to do with poor General Carlyon?”
So she was both intelligent and forthright. He instantly altered what he had been going to say. He had imagined a sillier woman, a flirt. He was wrong. Louisa Furnival was much more powerful than he had supposed. And that made Alexandra Carlyon easier to understand. This woman in front of him was a rival to fear, not a casual pastime for an evening that might well have been heavy without a little frivolity.
“Yes,” he agreed with equal frankness. “I am employed by Mr. Oliver Rathbone, counsel to Mrs. Carlyon, to make sure that we have understood correctly exactly what happened that evening.”
She smiled only slightly, but there was humor in it, and her eyes were very bright.
“I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Monk. I do not mind interesting lies, but boring ones annoy me. What is it you wish to know?”
He smiled. He was not flirting with her—such a thing would not have entered his mind for himself—but he saw the spark of interest in her face, and instinctively used it.
“As much as you can remember of what happened that evening, Mrs. Furnival,” he replied. “And later, all you know, and are prepared to tell me, of General and Mrs. Carlyon and their relationship.”
She lowered her gaze. “How very thorough of you, Mr. Monk. Although I fear thoroughness may be all you will be able to offer her, poor creature. But you must go through the motions, I understand. Where shall I begin? When they arrived?”
“If you please.”
“Then sit down, Mr. Monk,” she invited, indicating the overstuffed pink sofa. He obeyed, and she walked, with more swagger and sensuality than pure grace, over towards the window where the light fell on her, and turned to face him. In that moment he realized she knew her own power to an exactness, and enjoyed it.
He leaned back, waiting for her to begin.
She was wearing a rose-colored crinoline gown, cut low at the bosom, and against the lushly pink curtains she was strikingly dramatic to look at, and she smiled as she began her account.
“I cannot remember the order in which they arrived, but I recall their moods very clearly indeed.” Her eyes never left his face, but even in the brilliance from the window he still could not see what color they were. “But I don’t suppose times matter very much at that point, do they?” Her fine eyebrows rose.
“Not at all, Mrs. Furnival,” he assured her.
“The Erskines were just as usual,” she went on. “I suppose you know who they are? Yes, of course you do.” She smoothed the fabric of her skirt almost unconsciously. “So was Fenton Pole, but Sabella was in quite a temper, and as soon as she was through the door she was rude to her father—oh! Which means he must already have been here, doesn’t it?” She shrugged. “I think the last to arrive were Dr. and Mrs. Hargrave. Have you spoken to him?”
“No, you are the first.”
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br /> She seemed about to comment on that, then changed her mind. Her glance wandered away and she stared into the distance as if visualizing in her mind.
“Thaddeus—that is, the general—seemed as usual.” A tiny smile flickered over her mouth, full of meaning and amusement. He noticed it, and thought it betrayed more of her than of the general or their relationship. “He was a very masculine man, very much the soldier. He had seen some very interesting action, you know?” This time she did look at Monk, her eyebrows high, her face full of vitality. “He spoke to me about it sometimes. We were friends, you know? Yes, I daresay you do. Alexandra was jealous, but she had no cause. I mean, it was not in the least improper.” She hesitated for only an instant. She was far too sophisticated to wait for the obvious compliment, and he did not pay it, but it entered his mind. If General Carlyon had not entertained a few improper ideas about Louisa Furnival, then he was a very slow-blooded man indeed.
“But Alexandra seemed in something of an ill temper right from the beginning,” she went on. “She did not smile at all, except briefly as was required by civility, and she avoided speaking to Thaddeus altogether. To tell you the truth, Mr. Monk, it strained my abilities as a hostess to keep the occasion from becoming embarrassing for my other guests. A family quarrel is a very ugly thing to have to witness and makes people most uncomfortable. I gather this one must have been very bitter, because all evening Alexandra was holding in an anger which no observant person could miss.”
“But one-sided, you say?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“One-sided,” he repeated. “According to you, the general was not angry with Mrs. Carlyon; he behaved as normal.”
“Yes—that is true,” she acknowledged with something like surprise. “Perhaps he had forbidden her something, or made a decision she did not like, and she was still smarting over it. But that is hardly reason to kill anyone, is it?”
“What would be reason to kill, Mrs. Furnival?”
She drew in her breath quickly, then shot him a bright, sharp smile.
“What unexpected things you say, Mr. Monk! I have no idea. I have never thought of killing anyone. That is not how I fight my battles.”
He met her eyes without a flicker. “How do you fight them, Mrs. Furnival?”
This time the smile was wider. “Discreetly, Mr. Monk, and without forewarning people.”
“And do you win?”
“Yes I do.” Too late she wished to take it back. “Well, usually,” she amended. “Of course if I did not, I should not …” She tailed off, realizing that to justify herself would be clumsy. He had not accused her; in fact he had not even allowed the thought to come through his words. She had raised it herself.
She continued with the story, looking up at the far wall again. “Then we all went in to dinner. Sabella was still making occasional bitter remarks, Damaris Erskine was behaving appallingly to poor Maxim, and Alex spoke to everyone except Thaddeus—oh, and very little to me. She seemed to feel I was on his side, which was foolish. Of course I was on no one’s side, I was simply doing my duty as hostess.”
“And after dinner?”
“Oh, as usual the gentlemen stayed at the table for port, and we went to the withdrawing room where we sat and gossiped for a while.” She lifted her beautiful shoulders in an expression of both humor and boredom. “Sabella went upstairs, as I recall, something about a headache. She has not been entirely well since the birth of her child.”
“Did you gossip about anything in particular?”
“I really cannot remember. It was rather difficult, as I said. Damaris Erskine had been behaving like a complete fool all evening. I have no idea why. Usually she is quite a sensible woman, but that evening she seemed on the point of hysteria ever since just before dinner. I don’t know if she had quarreled with her husband, or something. They are very close, and she did seem to be avoiding him on this occasion, which is unusual. I really wondered once or twice if she had had rather too much wine before she came. I can’t think what else would account for her manner, or why poor Maxim should be the principal victim. She is rather eccentric, but this was really too much!”
“I’ll enquire into it,” he remarked. “Then what happened? At some point the general must have left the room.”
“Yes he did. I took him up to see my son, Valentine, who was at home because he has just recovered from the measles, poor boy. They were very fond of each other, you know. Thaddeus has always taken an interest in him, and of course Valentine, like any boy looking towards manhood, has a great admiration for the military and exploration and foreign travel.” She looked at him very directly. “He loved to hear Thaddeus’s tales of India and the Far East. I am afraid my husband does not go in very much for that sort of thing.”
“You took General Carlyon upstairs to see your son. Did you remain with him?”
“No. My husband came up to find me, because the party needed some considerable management. As I said before, several people were behaving badly. Fenton Pole and Mrs. Hargrave were struggling to keep some sort of civilized conversation going. At least that is what Maxim said.”
“So you came down, leaving the general with Valentine?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Her face tightened. “That is the last time I saw him.”
“And your husband?”
She shifted her position very slightly, but still stood against the rich swath of the curtain.
“He stayed upstairs. And almost as soon as I got back down here again, Alexandra went up. She looked furious, whitefaced and so tense I thought she was intending to have a terrible quarrel, but there was nothing any of us could do to stop her. I didn’t know what it was about—and I still don’t.”
He looked at her without any humor at all, directly and blankly.
“Mrs. Carlyon said she killed him because he was having an affair with you, and everyone knew it.”
Her eyes widened and she looked at him with complete incredulity, as if he had said something absurd, so ridiculous as to be funny rather than offensive.
“Oh really! That is too foolish! She couldn’t possibly believe such a thing! It is not only untrue, it is not even remotely credible. We have been agreeable friends, no more. Nor would it ever have appeared to anyone that we were more—I assure you, no one else thought so. Ask them! I am an amusing and entertaining woman, I hope, and capable of friendship, but I am not irresponsible.”
He smiled, still refusing to pay the implicit compliment, except with his eyes. “Can you think of any reason why Mrs. Carlyon would believe it?”
“No—none at all. None that are sane.” She smiled at him, her eyes bright and steady. They were hazel after all. “Really, Mr. Monk, I think there must be some other reason for whatever she did—some quarrel we know nothing of. And honestly, I cannot see why it matters. If she killed him, and it seems inescapable that she did, then what difference does it make why?”
“It might make a difference to the judge, when he comes to sentence her, if and when she is convicted,” he replied, watching her face for pity, anger, grief, any emotions he could read. He saw nothing but cool intelligence.
“I am not familiar with the law, except the obvious.” She smiled. “I would have thought they would hang her regardless.”
“Indeed they may,” he conceded. “You left the story with your husband and the general upstairs, and Mrs. Carlyon just going up. What happened then?”
“Maxim came down, and then a little later, maybe ten minutes, Alexandra came down, looking dreadful. Shortly after that Maxim went out into the front hall—we had all used the back stairs as it is quicker to go up to Valentine’s rooms that way—and almost immediately he came back to say Thaddeus had had an accident and was seriously hurt. Charles—that is, Dr. Hargrave, went to see if he could help. He came back after the briefest time to say Thaddeus was dead and we should call the police.”
“Which you did?”
“Of course. A Sergeant Evan came, and they asked u
s all sorts of questions. It was the worst night I can ever remember.”
“So it is possible that Mrs. Carlyon, your husband, Sabella or yourself could have killed him—as far as opportunity is concerned?”
She looked surprised. “Yes—I suppose so. But why should we?”
“I don’t know yet, Mrs. Furnival. When did Sabella Pole come downstairs?”
She thought for a moment. “After Charles said Thaddeus was dead. I cannot remember who went up for her. Her mother, I expect. I realize you are employed to help Alexandra, but I cannot see how you can. Neither my husband nor I had anything to do with Thaddeus’s death. I know Sabella is very emotional, but I don’t believe she killed her father—and no one else could have, apart from having no possible reason.”
“Is your son still at home, Mrs. Furnival?”
“Yes.”
“May I speak with him?”
There was a guarded look to her face which he found most natural in the circumstances.
“Why?” she asked.
“He may have seen or heard something which precipitated the quarrel resulting in the general’s death.”
“He didn’t. I asked him that myself.”
“I would still like to hear from him, if I may. After all, if Mrs. Carlyon murdered the general a few minutes afterwards, there must have been some indication of it then. If he is an intelligent boy, he must have been aware of something.”
She hesitated for several moments. He thought she was weighing up the possible distress to her son, the justification for denying his request, and the light it would cast on her own motives and on Alexandra Carlyon’s guilt.
“I am sure you would like this whole affair cleared up as soon as possible,” he said carefully. “It cannot be pleasant for you to have it unresolved.”
Her eyes did not waver from his face.
“It is resolved, Mr. Monk. Alexandra has confessed.”
