by Anne Perry
“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 so
ul.”
“No she isn’t,” she replied with considerable acerbity. “She is a clear-sighted widow of considerable good sense. She thinks it far more likely Sabella Pole, the general’s daughter, is the one who killed him.”
“Not unreasonable,” he conceded. “I have just met Sabella, and she is very highly emotional, if not outright hysterical.”
“Is she?” Hester said quickly, turning to look at him, interest dismissing all her irritation. “What was your judgment of her? Might she have killed her father? I know from Damaris Erskine, who was at the party, that she had the opportunity.”
They were at the corner of Market Street and Oxford Street, and turned into the thoroughfare, walking side by side along the footpath. He took her arm, largely to make sure they remained together and were not divided by passersby bustling in the opposite direction.
“I have no idea,” he replied after a moment or two. “I form my opinions on evidence, not intuition.”
“No you don’t,” she contradicted. “You cannot possibly be so stupid, or so pompous, as to disregard your intuitive judgment. Whatever you have forgotten, you remember enough of past experiences with people to know something of them merely by their faces and the way they behave to each other, and when you speak to them.”
He smiled dryly. “Then I think Fenton Pole believes she could have done it,” he replied. “And that is indicative.”
“Then perhaps there is some hope?” Unconsciously she straightened up and lifted her chin a little.
“Hope of what? Is that any better an answer?”
She stopped so abruptly a gentleman behind bumped into her and growled under his breath, tripping over his cane and going around her with ill grace.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Monk said loudly. “I did not catch your remark. I presume you apologized to the lady for jostling her?”
The man colored and shot him a furious glance.
“Of course I did!” he snapped, then glowered at Hester. “I beg your pardon, ma’am!” Then he turned on his heel and strode off.
“Clumsy fool,” Monk said between his teeth.
“He was only a trifle awkward-footed,” she said reasonably.
“Not him—you.” He took her by the arm and moved her forward again. “Now attend to what we are doing, before you cause another accident. It can hardly be better that Sabella Pole should be guilty—but if it is the truth, then we must discover it. Do you wish for a cup of coffee?”
Monk entered the prison with a sharp stab of memory, not from the time before his accident, although surely he must have been in places like this on countless occasions, probably even this prison itself. The emotion that was so powerful now was from only a few months back, the case which had caused him to leave the police force, throw away all the long years of learning and labor, and the sacrifices to ambition.
He followed the turnkey along the grim passages, a chill on his skin. He still had little idea what he would say to Alexandra Carlyon, or indeed what kind of woman she would be—presumably something like Sabella.
They came to the cell and the turnkey opened the door.
“Call w’en yer want ter come aht,” she said laconically. Making no further comment, she turned around without interest, and as soon as Monk was inside, slammed the door shut and locked it.
The cell was bare but for a single cot with straw pallet and gray blankets. On it was sitting a slender woman, paleskinned, with fair hair tied loosely and pinned in a knot at the back of her head. As she turned to look at him he saw her face. It was not at all what he had expected; the features were nothing like Sabella’s, far from being ordinarily pretty. She had a short, aquiline nose, very blue eyes and a mouth far too wide, too generous and full of sensuality and humor. Now she gazed at him almost expressionlessly and he knew in that single moment that she had no hope of reprieve of any sort. He did not bother with civilities, which could serve no purpose. He too had been mortally afraid and he knew its taste too well.
“I am William Monk. I expect Mr. Rathbone told you I would come.”
“Yes,” she said tonelessly. “But there is nothing you can do. Nothing you could discover would make any difference.”
“Confessions alone are not sufficient evidence, Mrs. Carlyon.” He remained standing in the center of the floor looking down at her. She did not bother to rise. “If you now wish to retract it for any reason,” he went on, “the prosecution will still have to prove the case. Although admittedly it will be harder to defend you after your saying you had done it. Unless, of course, there is a good reason.” He did not make it a question. He did not think her hopelessness was due to a feeling that her confession condemned her so much as to some facts he as yet did not fully understand. But this was a place to begin.
She smiled briefly, without light or happiness. “The best of reasons, Mr. Monk. I am guilty. I killed my husband.” Her voice was remarkably pleasing, low-pitched and a trifle husky, her diction very clear.
Without any warning he had an overwhelming sense of having done this before. Violent emotions overwhelmed him: fear, anger, love. And then as quickly it was gone again, leaving him breathless and confused. He was staring at Alexandra Carlyon as if he had only just seen her, the details of her face sharp and surprising, not what he expected.
“I beg your pardon?” He had missed whatever she had said.
“I killed my husband, Mr. Monk,” she repeated.
“Yes—yes, I heard that. What did you say next?” He shook his head as if to clear it.
“Nothing.” She frowned very slightly, puzzled now.
With a great effort he brought his mind back to the murder of General Carlyon.
“I have been to see Mr. and Mrs. Furnival.”
This time her smile was quite different; there was sharp bitterness in it, and self-mockery.
“I wish I thought you could discover Louisa Furnival was guilty, but you cannot.” There was a catch in her voice which at any other time he could have taken for laughter. “If Thaddeus had rejected her she might have been angry, even violently so, but I doubt she ever loved anyone enough to care greatly if he loved her or not. The only person I could imagine her killing would be another woman—a really beautiful woman, perhaps, who rivaled her or threatened her well-being.” Her eyes widened as thoughts raced through her imagination. “Maybe if Maxim fell so deeply in love with someone he could not hide it—then people would know Louisa had been bested. Then she might kill.”
“And Maxim was not fond of you?” he asked.
There was very faint color in her cheeks, so slight he noticed it only because she was facing the small high window and the light fell directly on her.
“Yes—yes, he was, in the past—but never to the degree where he could have left Louisa. Maxim is a very moral man. And anyway, I am alive. It is Thaddeus who is dead.” She said the last words without feeling, certainly without any shred of regret. At least there was no playacting, no hypocrisy in her, and no attempt to gain sympathy. For that he liked her.
“I saw the balcony, and the banister where he went over.”
She winced.
“I assume he fell backwards?”
“Yes.” Her voice was unsteady, little more than a whisper.
“Onto the suit of armor?”
“Yes.”
“That must have made a considerable noise.”
“Of course. I expected people to come and see what had happened—but no one did.”
“The withdrawing room is at the back of the house. You knew that.”
“Of course I did. I thought one of the servants might hear.”
“Then what? You followed him down and saw he was struck senseless with the fall—and no one had come. So you picked up the halberd and drove it into his body?”
She was white-faced, her eyes like dark holes. This time her voice would hardly come at all.
“Yes.”
“His chest? He was lying on his back. You did say he went over backwards?”
/>
“Yes.” She gulped. “Do we have to go over this? It cannot serve any purpose.”
“You must have hated him very much.”
“I didn’t—” She stopped, drew in her breath and went on, her eyes down, away from his. “I already told Mr. Rathbone. He was having an affair with Louisa Furnival. I was … jealous.”
He did not believe her.
“I also saw your daughter.”
She froze, sitting totally immobile.
“She was very concerned for you.” He knew he was being cruel, but he saw no alternative. He had to find the truth. With lies and defenses Rathbone might only make matters worse in court. “I am afraid my presence seemed to precipitate a quarrel between her and her husband.”
She glared at him fiercely. For the first time there was real, violent emotion in her.
“You had no right to go to her! She is ill—and she has just lost her father. Whatever he was to me, he was her father. You …” She stopped, perhaps aware of the absurdity of her position, if indeed it was she who had killed the general.
“She did not seem greatly distressed by his death,” he said deliberately, watching not only her face but also the tension in her body, the tight shoulders under the cotton blouse, and her hands clenched on her knees. “In fact, she made no secret that she had quarreled bitterly with him, and would do all she could to aid you—even at the cost of her husband’s anger.”
Alexandra said nothing, but he could feel her emotion as if it were an electric charge in the room.
“She said he was arbitrary and dictatorial—that he had forced her into a marriage against her will,” he went on.
She stood up and turned away from him.
Then again he had a sudden jolt of memory so sharp it was like a physical blow. He had been here before, stood in a cell with a small fanlight like this, and watched another slender woman with fair hair that curled at her neck. She too had been charged with killing her husband, and he had cared about it desperately.
