by Anne Perry
The first maid offered no hope at all. The second was a bright girl of about sixteen with a mass of auburn hair. She seemed to grasp the significance of his questions, and answered readily enough, although with wary eyes, and he caught a sense of eagerness that suggested to him she had something to hide as well as something to reveal. Presumably she was the one the footman had seen.
“Yes, I saw Mrs. Pole,” she said candidly. “She wasn’t feeling well, so she lay down for a while in the green room.”
“When was that?”
“I—I dunno, sir.”
“Was it long after dinner?”
“Oh, yes sir. We ’as our dinner at six o’clock!”
Monk realized his mistake and tried to undo it.
“Did you see anyone else while you were on the landing?”
The color came to her face and suddenly the picture was clearer.
“I shan’t report what you say, unless I have to. But if you lie, you may go to prison, because an innocent person could be hanged. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Now she was ashen white, so frightened as to be robbed momentarily of words.
“So who did you see?”
“John.” Her voice was a whisper.
“The footman who was filling the coal buckets?”
“Yes sir—but I didn’t speak to him—honest! I jus’ came to the top o’ the stairs, like. Mrs. Pole were in the green room, ’cause I passed the door and it was open, an’ I seen ’er like.”
“You came all the way down from your own room at the top of the house?”
She nodded, guilt over her attempt to see the footman outweighing every other thought. She had no idea of the significance of what she was saying.
“How did you know when he was going to be there?”
“I …” She bit her lip. “I waited on the landing.”
“Did you see Mrs. Carlyon go upstairs to Master Valentine’s room?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you see Mrs. Carlyon come down again?”
“No sir, nor the general, sir—I swear to God!”
“Then what did you do?”
“I went as far as the top o’ the stairs and looked for John, sir. I knew that was about the time ’e’d be fillin’ the coal buckets.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. I reckon I were too late. I ’ad to ’ang around cos of all the people comin’ and goin’. I ’ad ter wait for the master ter go down again.”
“You saw Mr. Furnival go down again?”
“Yes sir.”
“When you were at the top of the stairs, looking for John—think very carefully, you may have to swear to this in court, before a judge, so tell the truth, as you know it …”
She gulped. “Yes sir?”
“Did you look down at the hallway below you?”
“Yes sir. I were looking for John.”
“To come from the back of the house?”
“Yes sir—with the coal buckets.”
“Was the suit of armor standing where it usually does?”
“I think so.”
“It wasn’t knocked over?”
“No—o’ course it weren’t, or I’d ’ave seen it. It’d be right between me and the corridor to the back.”
“Then where did you go, after waiting for John and realizing you were too late?”
“Back upstairs again.”
He saw the flicker in her eyes, barely discernible, just a tremor.
“Tell me the truth: did you pass anyone?”
Her eyes were downcast, the blush came again. “I heard someone comin’, I don’t know who. I didn’t want to be caught there, so I went into Mrs. Pole’s room to see if she needed anything. I was goin’ ter say I thought I’d ’eard ’er call out, if anyone asked me.”
“And the people passed, going along the passage to the front stairs?”
“Yes sir.”
“When was that?”
“I dunno, sir. God help me, I don’t! I swear it!”
“That’s all right, I believe you.” Alexandra and the general, minutes before she killed him.
“Did you hear anything?”
“No sir.”
“You didn’t hear voices?”
“No sir.”
“Or the suit of armor crashing over?”
“No sir. The green room is a long way from the top o’ the stairs, sir.” She did not bother to swear—it was easily verifiable.
“Thank you,” he said honestly.
So only Alexandra had the opportunity after all. It was murder.
“You’ve been a great help.” He forced the words out. “A very great help. That’s all—you can go.” And Alexandra was guilty. Louisa and Maxim had already gone up and come down again, and the general was alive.
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” And she turned on her heel and fled.
5
Oliver Rathbone awaited the arrival of Monk with some hope, in spite of his reason telling him that it was extremely unlikely he had been able to find any worthwhile evidence that it was not after all Alexandra Carlyon who had killed the general. He shared Monk’s contempt for Runcorn personally, but he had a considerable respect for the police in general, and had found that when they brought a case to trial, they were seldom fundamentally in error. But he did hope that Monk might have turned up a stronger and more sympathetic motive than jealousy. And if he were honest, there was a lingering corner in his mind which cherished a vague idea that it might indeed have been someone else—although how it would be any better had it been Sabella, he had no idea, except that so far Sabella was not his client.
As well as Monk, he had invited Hester Latterly. He had hesitated before doing so. She had no official part in the case, nor indeed had she had in any other case. But she had opportunities for observation of the Carlyon family that neither he nor Monk possessed. And it had been she who had brought him the case in the first place and enlisted his help. She was owed some information as to the conclusion—if indeed there was a conclusion. Monk had sent him a message that he had incontrovertible evidence which he must share, so it was unquestionably a decisive point.
Apart from that, he felt a wish that she should be included, and he chose not to examine the cause of it. Therefore at ten minutes before eight on the evening of May 14, he was awaiting their arrival with uncharacteristic nervousness. He was sure he was concealing it perfectly, and yet it was there, once or twice a flutter in his stomach, a very slight tightening of his throat, and several changed decisions as to what he intended to say. He had chosen to receive them in his home rather than his office, because in the office time was precious and he would feel compelled simply to hear the bare outlines of what Monk had learned, and not to question him more deeply and to explore his understanding and his instinct. At home there was all evening, and no sense of haste, or of time being money.
And also, since it was in all probability a miserable tale, perhaps he owed Monk something more generous than simply a word of thanks and dismissal, and his money. And if she had heard from Monk directly what his discoveries were, it would be far easier for Hester to accept Rathbone’s declining the case, if that were the only reasonable choice left to him. That was all most logical, nevertheless he found himself repeating it over and over, as if it required justification.
Although he was expecting them, their arrival caught him by surprise. He had not heard them come, presumably by hansom since neither of them had a carriage of their own. He was startled by the butler, Eames, announcing their presence, and a moment later they were in the room, Monk as beautifully tailored as usual. His suit must have cost as much as Rathbone’s own, obviously bought in his police days when he had money for such luxuries. The waistcoat was modishly short with a shawl collar, and he wore a pointed, standing collar with a lavish bow tie.
Hester was dressed much more reservedly, in a cool tealgreen gown with pointed waist and pagoda sleeves with separate gathered undersleeves of white broderie an
glaise. There was no glamour to it, and yet he found it remarkably pleasing. It was both simple and subtle, and the shade accentuated the slight flush in her cheeks.
They greeted each other very formally, even stiffly, and he invited them to be seated. He noticed Hester’s eyes glancing around the room, and suddenly it seemed to him less satisfactory than it had. It was bare of feminine touches. It was his, not inherited from his family, and there had been no woman resident in it since he came, some eleven years ago. His housekeeper and his cook he did not count. They maintained what he had, but introduced nothing new, nothing of their own taste.
He saw Hester look at the forest-green carpet and upholstery, and the plain white walls, the mahogany woodwork. It was very bare for current fashion, which favored oak, ornate carving and highly decorative china and ornaments. It was on the tip of his tongue to make some comment to her, but he could think of nothing that did not sound as if he were seeking a compliment, so he remained silent.
“Do you wish for my findings before dinner, or after?” Monk asked. “If you care what I say, I think you may prefer them after.”
“I cannot but leap to the conclusion that they are unpleasant,” Rathbone replied with a twisted smile. “In which case, do not let us spoil our meal.”
“A wise decision,” Monk conceded.
Eames returned with a decanter of sherry, long-stemmed glasses and a tray of savory tidbits. They accepted them and made trivial conversation about current political events, the possibility of war in India, until they were informed that dinner awaited them.
The dining room was in the same deep green, a far smaller room than that in the Furnivals’ house; obviously Rathbone seldom entertained more than half a dozen people at the most. The china was imported from France, a delicately goldrimmed pattern of extreme severity. The only concession to flamboyance was a magnificent Sevres urn covered in a profusion of roses and other flowers in blazing reds, pinks, golds and greens. Rathbone saw Hester look at it several times, but forbore from asking her opinion. If she praised it he would think it mere politeness; if not then he would be hurt, because he feared it was ostentatious, but he loved it.
Throughout the meal conversation centered on subjects of politics and social concern, which he would not personally have imagined discussing in front of a woman. He was well versed in the fashion and graces of Society, but Hester was different. She was not a woman in the customary sense of someone separate from the business of life outside the home, a person to be protected from the affairs or the emotions that involved the mind.
After the final course they returned to the withdrawing room and at last there was no reason any longer to put off the matter of the Carlyon case.
Rathbone looked across at Monk, his eyes wide.
“A crime contains three elements,” Monk said, leaning back in his chair, a dour, ironic smile on his face. He was perfectly sure that Rathbone knew this, and quite possibly Hester did also, but he was going to tell them in his own fashion.
Rathbone could feel an irritation rising inside him already. He had a profound respect for Monk, and part of him liked the man, but there was also a quality in him which abraded the nerves like fine sandpaper, an awareness that at any time he might lash out with the unforeseeable, the suddenly disturbing, cutting away comforts and safely held ideas.
“The means were there to hand for anyone,” Monk went on. “To wit, the halberd held by the suit of armor. They all had access to it, and they all knew it was there because any person entering the hall had to see it. That was its function—to impress.”
“We knew they all could have done it,” Rathbone said tersely. His irritation with Monk had provoked him into haste. “It does not take a powerful person to push a man over a banister, if he is standing next to it and is taken by surprise. And the halberd could have been used by anyone of average build—according to the medical report—although to penetrate the body and scar the floor beneath it must have been driven with extraordinary violence.” He winced very slightly, and felt a chill pass through him at such a passion of hate. “At least four of them were upstairs,” he hurried on. “Or otherwise out of the withdrawing room and unobserved during the time the general went upstairs until Maxim Furnival came in and said he had found him on the floor of the hall.”
“Opportunity,” Monk said somewhat officiously. “Not quite true, I’m afraid. That is the painful part. Apparently the police questioned the guests and Mr. and Mrs. Furnival at some length, but they only corroborated with the servants what they already knew.”
“One of the servants was involved?” Hester said slowly. There was no real hope in her face, because of his warning that the news was not good. “I wondered that before, if one of them had a military experience, or was related to someone who had. The motive might be quite different, something in his professional life and nothing personal at all …” She looked at Monk.
There was a flicker in Monk’s face, and Rathbone knew in that instant that he had not thought of that himself. Why not? Inefficiency—or had he reached some unarguable conclusion before he got that far?
“No.” Monk glanced at him, then away again. “They did not question the movements of the servants closely enough. The butler said they had all been about their duties and noticed nothing at all, and since their duties were in the kitchen and servants’ quarters, it was not surprising they had not heard the suit of armor fall. But on questioning him more closely, he admitted one footman tidied the dining room, which was not in the time period we are interested in. He was told to fill the coal scuttles for the rest of the house, including the morning room and the library, which are off the front hall.”
Hester turned her head to watch him. Rathbone sat up a little straighter.
Monk continued impassively, only the faintest of smiles touching the corners of his mouth.
“The footman’s observations as to the armor, and he could hardly have missed it had it been lying on the floor in pieces with the body of the general across it and the halberd sticking six feet out of his chest like a flagpole—”
“We take your point,” Rathbone said sharply. “That reduces the opportunities of the suspects. I assume that is what you are eventually going to tell us?”
A flush of annoyance crossed Monk’s face, then vanished and was replaced by satisfaction, not at the outcome, but at his own competence in proving it.
“That, and the romantic inclinations of the upstairs maid, and the fact that the footman had a lazy streak, and preferred to carry the scuttles up the front stairs instead of the back, for Mrs. Furnival’s bedroom, make it impossible that anyone but Alexandra could have killed him. I’m sorry.”
“Not Sabella?” Hester asked with a frown, leaning a little forward in her seat.
“No.” He turned to her, his face softening for an instant. “The upstairs maid was waiting around the stair head to catch the footman, and when she realized she had missed him, and heard someone coming, she darted into the room where Sabella was resting, just off the first landing, on the pretext that she thought she had heard her call. And when she came out again the people had passed, and she went on back up to the servants’ back stairs, and her own room. The people who passed her must have been Alexandra and the general, because after the footman had finished, he went down the back stairs, just in time to meet the news that General Carlyon had had an accident, and the butler had been told to keep the hall clear, and to send for the police.”
Rathbone let out his breath in a sigh. He did not ask Monk if he were sure; he knew he would not have said it if there were the slightest doubt.
Monk bit his lip, glanced at Hester, who looked crushed, then back at Rathbone.
“The third element is motive,” he said.
Rathbone’s attention jerked back. Suddenly there was hope again. If not, why would Monk have bothered to mention it? Damn the man for his theatricality! It was too late to pretend he was indifferent, Monk had seen his change of expression. To affect a casual air
now would make himself ridiculous.
“I presume your discovery there is more useful to us?” he said aloud.
Monk’s satisfaction evaporated.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “One could speculate all sorts of motives for the others, but for her there seems only jealousy—and yet that was not the reason.”
Rathbone and Hester stared at him. There was no sound in the quiet room but a leaf tapping against the window in the spring breeze.
Monk pulled a dubious face. “It was never easy to believe, in spite of one or two people accepting it, albeit reluctantly. I believed it myself for a while.” He saw the sudden start of interest in their faces, and continued blindly. “Louisa Furnival is certainly a woman who would inspire uncertainty, self-doubt and then jealousy in another woman—and must have done so many times. And there is the possibility that Alexandra could have hated her not because she was so in love with the general but simply because she could not abide publicly being beaten by Louisa, being seen to be second best in the rivalry which cuts deepest to a person’s self-esteem, most especially a woman’s.”
“But …” Hester could not contain herself. “But what? Why don’t you believe it now?”
“Because Louisa was not having an affair with the general, and Alexandra must have known he was not.”
“Are you sure?” Rathbone leaned forward keenly. “How do you know?”
“Maxim has money, which is important to Louisa,” Monk replied, watching their faces carefully. “But even more important is her security and her reputation. Apparently some time ago Maxim was in love with Alexandra.” He glanced up as Hester leaned forward, nodding quickly. “You knew that too?”
“Yes—yes, Edith told me. But he would not do anything about it because he is very moral, and believes profoundly in his marriage vows, regardless of emotions afterwards.”
“Precisely,” Monk agreed. “And Alexandra must have known that, because she was so immediately concerned. Louisa is not a woman to throw away anything—money, honor, home, Society’s acceptance—for the love of a man, especially one she knew would not marry her. And the general would not; he would lose his own reputation and career, not to mention the son he adored. In fact I doubt Louisa ever threw away anything intentionally. Alexandra knew her, and knew the situation. If Louisa had been caught in an affair with the general, Maxim would have made life extremely hard for her. After all, he had already made a great sacrifice in order to sustain his marriage. He would demand the same of her. And all this Alexandra knew …” He left the rest unsaid, and sat staring at them, his face somber.
