Defend and Betray

by Anne Perry

  “Maxim?” she repeated, frowning at him.

  “Why not? It’s someone. Who stabbed the general? Does Rathbone know, or is he just hoping we’ll find out before he’s finished?”

  “Just hoping,” she said unhappily.

  “Ssh!” a man hissed behind them, tapping Monk on the shoulder with his forefinger.

  The reprimand infuriated Monk, but he could think of no satisfactory rejoinder. His face blazed with temper, but he said nothing.

  “Valentine,” Hester said suddenly.

  “Be quiet!” The man in front swung around, his face pinched with anger. “If you don’t want to listen, then go outside!”

  Monk disregarded him. Of course—Valentine. He was only a few years older than Cassian. He would be an ideal victim first. And everyone had said how fond he had been of the general, or at least how fond the general had been of him. He had visited the boy regularly. Perhaps Valentine, terrified, confused, revolted by the general and by himself, had finally fought back.

  How to be certain? And how to prove it?

  He turned to look at Hester, and saw the same thoughts reflected in her eyes.

  Her lips formed the words It is worth trying. Then her eyes darkened with anxiety. “But be careful,” she whispered urgently. “If you’re clumsy you could ruin it forever.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to retaliate, then the reality of its importance overtook all vanity and irritation.

  “I will.” He promised so softly it was barely audible even to her. “I’ll be ’round about. I’ll try to get proof first.” And he stood up, much to the fury of the person on his other side, and wriggled past the whole row, stepping on toes, banging knees and nearly losing his footing as he found his way out. The first thing was to learn what was physically possible. If Fenton Pole had never been alone with Cassian or Valentine, then he was not worth pursuing as a suspect. Servants would know, particularly footmen; footmen knew where their masters went in the family carriage, and they usually knew who visited the house. If Pole had been careful enough to travel to some other place to meet there, and go by hansom, then it would be a far harder task to trace him, and perhaps pointless.

  He must begin with the obvious. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of Fenton and Sabella Pole’s house.

  All the remainder of the afternoon he questioned the servants. At first they were somewhat reluctant to answer him, feeling that in the absence of knowledge, silence was the wisest and safest course. But one maid in particular had come with Sabella on her marriage, and her loyalties were to Alexandra, because that was where her mistress’s loyalties were. She was more than willing to answer anything Monk wished to know, and she was quite capable of discovering from the footman, groom and parlormaid every detail he needed.

  Certainly Mr. Pole had known the general before he met Miss Sabella. It was the general who had introduced them, that she knew herself; she had been there at the time. Yes, they had got along very well with each other, better than with Mrs. Carlyon, unfortunately. The reason? She had no idea, except that poor Miss Sabella had not wished to marry, but to go into the Church. There was nothing anyone could say against Mr. Pole. He was always a gentleman.

  Did he know Mr. and Mrs. Furnival well?

  Not very, the acquaintance seemed to be recent.

  Did Mr. Pole often visit the general at his home?

  No, hardly ever. The general came here.

  Did he often bring young Master Cassian?

  She had never known it to happen. When Master Cassian came it was with his mother, to visit Miss Sabella during the daytime, when Mr. Pole was out.

  Monk thanked her and excused himself. It seemed Fenton Pole was not a suspect, on the grounds of physical impossibility. The opportunity was simply not there.

  He walked in the clear evening back to Great Titchfield Street, passing open carriages as people took the air, fashionably dressed in bonnets with ribbons and gowns trimmed with flowers; couples out strolling arm in arm, gossiping, flirting; a man walking his dog. He arrived a few moments after Hester returned from the court. She looked tired and anxious, and Major Tiplady, sitting up on an ordinary chair now, appeared concerned for her.

  “Come in, come in, Mr. Monk,” he said quickly. “I fear the news is not encouraging, but please be seated and we shall hear it together. Molly will bring us a cup of tea. And perhaps you would like supper? Poor Hester looks in need of some refreshment. Please—be seated!” He waved his arm in invitation, but his eyes were still on Hester’s face.

  Monk sat down, primarily to encourage Hester to speak, but he accepted the invitation to supper.

  “Excuse me.” Tiplady rose to his feet and limped to the door. “I shall see about it with Molly and Cook.”

  “What is it?” Monk demanded. “What has happened?”

  “Very little,” Hester said wearily. “Only what we expected. Evan recounted how Alexandra had confessed.”

  “We knew that would come,” Monk pointed out, angry that she was so discouraged. He needed her to have hope, because he too was afraid. It was a ridiculous task they had set themselves, and they had no right to have given Alexandra hope. There was none, none at all of any sense.

  “Of course,” she said a little sharply, betraying her own fragile emotions. “But you asked me what had happened.”

  He looked at her and met her eyes. There was a moment of complete understanding, all the pity, the outrage, all the delicate shades of fear and self-doubt for their own part in it. They said nothing, because words were unnecessary, and too clumsy an instrument anyway.

  “I started to look at physical possibilities,” he said after a moment or two. “I don’t think Fenton Pole can be the other abuser. There doesn’t seem to have been enough opportunity for him to be alone with either Cassian or Valentine.”

  “So where are you going next?”

  “The Furnivals’, I think.”

  “To Louisa?” she said with a flash of bitter amusement.

  “To the servants.” He understood precisely what she meant, with all its undertones. “Of course she would protect Maxim, but since it hasn’t been mentioned yet, she won’t have any idea that we are looking for abuse of children. She’ll be thinking of herself, and the old charge about the general.”

  Hester said nothing.

  “Then I’ll go to the Carlyons’.”

  “The Carlyons’?” Now she was surprised. “You’ll not find anything there, but even if you did, what good would it do? They’ll all lie to protect him, and we know about him anyway! It’s the other person we need to find—with proof.”

  “Not the colonel—Peverell Erskine.”

  She was stunned, her face filled with amazement and disbelief. “Peverell! Oh no! You can’t think it was him!”

  “Why not? Because we like him?” He was hurting himself as well as her and they both understood it. “Do you think it has to be someone who looks like a monster? There was no violence used, no hate or greed—just a man who has never grown up enough to find an appropriate closeness with an adult woman, a man who only feels safe with a child who won’t judge him or demand a commitment or the ability to give, who won’t see the flaws in his character or the clumsiness or inadequacy of his acts.”

  “You sound as if you want me to feel sorry for him,” she said with tight, hard disgust, but he did not know whether that disgust was at him, at the abuses, or only at the situation—or even if it was so hard because underneath it was the wrench of real pity.

  “I don’t care what you feel,” he lied back. “Only what you think. Just because Peverell Erskine is an agreeable man and his wife loves him doesn’t mean he can’t have weaknesses that destroy him—and others.”

  “I don’t believe it of Peverell,” she said stubbornly, but she gave no reason.

  “That’s just stupid,” he snapped at her, aware of the anger inside himself to which he chose to give no name. “You’re hardly much use if you are working on that level of intellig
ence.”

  “I said I don’t believe it,” she retorted equally violently. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t investigate the possibility.”

  “Oh yes?” He raised his eyebrows sarcastically. “How?”

  “Through Damaris, of course,” she said with stinging contempt. “She discovered something that night—something that upset her beyond bearing. Had you forgotten that? Or did you just think I had?”

  Monk stared at her, and was about to make an equally acid reply when the door opened again and Major Tiplady returned, immediately followed by the maid with a tray of tea, announcing that supper would be ready in a little over half an hour. It was the perfect opportunity to change his tone altogether, and be suddenly charming, to enquire after Major Tiplady’s recovery, appreciate the tea, and even to speak courteously to Hester. They talked of other things: the news from India, the ugly rumors of opium war in China, the Persian War, and unrest in the government at home. All the subjects were distressing, but they were far away, and he found the brief half hour most agreeable, a relief from responsibility and the urgent present.

  * * *

  The following day Lovat-Smith called further witnesses as to the unblemished character of the general, his fine nature and heroic military record. Once again Hester went to court to watch and listen on Major Tiplady’s behalf, and Monk went first to the house of Callandra Daviot, where he learned from her, to his chagrin, that she had been unable to find anything beyond the merest whisper to indicate that General Carlyon had ever formed any relationships that were anything but the most proper and correct. However, she did have extensive lists of names of all youths who had served with his regiment, both in England and in India, and she produced it with an apology.

  “Don’t worry,” he said with sudden gentleness. “This may be all we need.”

  She looked at him with something close to a squint, disbelief plain in her face.

  He scanned down the list rapidly to see if the name of the Furnivals’ bootboy was there. It was on the second page, Robert Andrews, honorable discharge, owing to wounds received in action. He looked up, smiling at her.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Maybe,” he answered. “I’m going to find out.”

  “Monk!”

  “Yes.” He looked at her with a sudden awareness of how much she had done for him. “I think this may be the Furnivals’ bootboy,” he explained with a lift of hope in his voice. “The one who dropped all the laundry when he came face-to-face with the general on the night of the murder. I’m going to the Furnivals’ house now to find out. Thank you.”

  “Ah,” she said with a touch of satisfaction creeping into her expression at last. “Ah—well … good.”

  He thanked her again and bade her good-bye with a graceful kiss to the air, then hurried out to find a hansom to take him back to the Furnivals’ house.

  He reached it at a quarter to ten, in time to see Maxim leave, presumably to go into the City. He waited almost an hour and a half, and was rewarded by seeing Louisa, glamorous and quite unmistakable in a richly flowered bonnet and skirts so wide it took very great skill for her to negotiate the carriage doors.

  As soon as she was well out of sight, Monk went to the back door and knocked. It was opened by the bootboy, looking expectant. His expression changed utterly when he saw Monk; apparently he had been anticipating someone else.

  “Yes?” he said with a not unfriendly frown. He was a smart lad and stood very straight, but there was a watchfulness in his eyes, a knowledge of hurt.

  “I was here before, speaking to Mrs. Furnival,” Monk began carefully, but already he felt a kind of excitement. “And she was kind enough to help me in enquiring into the tragedy of General Carlyon’s death.”

  The boy’s expression darkened, an almost imperceptible tightening of the skin around his eyes and mouth, a narrowing of the lips.

  “If you want Mrs. Furnival, you should ’ave gone to the front door,” he said warily.

  “I don’t, this time.” Monk smiled at him. “There are just a few details about other people who have called at the house in the past, and perhaps Master Valentine could help me. But I need to speak with one of your footmen, perhaps John.”

  “Well you’d better come in,” the bootboy said cautiously. “An’ I’ll ask Mr. Diggins, ’e’s the butler. I can’t let you do that meself.”

  “Of course not.” Monk followed him in graciously.

  “Wot’s your name, then?” the boy asked.

  “Monk—William Monk. What is yours?”

  “Who, me?” The boy was startled.

  “Yes—what is your name?” Monk made it casual.

  “Robert Andrews, sir. You wait ’ere, an’ I’ll see Mr. Diggins for yer.” And the boy straightened his shoulders again and walked out very uprightly, as if he were a soldier on parade. Monk was left in the scullery, pulse racing, thoughts teeming in his mind, longing to question the boy and knowing how infinitely delicate it was, and that a word or a look that was clumsy might make him keep silence forever.

  “What is it this time, Mr. Monk?” the butler asked when he returned a few minutes later. “I’m sure we’ve all told you all we know about that night. Now we’d just like to forget it and get on with our work. I’ll not ’ave you upsetting all our maids again!”

  “I don’t need to see the maids,” Monk said placatingly. “Just a footman would be quite sufficient, and possibly the bootboy. It is only about who called here frequently.”

  “Robert said something about Master Valentine.” The butler looked at Monk closely. “I can’t let you see him, not without the master’s or the mistress’s permission, and they’re both out at the present.”

  “I understand.” Monk chose not to fight when he knew he could not win. That would have to wait for another time. “I daresay you know everything that goes on in the house anyway. If you can spare the time?”

  The butler considered for a moment. He was not immune to flattery, if it were disguised well enough, and he certainly liked what was his due.

  “What is it you wish to know, in particular, Mr. Monk?” He turned and led the way towards his own sitting room, where they could be private, in case the matter should be in any way delicate. And regardless of that, it created the right impression in front of the other staff. It did not do to stand around discussing presumably private business in full view of everyone.

  “How often did General Carlyon come here to visit, either Mrs. Furnival or Master Valentine?”

  “Well, Mr. Monk, he used to come more often in the past, before he had his accident, sir. After that he came a lot less.”

  “Accident?”

  “Yes sir—when he injured his leg, sir.”

  “That would be when he was hurt with the knife. Cleaning the knife, and it slipped and gashed him in the thigh,” Monk said as levelly as he could.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Where did that happen? In what room?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. Somewhere upstairs, I believe. Possibly in the schoolroom. There is an ornamental knife up there. At least there was. I haven’t seen it since then. May I ask why you need to know, sir?”

  “No reason in particular—just that it was a nasty thing to happen. Did anyone else visit Master Valentine regularly? Mr. Pole, for example?”

  “No sir, never that I know of.” The first question remained in the butler’s face.

  “Or Mr. Erskine?”

  “No sir, not as far as I know of. What would that have to do with the general’s death, Mr. Monk?”

  “I’m not sure,” Monk said candidly. “I think it’s possible that someone may have … exerted certain … pressures on Master Valentine.”

  “Pressures, sir?”

  “I don’t want to say anything more until I know for certain. It could malign someone quite without foundation.”

  “I understand, sir.” The butler nodded sagely.

  “Did Master Valentine visit the Carlyon house, to your kno
wledge?”

  “Not so far as I am aware, sir. I do not believe that either Mr. or Mrs. Furnival is acquainted with Colonel and Mrs. Carlyon, and their acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Erskine is not close.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Monk was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. He did not want it to be Peverell Erskine. But he needed to find out who it was, and time was getting desperately short. Perhaps it was Maxim after all—the most obvious, when one thought about it. He was here all the time. Another father abusing his son. He found his stomach clenching and his teeth ached with the tightness of his jaw. It was the first time he had felt even the briefest moment of pity for Louisa.

  “Is there anything else, sir?” the butler said helpfully.

  “I don’t think so.” What was there to ask that could be addressed to this man and yield an answer leading to the identity of whoever had so used Valentine? But however slender the chance of hearing any admission of a secret so desperately painful, and he loathed the idea of forcing the boy or tricking him, still he must at least attempt to learn something. “Have you any idea what made your bootboy behave so badly the night the general was killed?” he asked, watching the man’s face. “He looked like a smart and responsible sort of lad, not given to indiscipline.”

  “No sir, I don’t, and that’s a fact.” Diggins shook his head. Monk could see no evasion or embarrassment in him. “He’s been a very good boy, has young Robert,” he went on. “Always on time, diligent, respectful, quick to learn. Nothing to explain except that one episode. You had it right there, sir, he’s a fine lad. Used to be in the army, you know—a drummer boy. Got wounded somewhere out in India. Honorable discharge from the service. Come ’ere very highly recommended. Can’t think what got into him. Not like him at all. Training to be a footman, ’e is, and very likely make a good one. Although ’e’s been a bit odd since that night. But then so ’ave we all—can’t ’old that against ’im.”

  “You don’t think he saw something to do with the murder, do you?” Monk asked as casually as he could.