by Anne Perry
“Fine features are very well,” he said casually, as if it were merely a passing thought. “But without intelligence they very soon become tedious. I could listen all evening to a woman with the gifts of intelligence and expression. I could not look at one woman all evening, no matter how lovely her face.”
“You have remarkable perception and sensitivity, Mr. Monk,” she responded, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “I am afraid there are very few men with such finely developed values.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think so, Mrs. Waterson? How kind of you to say so. I don’t think anyone has ever told me such a thing before.” He looked suitably satisfied. He refused to think what Hester would have said of him for such playacting. The only thing that mattered was learning something that would help Rathbone’s case. And so far he had singly failed in that.
He began again. “It must be tempting to use the power of such beauty, nonetheless, in a young girl with no experience, no maturity to fall back upon.” He must not forget that Mrs. Waterson was certainly the wrong side of thirty-five.
“Of course,” she agreed.
He waited expectantly, ignoring the young woman three or four yards away gazing at him with bright eyes full of laughter and invitation, obviously bored with her very correct and rather callow partner.
“Perhaps she did not succumb to the temptation?” he said sententiously.
“Oh, I’m afraid she did,” Mrs. Waterson explained instantly, and with satisfaction. “One could not help but be aware that she was brought up to regard beauty as of the utmost importance, and therefore she would have been less than human not to have tested its power. And quite naturally it was greater than she expected—or was able to deal with gracefully.” She waited to see Monk’s reaction. Would he think unkindly of her if she seemed critical?
“How very understanding of you, Mrs. Waterson,” he said, biting his tongue. “You speak with the sympathy of one who knows it at firsthand.” He said it with a perfectly straight face. Without an ability to act one could not be a successful detective, and he had every intention of being successful.
“Well …” She debated whether to be modest or not, and threw caution to the winds. The orchestra was playing with rhythm and gaiety. She had drunk several glasses of champagne, and all she usually indulged in was lemonade. There was laughter and color and movement all around her. Light from chandeliers glittered on jewels and hair and bare necks and arms. Mr. Waterson was very agreeable, but he had far too little imagination. He took things for granted. “In my younger days, before I was married, of course, I did have one or two adventures,” she conceded. “Perhaps I was not always wise.”
“No more than to make you interesting, I am sure,” Monk said with a smile. “Was Miss Lambert as … wise?”
She bridled a little. It was not becoming to appear uncharitable.
“Well … possibly not. She set more store by beauty than I ever did. I always considered good character to be of more lasting worth, and a certain intelligence to stand one in greater service.”
“How right you are. And so it has.” He accepted a dish of sweetmeats from a passing waiter and offered it to her.
He remained talking for another half hour but learned no more than Zillah’s exercise of her charms and the greater attention she paid to her physical assets, under her mother’s expert tutelage, than other less well schooled girls of her age. It was hardly a sin. In fact, many might consider it a virtue. It was admired when women took the time and care to make themselves as pleasing as possible. It was in many ways a compliment to a man, if a trifle daunting to the unsure or nervous.
Monk got home at quarter to three in the morning, exhausted. He had a clearer picture of both Zillah and her mother, but it was of no use whatever that he could see. Certainly they possessed no fault that Melville could complain of, and no characteristics that were not observable in the slightest of acquaintance.
He slept late and woke with a headache. He had a large breakfast and felt considerably better.
He saw the morning newspapers but decided he had no time to read them, and if there were anything of use Rathbone would know it anyway and would have sent an appropriate message.
He needed Hester’s opinion. She bore little resemblance to Zillah Lambert, but she had been Zillah’s age once. That might come to him as a surprise, but surely she would remember it. And as far back as that she would have been living at home with her parents, long before her father was ruined, before anyone even thought of the possibility of a war in the Crimea. Most people would not have had the slightest idea even of where it was. And Florence Nightingale herself would have been dutifully attending the balls and soirées and dinners in search of a suitable husband. So would Hester Latterly. She would know the game and its rules.
It was not far from Fitzroy Street to Tavistock Square and he walked briskly in the sun, passing ladies out taking the air, gentlemen stretching their legs and affecting to be discussing matters of great import but actually simply enjoying themselves, watching passersby, raising their hats to female acquaintances and generally showing off. Several people drove past in smart gigs or other light equipages of one sort or another, harnesses gleaming, horses high stepping.
When he reached the Sheldon house he was admitted by the footman, who remembered him and advised him that Miss Latterly was presently occupied but he was sure that Lieutenant Sheldon would be happy to see him in a short while, if he cared to wait.
Monk accepted because he very much wished to stay, and because he had developed a sincere regard for the young man and would hate to have him feel rejected, even though Monk’s departure would have had nothing whatever to do with Lieutenant Sheldon’s disfigurement.
“Thank you. That would be most agreeable.”
“If you will be good enough to warm yourself in the withdrawing room for a few minutes, sir, I shall inform Lieutenant Sheldon you are here.”
“Of course.”
Actually, he was not cold, and as it transpired, the footman returned before he had time to relax and conducted him upstairs.
Gabriel was up and dressed, although he looked extremely pale and it obviously had cost him considerable effort. He tired easily, and although he tried to mask it, the amputation still gave him pain. Monk had heard that people frequently felt the limb even after it was gone, exactly as though the shattered bone or flesh were still there. To judge from the pallor of Gabriel’s face and the occasional gasp or gritted teeth, such was the case with him. Also, he had not yet fully accustomed himself to the alteration in balance caused by the lack of an arm.
However, he was obviously pleased to see Monk and rose to his feet, smiling and extending his right hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Monk. How are you? How nice of you to call.”
Monk took his hand and shook it firmly, feeling the answering grip.
“Excellent, thank you. Very good of you to allow me to visit Miss Latterly again. I am afraid this case is rapidly defeating me, and I think a woman’s view on it is my last resort.”
“Oh, dear.” Gabriel sat down awkwardly and gestured to the other chair for Monk. “Can you talk about it?”
“I have nothing to lose,” Monk confessed. It would be insensitive to speak of Gabriel’s health. He must be exhausted with thinking of it, explaining, worrying, having to acknowledge with every breath that he was different.
“The suit for breach of promise …”
Gabriel gave his entire attention, and for nearly an hour Monk told him what he had done so far, tidying up his account of the previous evening’s encounter with Mrs. Waterson to sound a little more favorable to her. Still, he thought from the amusement in Gabriel’s eyes that perhaps he had not deceived him much.
“I am sorry,” Gabriel said when he concluded, “but it seems as if Miss Lambert is probably exactly what she appears to be. Why do you think she may not be … beyond hope for your client’s sake?”
“I don’t,” Monk confessed. “It is only
that I don’t like to be beaten.”
Gabriel sighed with rueful humor. “It isn’t always such a bad thing. The fear of it is the worst part. Once it has happened, and you’ve survived, it can never frighten you quite the same again.”
Monk knew what he meant. He was not really speaking of cases, or even of Melville, but it was not necessary to acknowledge that.
“Oh, I’ve been beaten before,” Monk said quickly. “And in more important cases than this. It is just that this is so stupid. It didn’t have to have happened. The man has ruined himself … and it is tragic because he is a genius.”
“Is he?” Gabriel was interested.
“Oh, yes,” Monk replied without doubt. “I was in one of his buildings. It was not quite finished, but even so it was all light and air.” He heard the enthusiasm in his own voice. “Every line in it was pleasing. Not familiar, because it was different, and yet it gave the feeling that it was so right it should have been. Like hearing a perfect piece of music … not man created but merely discovered. It reveals something one recognizes instantly.” He tried to describe it. “It is a kind of joy not quite like anything else. That is what infuriates me … the man has no right to destroy himself, and over something so stupid! An ounce of common sense and it could all have been avoided.”
Gabriel bit his lip. “It is surely the essence of true tragedy, that it was avoidable. Someone will write a great play on it, perhaps.”
“It’s not good enough,” Monk said in disgust. “It’s farcical and pointless.”
“You think Hester can still help?”
“Probably not.”
Gabriel smiled. If he thought perhaps Monk had come for some other reason, he was too tactful to say so.
They were speaking of other subjects when Perdita Sheldon came in. She was dressed in mid green with a wide skirt, which was very fashionable, the lace trimming on the bodice lightening it. Had she had a little more color in her cheeks and seemed less anxious, she would have looked lovely.
“Mrs. Hanning has called. Will—will you see her? You don’t have to….”
Gabriel obviously did not recognize the name. His face showed only the apprehension he might in seeing anyone.
“Hanning,” Perdita repeated. “Major Hanning’s wife.” She watched him tensely. Her back was stiff, her hands moving restlessly in front of her, smoothing her huge skirt as if she were about to meet someone of great importance, although it was only a nervous gesture because she did not look down to see what she had done. “He was killed at Gwalior.”
“Oh …” Gabriel stared back at her, breathing in very slowly, his jaw tightening, his lips close together on the good side of his face, the scar curiously immobile. Oddly, it made his apprehension even more evident.
“I’ll tell her you’re not well enough,” Perdita said hastily.
“No …”
“She’ll understand.” She did not move. She thought she knew what she should do to protect him, and yet even that decision was difficult. She had to resolve in order to make it and she watched him for approval. “Perhaps … later … in a few weeks …”
“No. No, I’ll see her today.” He too had to steel himself.
Monk wondered who Hanning had been and why his widow should call so soon. Was it duty, compassion, or some need of her own?
“I’ll ask Miss Latterly.” Perdita swung around and hurried away. She had found an answer. If something ran out of control, Hester would be there to take care of it.
Something in Gabriel had relaxed at the mention of Hester’s name. He too was relying on her.
Impatience welled up inside Monk. These people were adults, not children, to be needing someone else to deal with difficult encounters. Then he looked again at the lines of tiredness in Gabriel’s face, the side that was undamaged. He needed all the strength he could find to battle physical pain and the terrible memories he could not share with his young wife who had no idea what he had seen or felt. India to her was a red area on the map, a word without reality. All he had been taught about the roles of men and women, about courage and duty, responsibility and honor, demanded he support her, protect her, even keep from her the harsher and uglier sides of life. Men did not weep. Good men did not even permit others to know of their wounds.
And it was not Perdita’s fault that she was confused and frightened. She had been protected all her short life. She had not chosen to be, it was her assigned role. A few women, like Hester, broke out of it, but it was a long and painful series of choices, and it left them too often alone—and for all the words of praise and gratitude, still faintly despised, because they were different … and perhaps threatening. Both Gabriel and Perdita could rely on her now, in their time of need. They would possibly even love her, after a fashion. Perhaps part of them would also resent the very fact that she knew their vulnerability and their failures.
When they were recovered she would leave, and they would choose to forget her as part of their time of pain. And she would begin again, and alone. He had never appreciated her courage in quite that light before. It was an inner thing, a knowledge she would hold inside herself, knowing its cost but for her pride’s sake not sharing it.
“Would you prefer to see this lady alone?” he asked, not standing up but facing Gabriel very frankly.
As if he had read at least something in Monk’s thoughts, Gabriel smiled back.
“I knew Hanning fairly well, but I never met his wife. He spoke of her, but I gathered she was … difficult.” A fleeting humor crossed his face and vanished. “They quarreled rather often. I have no idea what to say to her. I don’t know if I am being arrogant putting myself to this test. I want to prove to myself that I can do it.” He shrugged. “And I shall expect Hester to pick up the pieces if I can’t … for me and for Perdita. I can see that you care for Hester.” He disregarded Monk’s sudden discomfort. “It might be a kindness if you would stay—even if it is an imposition….” He watched Monk very steadily. He would not ask, because it would be embarrassing if Monk refused.
Monk did not respond at once. Was his feeling for Hester so transparent? It was friendship, not romantic love. Did Gabriel understand that? Perhaps he should explain? But what words should he use to avoid giving the wrong impression?
“Of course,” he agreed at last, relaxing back into the chair. “We have been friends for some time—several years, in fact.”
Gabriel smiled and his eyes widened very slightly.
Damn it, there was nothing amusing in that! “She has a good observation of people, and has been of considerable help to me in several of my cases,” he added.
“She is a most remarkable woman,” Gabriel agreed. “I find her easier to talk to than anyone else I can think of, even other men who have experienced the same battles and sieges I have.”
“Do you!” Monk was stung. Gabriel had only just met her. How could he compare his friendship with her, his dependence, in the same breath with Monk’s? Monk was about to make a remark about her professional skills when he realized how rude it would be—and how gratuitously cruel. And an incredible self-knowledge brought the blood to his cheeks. It was prompted by jealousy!
He was startled to hear a sound in the doorway and see Hester standing there. She was wearing blue-gray, the same dress she usually wore when on duty, or one so like it he saw no difference. Actually, he generally took very little notice of what she wore.
She looked at Gabriel with a question in her face, but she did not speak. She hesitated a moment, then accepted his decision and turned to go back and bring Mrs. Hanning.
Gabriel and Monk waited in silence. The clock ticked on the mantel shelf, and the sunlight shone in fitful patterns through the window onto the carpet. A gust of wind billowed the curtains for a moment, then they settled again. It had carried in the scent of blossoms and earth.
Mrs. Hanning walked across the passageway and appeared at the door. She was striking and flamboyant with a rather haughty manner. She had a long, straight nose and
very full lips and level brows. Had they been arched she would have been truly beautiful. And perhaps her chin should have been a little firmer. Now she was dressed in widow’s black.
She stared at Gabriel, completely bereft of speech. Her gloved hand went up and covered her mouth as if to smother her words so they could not be spoken.
Behind her, Perdita was close to tears. Her eyes swam as she looked at Gabriel, aching for him and helpless to know what to say, how to protect him. Her crushing failure was naked in her face.
Gabriel looked for a moment as if he had seen himself in someone else’s eyes for the first time. Monk tried to imagine what it must have been like, the stomach-tearing horror when he realized this was his own face, the outer aspect he would present to the world for the rest of his life. The handsome man who automatically won smiles and willingness and admiration was gone forever. Now he would gain only fear, revulsion, even nausea, the intense embarrassment and pity which made people want to run away. Perhaps he would sooner have died? He could have been buried in India, one of a thousand other lost heroes, and all this need never have happened. It was so much easier not ever to know about such things, not ever to look at them.
Monk should say something. It was his responsibility.
He stood up, smiling at Mrs. Hanning.
“How do you do, Mrs. Hanning. My name is William Monk.” He held out his hand. “I am a friend of Gabriel’s. I called by to ask his advice on a small problem I am dealing with for a friend. At least, I hope to deal with it. I am not doing very well at the moment.”
Mrs. Hanning caught her breath. “Oh … really? I am sorry, Mr…. Mr. Monk.” She was obviously not even sure whether she was relieved to have to speak to him or annoyed. She was also not interested. Her voice was dry, overpolite. “How unfortunate.”
“I find him most helpful for clarifying the mind,” he went on, as if she had been charming.
It was long enough to give Gabriel time to take command of himself again.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hanning. How kind of you to call.” His voice shook only a little and he forced himself to meet her eyes, regardless of what he should see there.