The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

“Your own groom and coachmen sleep above your stables, sir,” Monk pointed out. “And anyone climbing over there would be highly unlikely to get across that roof without disturbing at least the horses. Then he would have to get right over the house roof and down the other side. Almost impossible to do, unless he was a mountaineer with ropes and climbing equipment, and—”

  “There is no call to be sarcastic,” Basil snapped. “I take your point. Then he must have come in the front some time between your policeman’s patrols. There is no other answer. He certainly was not hiding in the house all evening! And neither did he leave after the servants were up.”

  Monk was forced to mention Chinese Paddy.

  “I am sorry, but that is not so. We also found a housebreaker who was watching the Harley Street end all night, hoping to get a chance to break in farther along. He got no opportunity because there were people about who would have observed him if he had. But he was watching all night from eleven until four—which covers the relevant time. I am sorry.”

  Sir Basil swung around from the table he had been facing, his eyes black, his mouth drawn down in anger. “Then why in God’s name haven’t you arrested him? He must be the one! On his own admission he is a housebreaker. What more do you want?” He glared at Monk. “He broke in here and poor Octavia heard him—and he killed her. What is the matter with you, standing here like a fool?”

  Monk felt his body tighten with fury, the more biting because it was impotent. He needed to succeed in his profession, and he would fail completely if he were as rude as he wished, and were thrown out. How Runcorn would love that! It would be not only professional disgrace but social as well.

  “Because his story is true,” he replied with a level, harsh voice. “Substantiated by Mr. Bentley, his doctor and a maid who has no interest in the matter and no idea what her testimony means.” He did not meet Sir Basil’s eyes because he dared not let him see the anger in them, and he hated the submission of it. “The housebreaker did not pass along the street,” he went on. “He did not rob anyone, because he did not have the chance, and he can prove it. I wish it were so simple; we should be very pleased to solve the case as neatly—sir.”

  Basil leaned forward across the table.

  “Then if no one broke in, and no one was concealed here, you have created an impossible situation—unless you are suggesting—” He stopped, the color drained out of his face and slowly a very real horror replaced the irritation and impatience. He stood stock-still. “Are you?” he said very quietly.

  “Yes, Sir Basil,” Monk answered him.

  “That’s—” Basil stopped. For several seconds he remained in absolute silence, his thoughts apparently inward, racing, ideas grasped and rejected. Finally he came to some realization he could not cast aside. “I see,” he said at last. “I cannot think of any imaginable reason, but we must face the inevitable. It seems preposterous, and I still believe that you will find some flaw in your reasoning, or that your evidence is faulty. But until then we must proceed on your assumption.” He frowned very slightly. “What do you require next? I assure you we have no violent quarrels or conflicts in the house and no one has behaved in any way out of their usual custom.” He regarded Monk with something between dislike and a bitter humor. “And we do not have personal relationships with our servants, let alone of the sort which would occasion this.” He put his hands in his pockets. “It is absurd—but I do not wish to obstruct you.”

  “I agree a quarrel seems unlikely.” Monk measured his words, both to keep his own dignity and to show Basil there was some sense to the argument. “Especially in the middle of the night when all the household was in bed. But it is not impossible Mrs. Haslett was privy to some secret, albeit unintentionally, that someone feared she might expose—” It was not only possible, it excluded her from all blame. He saw Basil’s face lose some of its anxiety, and a flicker of hope appeared in his eyes. His shoulder eased as he breathed out and let his arms drop.

  “Poor Octavia.” He looked at one of the soft landscape paintings on the wall. “That does sound possible. I apologize. I spoke hastily. You had better pursue your inquiries. What do you wish to do first?”

  Monk respected him for his ability to admit both haste and discourtesy. It was more than he had expected, and something he would have found hard himself. The measure of the man was larger than he thought.

  “I would like to speak to the family first, sir. They may have observed something, or Mrs. Haslett may have confided in one of them.”

  “The family?” Basil’s mouth twitched, but whether it was from fear or a dark, inward humor Monk could not even guess. “Very well.” He reached for the bell pull and tugged it. When the butler appeared he sent him to bring Cyprian Moidore to the morning room.

  Monk waited in silence until he came.

  Cyprian closed the door behind him and looked at his father. Seeing them almost side by side the resemblance was striking: the same shape of head; the dark, almost black eyes; and the broad mouth with its extraordinary mobility. And yet the expressions were so different the whole bearing was altered. Basil was more aware of his own power and was quicker tempered, the flash of humor more deeply covered. Cyprian was less certain, as if his strength was untried and he feared it might not prove adequate. Was the softer side of him compassion, or simply caution because he was still vulnerable and he knew it?

  “The police have discerned that no one broke in to kill Octavia,” Basil explained briefly and without preamble. He did not watch his son’s face; apparently he was not concerned how the news affected him, nor did he explain Monk’s reasoning of possible motive. “The only solution left seems to be that it was someone already living here. Obviously not the family—therefore, we must presume, one of the servants. Inspector Monk wishes to speak to all of us to see what we observed—if indeed we observed anything.”

  Cyprian stared at his father, then swung around to look at Monk as if he had been some monster brought in from a foreign land.

  “I am sorry, sir.” Monk put in the apology Basil had omitted. “I am aware that it must be distressing, but if you could tell me what you did on Monday, and what you can recall of anything Mrs. Haslett may have said, especially if at any time she confided a concern to you, or some matter she may have discovered that could be seen as dangerous to anyone else.”

  Cyprian frowned, concentration coming slowly to his face as thought took over from astonishment. He turned his back on his father.

  “You think Octavia was killed because she knew someone’s secret about—” He shrugged. “What? What could one of our servants have done that—” He stopped. It was apparent from his eyes that his question was answered in his imagination and he preferred not to speak it. “Tavie said nothing to me. But then I was out most of the day. I wrote a few letters in the morning, then about eleven I went to my club in Piccadilly for luncheon and spent the afternoon with Lord Ainslie, talking about cattle, mostly. He has some stock, and I considered buying some. We keep a large estate in Hertfordshire.”

  Monk had a rapid impression that Cyprian was lying, not about the meeting but about the subject of it.

  “Damned Owenite politician!” Basil said with a flash of temper. “Have us all living in communities like farm animals.”

  “Not at all!” Cyprian retorted. “His thoughts are—”

  “You were here at dinner,” Basil overrode him curtly before he could form his argument. “Didn’t you see Octavia then?”

  “Only at table,” Cyprian said with an edge to his voice. “And if you recall, Tavie barely spoke—to me, or to anyone else.”

  Basil turned from the fireplace and looked at Monk.

  “My daughter was not always in the best of health. I think on that occasion she was feeling unwell. She certainly was extremely quiet and seemed in some distress.” He put his hands back in his pockets. “I assumed at the time she had a headache, but looking back now, perhaps she was aware of some ugly secret and it consumed her thoughts. Although she c
an hardly have realized the danger it represented.”

  “I wish to God she had told someone,” Cyprian said with sudden passion. There was no need to add all the tumult of feelings that lay behind it, the regret and the sense of having failed. It lay heavy in his voice and in the strain in his features.

  Before the elder Moidore replied there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!” he said, raising his head sharply, irked by the intrusion.

  Monk wondered for a moment who the woman was, then as Cyprian’s expression changed, he remembered meeting her in the withdrawing room the first morning: Romola Moidore. This time she looked less drained with shock; her skin had a bloom to it and her complexion was flawless. Her features were regular, her eyes wide and her hair thick. The only thing which prevented her from being a beauty was a suggestion of sulkiness about the mouth, a feeling that her good temper was not to be relied on. She looked at Monk with surprise. Obviously she did not remember him.

  “Inspector Monk,” Cyprian supplied. Then, when her face did not clear: “Of the police.” He glanced at Monk, and for a moment there was a bright intelligence in his eyes. He was leaving Monk to make whatever impact he chose.

  Basil immediately spoiled it by explaining.

  “Whoever killed Octavia is someone who lives in this house. That means one of the servants.” His eyes were on her face, his voice careful. “The only reason that makes any sense is if one of them has a secret so shameful they would rather commit murder than have it revealed. Either Octavia knew this secret or they believed she did.”

  Romola sat down sharply, the color fading from her cheeks, and she put her hand to her mouth, but her eyes did not leave Basil’s face. Never once did she look to her husband.

  Cyprian glared at his father, who looked back at him boldly—and with something that Monk thought might well be dislike. He wished he could remember his own father, but rack his memory as he might, nothing came back but a faint blur, an impression of size and the smell of salt and tobacco, and the touch of beard, and skin softer than he expected. Nothing returned of the man, his voice, his words, a face. Monk had no real idea, only a few sentences from his sister, and a smile as if there were something familiar and precious.

  Romola was speaking, her voice scratchy with fear.

  “Here in the house?” She looked at Monk, although she was speaking to Cyprian. “One of the servants?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any other explanation,” Cyprian replied. “Did Tavie say anything to you—think carefully—anything about any of the servants?”

  “No,” she said almost immediately. “This is terrible. The very thought of it makes me feel ill.”

  A shadow passed over Cyprian’s face, and for a moment it seemed as if he were about to speak, but he was aware of his father’s eyes on him.

  “Did Octavia speak to you alone that day?” Basil asked her without change of tone.

  “No—no,” she denied quickly. “I interviewed governesses all morning. None of them seemed suitable. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “See some more!” Basil snapped. “If you pay a requisite salary you will find someone who will do.”

  She shot him a look of repressed dislike, guarded enough that to a casual eye it could have been anxiety.

  “I was at home all day.” She turned back to Monk, her hands still clenched. “I received friends in the afternoon, but Tavie went out. I have no idea where; she said nothing when she came in. In fact she passed by me in the hall as if she had not seen me there at all.”

  “Was she distressed?” Cyprian asked quickly. “Did she seem frightened, or upset about anything?”

  Basil watched them, waiting.

  “Yes,” Romola said with a moment’s thought. “Yes she did. I assumed she had had an unpleasant afternoon, perhaps friends who were disagreeable, but maybe it was more than that?”

  “What did she say?” Cyprian pursued.

  “Nothing. I told you, she barely seemed aware she had passed me. If you remember, she said very little at dinner, and we presumed she was not well.”

  They all looked at Monk, waiting for him to resolve some answer from the facts.

  “Perhaps she confided in her sister?” he suggested.

  “Unlikely,” Basil said tersely. “But Minta is an observant woman.” He turned to Romola. “Thank you, my dear. You may return to your tasks. Do not forget what I have counseled you. Perhaps you would be good enough to ask Araminta to join us here.”

  “Yes, Papa-in-law,” she said obediently, and left without looking at Cyprian or Monk again.

  Araminta Kellard was not a woman Monk could have forgotten as he had her sister-in-law. From her vivid fire-gold hair, her curiously asymmetrical features, to her slender, stiff body, she was unique. When she came into the room she looked first at her father, ignored Cyprian and faced Monk with guarded interest, then turned back to her father.

  “Papa?”

  “Did Tavie say anything to you about learning something shocking or distressing recently?” Basil asked her. “Particularly the day before she died?”

  Araminta sat down and considered very carefully for several moments, without looking at anyone else in the room. “No,” she said at last. She regarded Monk with steady, amber-hazel eyes. “Nothing specific. But I was aware that she was extremely concerned about something which she learned that afternoon. I am sorry, I have no idea what it was. Do you believe that is why she was killed?”

  Monk looked at her with more interest than he had for anyone else he had yet seen in this house. There was an almost mesmeric intensity in her, and yet she was utterly composed. Her thin hands were tight in her lap, but her gaze was unwavering and penetratingly intelligent. Monk had no idea what wounds tore at the fabric of her emotions beneath, and he did not imagine he would easily frame any questions, no matter how subtle, which would cause her to betray them.

  “It is possible, Mrs. Kellard,” he answered. “But if you can think of any other motive anyone might have to wish her harm, or fear her, please let me know. It is only a matter of deduction. There is no evidence as yet, except that no one broke in.”

  “From which you conclude that it was someone already here,” she said very quietly. “Someone who lives in this house.”

  “It seems inescapable.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “What kind of a woman was your sister, Mrs. Kellard? Was she inquisitive, interested in other people’s problems? Was she observant? An astute judge of character?”

  She smiled, a twisted gesture with half her face.

  “Not more than most women, Mr. Monk. In fact I think rather less. If she did discover anything, it will have been by chance, not because she went seeking it. You ask what kind of woman she was. The kind who walks into events, whose emotions lead her and she follows without regard to the price. She was the kind of woman who lurches into disaster without having foreseen it or understanding it once she is there.”

  Monk looked across at Basil and saw the intense concentration in his face, his eyes fixed on Araminta. There was no reflection in his expression of any other emotion, no grief, no curiosity.

  Monk turned to Cyprian. In him was the terrible hurt of memory and the knowledge of loss. His face was hard etched with pain, the realization of all the words that could not now be said, the affections unexpressed.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kellard,” Monk said slowly. “If you think of anything else I should be obliged if you would tell me. How did you spend Monday?”

  “At home in the morning,” she answered. “I went calling in the afternoon, and I dined at home with the family. I spoke to Octavia several times during the evening, but I did not attach any particular importance to anything we said. It seemed totally trivial at the time.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She rose to her feet, inclined her head very slightly, and walked out without looking behind her.

  “Do you wish to see Mr. Kellard?” Basil aske
d with raised eyebrows, an air of contempt in his stance.

  The very fact that Basil questioned it made Monk accept.

  “If you please.”

  Basil’s face tightened, but he did not argue. He summoned Phillips and dispatched him to fetch Myles Kellard.

  “Octavia would not have confided in Myles,” Cyprian said to Monk.

  “Why not?” Monk asked.

  A look of distaste flickered across Basil’s face at the intrusive indelicacy of such a question, and he answered before Cyprian could. “Because they did not care for each other,” he replied tersely. “They were civil, of course.” His dark eyes regarded Monk quickly to make sure he understood that people of quality did not squabble like riffraff. “It seems most probable the poor girl spoke to no one about whatever she learned so disastrously, and we may never learn what it was.”

  “And whoever killed her will go unpunished,” Cyprian challenged. “That is monstrous.”

  “Of course not!” Basil was furious; his eyes blazed and the deep lines in his face altered to become harsh. “Do you imagine I am going to live the rest of my life in this house with someone who murdered my daughter? What is the matter with you? Good God, don’t you know me better than that?”

  Cyprian looked as if he had been struck, and Monk felt a sharp, unexpected twinge of embarrassment. This was a scene he should not have witnessed, these were emotions that had nothing to do with Octavia Haslett’s death; a viciousness between father and son stemming from no sudden act but years of resentment and failure to understand.

  “If Monk—” Basil jerked his head towards the policeman—“is incapable of finding him, whoever it is, I shall have the commissioner send someone else.” He moved restlessly from the ornate mantel back to the center of the floor. “Where the hell is Myles? This morning at least, he should make himself available when I send for him!”

  At that moment the door opened, without a prefacing knock, and Myles Kellard answered his summons. He was tall and slender, but in every other respect the opposite of the Moidores. His hair was brown with streaks in it and waved in a sweep back from his forehead. His face was long and narrow with an aristocratic nose and a sensuous, moody mouth. It was at once the face of a dreamer and a libertine.