by Anne Perry
“Do I take it, Sir Basil, that you would have no concern if your male and female servants have liaisons with each other,” he said sarcastically. “In twos—or threes—or whatever? You are quite right—it is a different world. The middle classes are obsessed with preventing such a thing.”
The insolence was palpable, and for a moment Sir Basil’s temper flashed close to violence, but he was apparently aware that he had invited such a comment, because he moderated his reply uncharacteristically. It was merely contemptuous.
“I find it hard to believe you can maintain your position, such as it is, and be as stupid as you pretend. Of course I should forbid anything of the sort, and dismiss any staff so involved instantly and without reference.”
“And if there were such an involvement, presumably it is possible Mrs. Haslett might have become aware of it?” Monk asked blandly, aware of their mutual dislike and both their reasons for masking it.
He was surprised how quickly Basil’s expression lightened, something almost like a smile coming to his lips.
“I suppose she might,” he agreed, grasping the idea. “Yes, women are observant of such things. They notice inflections we are inclined to miss. Romance and its intrigue form a much greater part in their lives than they do of ours. It would be natural.”
Monk appeared as innocent as he was capable.
“What do you suppose she might have discovered on her trip in the afternoon that affected her so deeply she spoke to Mr. Thirsk of it?” he asked. “Was there a servant for whom she had a particular regard?”
Basil was temporarily confused. He struggled for an answer that would fit all the facts they knew.
“Her ladies’ maid, I imagine. That is usual. Otherwise I am aware of no special regard,” he said carefully. “And it seems she did not tell anyone where she went.”
“What time off do the servants have?” Monk pursued. “Away from the house.”
“Half a day every other week,” Basil replied immediately. “That is customary.”
“Not a great deal for indulging in romance,” Monk observed. “It would seem more probable that whatever it was took place in Queen Anne Street.”
Sir Basil’s black eyes were hard, and he slapped at his fluttering coattails irritably.
“If you are trying to say that there was something very serious taking place in my house, of which I was unaware, indeed still am unaware, Inspector, then you have succeeded. Now if you can be as efficient in doing what you are paid for—and discover what it was—we shall all be most obliged. If there is nothing further, good day to you!”
Monk smiled. He had alarmed him, which was what he intended. Now Basil would go home and start demanding a lot of pertinent and inconvenient answers.
“Good day, Sir Basil.” Monk tipped his hat very slightly, and turning on his heel, marched on towards Horse Guards Parade, leaving Basil standing on the grass with a face heavy with anger and hardening resolution.
Monk attempted to see Myles Kellard at the merchant bank where he held a position, but he had already left for the day. And he had no desire to see any of the household in Queen Anne Street, where he would be most unlikely to be uninterrupted by Sir Basil or Cyprian.
Instead he made a few inquiries of the doorman of Cyprian’s club and learned almost nothing, except that he visited it frequently, and certainly gentlemen did have a flutter on cards or horses from time to time. He really could not say how much; it was hardly anyone else’s concern. Gentlemen always settled their debts of honor, or they would be blackballed instantly, not only here but in all probability by every other club in town as well. No, he did not know Mr. Septimus Thirsk; indeed he had not heard that gentleman’s name before.
Monk found Evan back at the police station and they compared the results of their day. Evan was tired, and although he had expected to learn little he was still discouraged that that was what had happened. There was a bubble of hope in him that always regarded the best of possibilities.
“Nothing you would call a romance,” he said dispiritedly, sitting on the broad ledge of the windowsill in Monk’s office. “I gather from one of the laundry maids, Lizzie, that she thinks the bootboy had a yearning toward Dinah, the parlormaid, who is tall and fair with skin like cream and a waist you could put your hands ’round.” His eyes widened as he visualized her in his memory. “And she’s not yet had so much attention paid her that she’s full of airs. But then that seems hardly worthy of comment. Both footmen and both grooms also admire her very heartily. I must admit, so did I.” He smiled, robbing the remark of any seriousness. “Dinah is as yet unmoved in return. General opinion is that she will set her cap a good deal higher.”
“Is that all?” Monk asked with a wry expression. “You spent all day below stairs to learn that? Nothing about the family?”
“Not yet,” Evan apologized, “But I am still trying. The other laundrymaid, Rose, is a pretty thing, very small and dark with eyes like cornflowers—and an excellent mimic, by the way. She has a dislike for the footman Percival, which sounds to me as if it may be rooted in having once been something much warmer—”
“Evan!”
Evan opened his eyes wide in innocence. “Based on much observation by the upstairs maid Maggie and the ladies’ maid Mary, who has a high regard for other people’s romances, moving them along wherever she can. And the other upstairs maid, Annie, has a sharp dislike for poor Percival, although she wouldn’t say why.”
“Very enlightening,” Monk said sarcastically. “Get an instant conviction before any jury with that.”
“Don’t dismiss it too lightly, sir,” Evan said quite seriously, hitching himself off the sill. “Young girls like that, with little else to occupy their minds, can be very observant. A lot of it is superficial, but underneath the giggles they see a great deal.”
“I suppose so,” Monk said dubiously. “But we’ll need to do much better than that to satisfy either Runcom or the law.”
Evan shrugged. “I’ll go back tomorrow, but I don’t know what else to ask anyone.”
Monk found Septimus the following lunchtime in the public house which he frequented regularly. It was a small, cheerful place just off the Strand, known for its patronage by actors and law students. Groups of young men stood around talking eagerly, gesticulating, flinging arms in the air and poking fingers at an imaginary audience, but whether it was envisioned in a theater or a courtroom was impossible even to guess. There was a smell of sawdust and ale, and at this time of the day, a pleasant steam of vegetables, gravy and thick pastry.
He had been there only a few minutes, with a glass of cider, when he saw Septimus alone on a leather-upholstered seat in the comer, drinking. He walked over and sat down opposite him.
“Good day, Inspector.” Septimus put down his mug, and it was a moment before Monk realized how he had seen him while he was still drinking. The mug’s bottom was glass, an old-fashioned custom so a drinker might not be taken by surprise in the days when men carried swords and coaching inn brawls were not uncommon.
“Good day, Mr. Thirsk,” Monk replied, and he admired the mug with Septimus’s name engraved on it.
“I cannot tell you anything more,” Septimus said with a sad little smile. “If I knew who killed Tavie, or had the faintest idea why, I would have come to you without your bothering to follow me here.”
Monk sipped his cider.
“I came because I thought it would be easier to speak without interruption here than it would in Queen Anne Street.”
Septimus’s faded blue eyes lit with a moment’s humor. “You mean without Basil’s reminding me of my obligation, my duty to be discreet and behave like a gentleman, even if I cannot afford to be one, except now and again, by his grace and favor.”
Monk did not insult him by evasion. “Something like that,” he agreed. He glanced sideways as a young man with a fair face, not unlike Evan, lurched close to them in mock despair, clutching his heart, then began a dramatic monologue directed at his fello
ws at a neighboring table. Even after a full minute or two, Monk was not sure whether he was an aspiring actor or a would-be lawyer defending a client. He thought briefly and satirically of Oliver Rathbone, and pictured him as a callow youth at some public house like this.
“I see no military men,” he remarked, looking back at Septimus.
Septimus smiled down into his ale. “Someone has told you my story.”
“Mr. Cyprian,” Monk admitted. “With great sympathy.”
“He would.” Septimus pulled a face. “Now if you had asked Myles you would have had quite a different tale, meaner, grubbier, less flattering to women. And dear Fenella …” He took another deep draft of his ale. “Hers would have been more lurid, far more dramatic; the tragedy would have become grotesque, the love a frenzied passion, the whole thing rather gaudy; the real feeling, and the real pain, lost in effect—like the colored lights of a stage.”
“And yet you like to come to a public house full of actors of one sort or another,” Monk pointed out.
Septimus looked across the tables and his eye fell on a man of perhaps thirty-five, lean and oddly dressed, his face animated, but under the mask a weariness of disappointed hopes.
“I like it here,” he said gently. “I like the people. They have imagination to take them out of the commonplace, to forget the defeats of reality and feed on the triumphs of dreams.” His face was softened, its tired lines lifted by tolerance and affection. “They can evoke any mood they want into their faces and make themselves believe it for an hour or two. That takes courage, Mr. Monk; it takes a rare inner strength. The world, people like Basil, find it ridiculous—but I find it very heartening.”
There was a roar of laughter from one of the other tables, and for a moment he glanced towards it before turning back to Monk again. “If we can still surmount what is natural and believe what we wish to believe, in spite of the force of evidence, then for a while at least we are masters of our fate, and we can paint the world we want. I had rather do it with actors than with too much wine or a pipe full of opium.”
Someone climbed on a chair and began an oration to a few catcalls and a smattering of applause.
“And I like their humor,” Septimus went on. “They know how to laugh at themselves and each other—they like to laugh, they don’t see any sin in it, or any danger to their dignity. They like to argue. They don’t feel it a mortal wound if anyone queries what they say, indeed they expect to be questioned.” He smiled ruefully. “And if they are forced to a new idea, they turn it over like a child with a toy. They may be vain, Mr. Monk; indeed they assuredly are vain, like a garden full of peacocks forever fanning their tails and squawking.” He looked at Monk without perception or double meaning. “And they are ambitious, self-absorbed, quarrelsome and often supremely trivial.”
Monk felt a pang of guilt, as if an arrow had brushed by his cheek and missed its mark.
“But they amuse me,” Septimus said gently. “And they listen to me without condemnation, and never once has one of them tried to convince me I have some moral or social obligation to be different. No, Mr. Monk, I enjoy myself here. I feel comfortable.”
“You have explained yourself excellently, sir.” Monk smiled at him, for once without guile. “I understand why. Tell me something about Mr. Kellard.”
The pleasure vanished out of Septimus’s face. “Why? Do you think he had something to do with Tavie’s death?”
“Is it likely, do you think?”
Septimus shrugged and set down his mug.
“I don’t know. I don’t like the man. My opinion is of no use to you.”
“Why do you not like him, Mr. Thirsk?”
But the old military code of honor was too strong. Septimus smiled dryly, full of self-mockery. “A matter of instinct, Mr. Monk,” he lied, and Monk knew he was lying. “We have nothing in common in our natures or our interests. He is a banker, I was a soldier, and now I am a time server, enjoying the company of young men who playact and tell stories about crime and passion and the criminal world. And I laugh at all the wrong things, and drink too much now and again. I ruined my life over the love of a woman.” He turned the mug in his hand, fingers caressing it. “Myles despises that. I think it is absurd—but not contemptible. At least I was capable of such a feeling. There is something to be said for that.”
“There is everything to be said for it.” Monk surprised himself; he had no memory of ever having loved, let alone to such cost, and yet he knew without question that to care for any person or issue enough to sacrifice greatly for it was the surest sign of being wholly alive. What a waste of the essence of a man that he should never give enough of himself to any cause, that he should always hear that passive, cowardly voice uppermost which counts the cost and puts caution first. One would grow old and die with the power of one’s soul untasted.
And yet there was something. Even as the thoughts passed through his mind a memory stirred of intense emotions, outrage and grief for someone else, a passion to fight at all posts, not for himself but for others—and for one in particular. He knew loyalty and gratitude, he simply could not force it back into his mind for whom.
Septimus was looking at him curiously.
Monk smiled. “Perhaps he envies you, Mr. Thirsk,” he said spontaneously.
Septimus’s eyebrows rose in amazement. He looked at Monk’s face, seeking sarcasm, and found none.
Monk explained himself. “Without realizing it,” he added. “Maybe Mr. Kellard lacks the depth, or the courage, to feel anything deeply enough to pay for it. To suspect yourself a coward is a very bitter thing indeed.”
Very slowly Septimus smiled, with great sweetness.
“Thank you, Mr. Monk. That is the finest thing anyone has said to me in years.” Then he bit his lip. “I am sorry. I still cannot tell you anything about Myles. All I know is suspicion, and it is not my wound to expose. Perhaps there is no wound at all, and he is merely a bored man with too much time on his hands and an imagination that works too hard.”
Monk did not press him. He knew it would serve no purpose. Septimus was quite capable of keeping silence if he felt honor required it, and taking whatever consequences there were.
Monk finished his cider. “I’ll go and see Mr. Kellard myself. But if you do think of anything that suggests what Mrs. Haslett had discovered that last day, what it was she thought you would understand better than others, please let me know. It may well be that this secret was what caused her death.”
“I have thought,” Septimus replied, screwing up his face. “I have gone over and over in my mind everything we have in common, or that she might have believed we had, and I have found very little. We neither of us cared for Myles—but that seems very trivial. He has never injured me in any way—nor her, that I am aware of. We were both financially dependent upon Basil—but then so is everyone else in the house!”
“Is Mr. Kellard not remunerated for his work at the bank?” Monk was surprised.
Septimus looked at him with mild scorn, not unkindly.
“Certainly. But not to the extent that will support him in the way to which he would like to be accustomed—and definitely not Araminta as well. Also there are social implications to be considered; there are benefits to being Basil Moidore’s daughter which do not accrue to being merely Myles Kellard’s wife, not least of them living in Queen Anne Street.”
Monk had not expected to feel any sympathy for Myles Kellard, but that single sentence, with its wealth of implications, gave him a sudden very sharp change of perception.
“Perhaps you are not aware of the level of entertaining that is conducted there,” Septimus continued, “when the house is not in mourning? We regularly dined diplomats and cabinet ministers, ambassadors and foreign princes, industrial moguls, patrons of the arts and sciences, and on occasion even minor members of our own royalty. Not a few duchesses and dozens of society called in the afternoons. And of course there were all the invitations in return. I should think there are few of
the great houses that have not received the Moidores at one time or another.”
“Did Mrs. Haslett feel the same way?” Monk asked.
Septimus smiled with a rueful turning down of the lips. “She had no choice. She and Haslett were to have moved into a house of their own, but he went into the army before it could be accomplished, and of course Tavie remained in Queen Anne Street. And then Harry, the poor beggar, was killed at Inkermann. One of the saddest things I know. He was the devil of a nice fellow.” He stared into the bottom of his mug, not at the ale dregs but into old grief that still hurt. “Tavie never got over it. She loved him—more than the rest of the family ever understood.”
“I’m sorry,” Monk said gently. “You were very fond of Mrs. Haslett-”
Septimus looked up. “Yes, yes I was. She used to listen to me as if what I said mattered to her. She would let me ramble on—sometimes we drank a little too much together. She was kinder than Fenella—” He stopped, realizing he was on the verge of behaving like less than a gentleman. He stiffened his back painfully and lifted his chin. “If I can help, Inspector, you may be assured that I will.”
“I am assured, Mr. Thirsk.” Monk rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time.”
“I have more of it than I need.” Septimus smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Then he tipped up his mug and drank the dregs, and Monk could see his face distorted through the glass bottom.
***
Monk found Fenella Sandeman the next day at the end of a long late-morning ride, standing by her horse at the Kensington Gardens end of Rotten Row. She was superbly dressed in a black riding habit with gleaming boots and immaculate black Mousquetaire hat. Only her high-necked blouse and stock were vivid white. Her dark hair was neatly arranged, and her face with its unnatural color and painted eyebrows looked rakish and artificial in the cool November daylight.
“Why, Mr. Monk,” she said in amazement, looking him up and down and evidently approving what she saw. “Whatever brings you walking in the park?” She gave a girlish giggle. “Shouldn’t you be questioning the servants or something? How does one detect?”