by Anne Perry
“Do you think she believes him guilty?” He stood against the mantel shelf, hands in his pockets, face puckered with concentration.
She had thought hard about this ever since the incident, and her reply was ready on her lips.
“She is not afraid of him, of that I am certain. But there is a deep emotion there which has a bitterness to it, and I think he is more afraid of her—but I don’t know if that has anything to do with Octavia’s death or is simply that she has the power to hurt him.”
She took a deep breath. “It must be extremely difficult for him, living in his father-in-law’s house and in a very real way being under his jurisdiction and constantly obliged to please him or face very considerable unpleasantness. And Sir Basil does seem to rule with a heavy hand, from what I have seen.” She sat sideways on the arm of one of the chairs, an attitude which would have sent Mrs. Willis into a rage, both for its unladylike pose and for the harm she was sure it would do to the chair.
“I have not seen much of Mr. Thirsk or Mrs. Sandeman yet. She leads quite a busy life, and perhaps I am maligning her, but I am sure she drinks. I have seen enough of it in the war to recognize the signs, even in highly unlikely people. I saw her yesterday morning with a fearful headache which, from the pattern of her recovery, was not any ordinary illness. But I may be hasty; I only met her on the landing as I was going in to Lady Moidore.”
He smiled very slightly. “And what do you think of Lady Moidore?”
Every vestige of humor vanished from her face. “I think she is very frightened. She knows or believes something which is so appalling that she dare not confront it, yet neither can she put it from her mind—”
“That it was Myles Kellard who killed Octavia?” he asked, stepping forward a pace. “Hester—be careful!” He took her arm and held it hard, the pressure of his fingers so strong as to be almost painful. “Watch and listen as your opportunities allow, but do not ask anything! Do you hear me?”
She backed away, rubbing her arm. “Of course I hear you. You requested me to help—I am doing so. I have no intention of asking any questions—they would not answer them anyway but would dismiss me for being impertinent and intrusive. I am a servant here.”
“What about the servants?” He did not move away but remained close to her. “Be careful of the menservants, Hester, particularly the footmen. It is quite likely one of them had amorous ideas about Octavia, and misunderstood”—he shrugged—“or even understood correctly, and she got tired of the affair—”
“Good heavens. You are no better than Myles Kellard,” she snapped at him. “He all but implied Octavia was a trollop.”
“It is only a possibility!” he hissed sharply. “Keep your voice down. For all we know there may be a row of eavesdroppers at the door. Does your bedroom have a lock?”
“No.”
“Then put a chair behind the handle.”
“I hardly think—” Then she remembered that Octavia Haslett had been murdered in her bedroom in the middle of the night, and she found she was shaking in spite of herself.
“It is someone in this house!” Monk repeated, watching her closely.
“Yes,” she said obediently. “Yes, I know that. We all know that—that is what is so terrible.”
6
HESTER LEFT her interview with Monk considerably chastened. Seeing him again had reminded her that this was not an ordinary household, and the difference of opinion, the quarrels, which seemed a trivial nastiness, in one case had been so deep they had led to violent and treacherous death. One of those people she looked at across the meal table, or passed on the stairs, had stabbed Octavia in the night and left her to bleed.
It made her a little sick as she returned to Beatrice’s bedroom and knocked on the door before entering. Beatrice was standing by the window staring out into the remains of the autumn garden and watching the gardener’s boy sweeping up the fallen leaves and pulling a few last weeds from around the Michaelmas daisies. Arthur, his hair blowing in the wind, was helping with the solemnity of a ten-year-old. Beatrice turned as Hester came in, her face pale, her eyes wide and anxious.
“You look distressed,” she said, staring at Hester. She walked over to the dressing chair but did not sit, as if the chair would imprison her and she desired the freedom to move suddenly. “Why did the police want to see you? You weren’t here when—when Tavie was killed.”
“No, Lady Moidore.” Hester’s mind raced for a reason which would be believed, and perhaps which might even prompt Beatrice to yield something of the fear Hester was sure so troubled her. “I am not entirely certain, but I believe he thought I might have observed something since I came. And I have no cause for prevaricating, insofar as I could not fear he might accuse me.”
“Who do you think is lying?” Beatrice asked.
Hester hesitated very slightly and moved to tidy the bed, plump up the pillows and generally appear to be working. “I don’t know, but it is quite certain that someone must be.”
Beatrice looked startled, as though it were not an answer she had foreseen.
“You mean someone is protecting the murderer? Why? Who would do such a thing and why? What reason could they have?”
Hester tried to excuse herself. “I meant merely that since it is someone in the house, that person is lying to protect himself.” Then she realized the opportunity she had very nearly lost. “Although when you mention it, you are quite right, it seems most unlikely that no one else has any idea who it is, or why. I daresay several people are evading the truth, one way or another.” She glanced up from the bed at Beatrice. “Wouldn’t you, Lady Moidore?”
Beatrice hesitated. “I fear so,” she said very quietly.
“If you ask me who,” Hester went on, disregarding the fact that no one had asked her, “I have formed very few opinions. I can easily imagine why some people would hide a truth they knew, or suspected, in order to protect someone they cared for—” She watched Beatrice’s face and saw the muscles tighten as if pain had caught her unaware. “I would hesitate to say something,” Hester continued, “which might cause an unjustified suspicion—and therefore a great deal of distress. For example, an affection that might have been misunderstood—”
Beatrice stared back at her, wide-eyed. “Did you say that to Mr. Monk?”
“Oh no,” Hester replied demurely. “He might have thought I had someone in particular in mind.”
Beatrice smiled very slightly. She walked back towards the bed and lay on it, weary not in body but in mind, and Hester gently pulled the covers over her, trying to hide her own impatience. She was convinced Beatrice knew something, and every day that passed in silence was adding to the danger that it might never be discovered but that the whole household would close in on itself in corroding suspicion and concealed accusations. And would her silence be enough to protect her indefinitely from the murderer?
“Are you comfortable?” she asked gently.
“Yes thank you,” Beatrice said absently. “Hester?”
“Yes?”
“Were you frightened in the Crimea? It must have been dangerous at times. Did you not fear for yourself—and for those of whom you had grown fond?”
“Yes of course.” Hester’s mind flew back to the times when she had lain in her cot with horror creeping over her skin and the sick knowledge of what pain awaited the men she had seen so shortly before, the numbing cold in the heights above Sebastopol, the mutilation of wounds, the carnage of battle, bodies broken and so mangled as to be almost unrecognizable as human, only as bleeding flesh, once alive and capable of unimaginable pain. It was seldom herself for whom she had been frightened; only sometimes, when she was so tired she felt ill, did the sudden specter of typhoid or cholera so terrify her as to cause her stomach to lurch and the sweat to break out and stand cold on her body.
Beatrice was looking at her, for once her eyes sharp with real interest—there was nothing polite or feigned in it.
Hester smiled. “Yes I was afraid someti
mes, but not often. Mostly I was too busy. When you can do something about even the smallest part of it, the overwhelming sick horror goes. You stop seeing the whole thing and see only the tiny part you are dealing with, and the fact that you can do something calms you. Even if all you accomplish is easing one person’s distress or helping someone to endure with hope instead of despair. Sometimes it is just tidying up that helps, getting a kind of order out of the chaos.”
Only when she had finished and saw the understanding in Beatrice’s face did she realize the additional meanings of what she had said. If anyone had asked her earlier if she would have changed her life for Beatrice’s, married and secure in status and well-being with family and friends, she would have accepted it as a woman’s most ideal role, as if it were a stupid thing even to doubt.
Perhaps Beatrice would just as quickly have refused. Now they had both changed their views with a surprise which was still growing inside them. Beatrice was safe from material misfortune, but she was also withering inside with boredom and lack of accomplishment. Pain appalled her because she had no part in addressing it. She endured passively, without knowledge or weapon with which to fight it, either in herself or in those she loved or pitied. It was a kind of distress Hester had seen before, but never more than casually, and never with so sharp and wounding an understanding.
Now it would be clumsy to try to put into words what was far too subtle, and which they both needed time to face in their own perceptions. Hester wanted to say something that would offer comfort, but anything that came to her mind sounded patronizing and would have shattered the delicate empathy between them.
“What would you like for luncheon?” she asked.
“Does it matter?” Beatrice smiled and shrugged, sensing the subtlety of moving from one subject to another quite different, and painlessly trivial.
“Not in the least.” Hester smiled ruefully. “But you might as well please yourself, rather than the cook.”
“Well not egg custard or rice pudding!” Beatrice said with feeling. “It reminds me of the nursery. It is like being a child again.”
Hester had only just returned with the tray of cold mutton, fresh pickle, and bread and butter and a large slice of fruit flan with cream, to Beatrice’s obvious approval, when there was a sharp rap on the door and Basil came in. He walked past Hester as if he had not seen her and sat down in one of the dressing chairs close to the bed, crossing his legs and making himself comfortable.
Hester was uncertain whether to leave or not. She had few tasks to do here, and yet she was extremely curious to know more of the relationship between Beatrice and her husband, a relationship which left the woman with such a feeling of isolation that she retreated to her room instead of running towards him, either for him to protect her or the better to battle it together. After all the affliction must lie in the area of family, emotions; there must be in it grief, love, hate, probably jealousy—all surely a woman’s province, the area in which her skills mattered and her strength could be used?
Now Beatrice sat propped up against her pillows and ate the cold mutton with pleasure.
Basil looked at it disapprovingly. “Is that not rather heavy for an invalid? Let me send for something better, my dear—” He reached for the bell without waiting for her answer.
“I like it,” she said with a flash of anger. “There is nothing wrong with my digestion. Hester got it for me and it is not Mrs. Boden’s fault. She’d have sent me more rice pudding if I had let her.”
“Hester?” He frowned. “Oh—the nurse.” He spoke as if she were not there, or could not hear him. “Well—I suppose if you wish it.”
“I do.” She ate a few more mouthfuls before speaking again. “I assume Mr. Monk is still coming?”
“Of course. But he seems to be accomplishing singularly little—indeed I have seen no signs that he has achieved anything at all. He keeps questioning the servants. We shall be fortunate if they do not all give notice when this is over.” He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and put his fingertips together. “I have no idea how he hopes to come to any resolution. I think, my dear, you may have to prepare yourself for facing the fact that we may never know who it was.” He was watching her and saw the sudden tightening, the hunch of her shoulders and the knuckles white where she held the knife. “Of course I have certain ideas,” he went on. “I cannot imagine it was any of the female staff—”
“Why not?” she asked. “Why not, Basil? It is perfectly possible for a woman to stab someone with a knife. It doesn’t take a great deal of strength; And Octavia would be far less likely to fear a woman in her room in the middle of the night than a man.”
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Really, Beatrice, don’t you think it is time to accept a few truths about Octavia? She had been widowed nearly two years. She was a young woman in the prime of her life—”
“So she had an affair with the footman!” Beatrice said furiously, her eyes wide, her voice cutting in its scorn. “Is that what you think of your daughter, Basil? If anyone in this house is reduced to finding their pleasure with a servant, it is far more likely to be Fenella! Except that I doubt she would ever have inspired a passion which drove anyone to murder—unless it was to murder her. Nor would she have changed her mind and resisted at the last moment. I doubt Fenella ever declined anyone—” Her face twisted in distaste and incomprehension.
His expression mirrored an equal disgust, mixed with an anger that was no sudden flash but came from deep within him.
“Vulgarity is most unbecoming, Beatrice, and even this tragedy is no excuse for it. I shall admonish Fenella if I think the occasion warrants it. I take it you are not suggesting Fenella killed Octavia in a fit of jealousy over the attentions of the footman?”
It was obviously intended as sarcasm, but she took it literally.
“I was not suggesting it,” she agreed. “But now that you raise the thought, it does not seem impossible. Percival is a good-looking young man, and I have observed Fenella regarding him with appreciation.” Her face puckered and she shuddered very slightly. “I know it is revolting—” She stared beyond him to the dressing table with its cut glass containers and silver-topped bottles neatly arranged. “But there is a streak of viciousness in Fenella—”
He stood up and turned his back to her, looking out of the window, still apparently oblivious of Hester standing in the dressing room doorway with a peignoir over her arm and a clothes brush in her hand.
“You are a great deal more fastidious than most women, Beatrice,” he said flatly. “I think sometimes you do not know the difference between restraint and abstemiousness.”
“I know the difference between a footman and a gentleman,” she said quietly, and then stopped and frowned, a curious little twitch of humor on her lips. “That’s a lie—I have no idea at all. I have no familiarity with footmen whatsoever—”
He swung around, unaware of the slightest humor in her remark or in the situation, only anger and acute insult.
“This tragedy has unhinged your mind,” he said coldly, his black eyes flat, seeming expressionless in the lamplight. “You have lost your sense of what is fitting and what is not. I think it will be better if you remain here until you can compose yourself. I suppose it is to be expected, you are not strong. Let Miss—what is her name—care for you. Araminta will see to the household until you are better. We shall not be entertaining, naturally. There is no need for you to concern yourself; we shall manage very well.” And without saying anything further he walked out and closed the door very quietly behind him, letting the latch fall home with a thud.
Beatrice pushed her unfinished tray away from her and turned over, burying her face in the pillows, and Hester could see from the quivering of her shoulders that she was weeping, although she made no sound.
Hester took the tray and put it on the side table, then wrung out a cloth in warm water from the ewer and returned to the bed. Very gently she put her arms around the other woman and held
her until she was quiet, then, with great care, smoothed the hair off her brow and wiped her eyes and cheeks with the cloth.
It was the beginning of the afternoon when she was returning from the laundry with her clean aprons that Hester half accidentally overheard an exchange between the footman Percival and the laundry maid Rose. Rose was folding a pile of embroidered linen pillowcases and had just given Lizzie, who was her elder sister, the parlormaid’s lace-edged aprons. She was standing very upright, her back rigid, her shoulders squared and her chin high. She was tiny, with a waist even Hester could almost have put her hands around, and small, square hands with amazing strength in them. Her cornflower-blue eyes were enormous in her pretty face, not spoiled by a rather long nose and overgenerous mouth.
“What do you want in here?” she asked, but her words were belied by her voice. It was phrased as a demand, but it sounded like an invitation.
“Mr. Kellard’s shirts,” Percival said noncommittally.
“I didn’t know that was your job. You’ll have Mr. Rhodes after you if you step out of your duties!”
“Rhodes asked me to do it for him,” he replied.
“Though you’d like to be a valet, wouldn’t you? Get to travel with Mr. Kellard when he goes to stay at these big houses for parties and the like—” Her voice caressed the idea, and listening, Hester could envision her eyes shining, her lips parted in anticipation, all the excitement and delights imagined, new people, an elegant servants’ hall, food, music, late nights, wine, laughter and gossip.
“It’d be all right,” Percival agreed, for the first time a lift of warmth in his voice also. “Although I get to some interesting places now.” That was the tone of the braggart, and Hester knew it.
It seemed Rose did too. “But not inside,” she pointed out. “You have to wait in the mews with the carriages.”
“Oh no I don’t.” There was a note of sharpness in his voice, and Hester could imagine the glitter in his eyes and the little curl of his lips. She had seen it several times as he walked through the kitchen past the maids. “I quite often go inside.”