by Anne Perry
Alone?
Apparently. No one had observed her with someone else.
All the answers seemed frank and without guile; the women who gave them bemused, sad, troubled—but honest. And all were unprofitable.
As he went from one smart house to another, echoes of memory drifted across his mind, like wraiths of mist, and as insubstantial. As soon as he grasped them they became nothing. Only the echo of emotion remained, fierce and painful, love, fear, terrible anxiety and a dread of failure.
Had Alexandra gone to seek counsel or comfort from a Roman Catholic priest? Possibly. But there was no point in looking for such a man; his secrets were inviolable. But it must surely have been something profound to have driven her to find a priest of a different faith, a stranger in whom to confide.
There were two other outstanding possibilities to investigate. First, that Alexandra had been jealous not of Louisa Furnival but of some other woman, and in this case justifiably so. From what he had learned of him, Monk could not see the general as an amorous adventurer, or even as a man likely to fall passionately in love to a degree where he would throw away his career and his reputation by abandoning his wife and his only son, still a child. And a mere affair was not cause for most wives to resort to murder. If Alexandra had loved her husband so possessively as to prefer him dead rather than in the arms of another woman, then she was a superb actress. She appeared intelligent and somewhat indifferent to the fact that her husband was dead. She was stunned, but not racked with grief; frightened for herself, but even more frightened for her secret being discovered. Surely a woman who had just killed a man she loved in such a fashion would show some traces of such a consuming love—and the devastation of grief.
And why hide it? Why pretend it was Louisa if it was not? It made no sense.
Nevertheless he would investigate it. Every possibility must be explored, no matter how remote, or seemingly nonsensical.
The other possibility—and it seemed more likely—was that Alexandra herself had a lover; and now that she was a widow, she intended in due course to marry whoever it was. That made far more sense. It would be understandable, in those circumstances, if she hid the facts. If Thaddeus had betrayed her with another woman, she was at least the injured party. She might have, in some wild hope, imagined society would excuse her.
But if she wished to betray him with a lover of her own, and had murdered him to free herself, no one on earth would excuse that.
In fact the more Monk thought about it, the more did it seem the only solution that fitted all they knew. It was an exceedingly ugly thought—but imperative he learn if it were the truth.
He decided to begin at Alexandra Carlyon’s home, which she had shared with the general for the last ten years of his life, since his return from active service abroad. Since Monk was indirectly in Mrs. Carlyon’s employ, and she had so far not been convicted of any crime, he felt certain he would find a civil, even friendly reception.
The house on Portland Place was closed and forbidding in appearance, the blinds drawn in mourning and a black wreath on the door. For the first time he could recall, he presented himself at the servants’ entrance, as if he had been hawking household goods or was calling to visit some relative in service.
The back door was opened by a bootboy of perhaps twelve years, round-faced, snub-nosed and wary.
“Yes sir?” he said guardedly. Monk imagined he had probably been told by the butler to be very careful of inquisitive strangers, most especially if they might be from the newspapers. Had he been butler he would have said something of the sort.
“Wotcher want?” the boy added as Monk said nothing.
“To speak with your butler, and if he is not available, with your housekeeper,” Monk replied. He hoped fervently that Alexandra had been a considerate mistress, and her staff were loyal enough to her to wish her well now and give what assistance they might to someone seeking to’aid her cause, and that they would have sufficient understanding to accept that that was indeed his aim.
“Woffor?” The boy was not so easily beguiled. He looked Monk up and down, the quality of his suit, his stiff-collared white shirt and immaculate boots. “’Oo are yer, mister?”
“William Monk, employed by Mrs. Carlyon’s barrister.”
The boy scowled. “Wot’s a barrister?”
“Lawyer—who speaks for her in court.”
“Oh—well, yer’d better come in. I’ll get Mr. ’Agger.” And he opened the door wider and permitted Monk into the back kitchen. He was left to stand there while the boy went for the butler, who was in charge of the house now that both master and mistress were gone, until either Mrs. Carlyon should be acquitted or the executors should dispose of the estate.
Monk stared about him. He could see through the open doorway into the laundry room, where the dolly tub was standing with its wooden dolly for moving, lifting and turning the clothes, the mangle for squeezing out the water, and the long shelf with jars of various substances for washing the different kinds of cloth: boiled bran for sponging chintz; clean horses’ hoof parings for woollens; turpentine and ground sheep’s trotters, or chalk, to remove oil and grease; lemon or onion juice for ink; warm cows’ milk for wine or vinegar stains; stale bread for gold, silver or silken fabrics; and of course some soap.
There were also jars of bleach, a large tub of borax for heavy starching, and a board and knife for cutting up old potatoes to soak for articles to be more lightly starched.
Monk recognized them all from dim memories, habit, and recollections of more recent investigations which had taken him into kitchens and laundry rooms. This was apparently a well-run household, with all the attentions to detail one would expect from an efficient staff.
Sharply he recalled his mother with the luxury of home made soap from fat and wood ash. For the laundry, like other poorer women, she used lye, the liquid made from wood ash collected from furnaces and open fires and then mixed with water. Sometimes urine, fowl dung or bran were added to make it more effective. In 1853 the tax had been taken off soap, but that was long after he left home. She would have been overwhelmed by all this abundance.
He turned his attention to the room he was in, but had little time to see more than the racks piled with brussels sprouts, asparagus, cabbage and strings of stored onions and potatoes kept from last autumn, when the butler appeared, clad in total black and looking grim. He was a man in his middle years, short, sandy-haired, with mustache, thick side whiskers, and balding on top. His voice when he spoke was very precise.
“Yes, Mr.—er, Monk? What can we do for you? Any way in which we can help the mistress, of course we will. But you understand I shall need some proof of your identity and your purpose in coming here?” He clicked his teeth. “I don’t mean to be uncivil, sir, but you must understand we have had some charlatans here, pretending to be who they were not, and out to deceive us for their own purposes.”
“Of course.” Monk produced his card, and a letter from Rathbone, and one from Peverell Erskine. “Very prudent of you, Mr. Hagger. You are to be commended.”
Hagger closed his eyes again, but the pink in his cheeks indicated that he had heard the compliment, and appreciated it.
“Well, sir, what can we do for you?” he said after he had read the letters and handed them back. “Perhaps you would care to come into the pantry where we can be private?”
“Thank you, that would be excellent,” Monk accepted, and followed him into the small room, taking the offered seat. Hagger sat opposite him and looked enquiringly.
As a matter of principle, Monk told him as little as possible. One could always add more later; one could not retract.
He must begin slowly, and hope to elicit the kind of information he wanted, disguised among more trivial details.
“Perhaps you would begin by telling me something of the running of the house, Mr. Hagger? How many staff have you? How long have they been here, and if you please, something of what you know of them—where they were before
here, and so on.”
“If you wish, sir.” Hagger looked dubious. “Although I cannot see how that can possibly help.”
“Nor I—yet,” Monk conceded. “But it is a place to begin.”
Dutifully Hagger named the staff, their positions in the household and what their references said of them. Then at Monk’s prompting he began to outline a normal week’s events.
Monk stopped him once or twice to ask for more detail about a dinner party, the guests, the menu, the general’s attitude, how Mrs. Carlyon had behaved, and on occasions when she and the general had gone out, whom they had visited.
“Did Mr. and Mrs. Pole dine here often?” he asked as artlessly as he could.
“No sir, very seldom,” Hagger replied. “Mrs. Pole only came when the general was away from home.” His face clouded. “I am afraid, sir, that there was some ill feeling there, owing to an event in the past, before Miss Sabella’s marriage.”
“Yes, I am aware of it. Mrs. Carlyon told me.” It was an extension of the truth. Alexandra had told Edith Sobell, who had told Hester, who in turn had told him. “But Mrs. Carlyon and her daughter remained close?”
“Oh yes sir.” Hagger’s face lightened a little. “Mrs. Carlyon was always most fond of all her children, and relations were excellent—” He broke off with a frown so slight Monk was not sure if he had imagined it.
“But …” he said aloud.
Hagger shook his head. “Nothing, sir. They were always excellent.”
“You were going to add something.”
“Well, only that she seemed a trifle closer to her daughters, but I imagine that is natural in a woman. Master Cassian was very fond of his father, poor child. Thought the world o’ the general, he did. Very natural ’e should. General took a lot o’ care with ’im; spent time, which is more than many a man will with ’is son, ’specially a man as busy as the general, and as important. Admired him for that, I did.”
“A fine trait,” Monk agreed. “One many a son might envy. I assume from what you say that these times did not include Mrs. Carlyon’s presence?”
“No, sir, I can’t recall as they ever did. I suppose they spoke of man’s affairs, not suitable for ladies—the army, acts o’ heroism and fighting, adventures, exploration and the like.” Hagger shifted in his seat a trifle. “The boy used to come downstairs with stars in his eyes, poor child—and a smile on his lips.” He shook his head. “I can’t think what he must be feeling, fair stunned and lost, I shouldn’t wonder.”
For the first time since seeing Alexandra Carlyon in prison Monk felt an overwhelming anger against her, crowding out pity and divorcing him utterly from the other woman who haunted the periphery of his mind, and whose innocence he had struggled so intensely to prove. She had had no child—of that he was quite certain. And younger—yes, she had been younger. He did not know why he was so sure of that, but it was a certainty inside him like the knowledge one has in dreams, without knowing where it came from.
He forced himself back to the present. Hagger was staring at him, a flicker of anxiety returning to his face.
“Where is he?” Monk asked aloud.
“With his grandparents, sir, Colonel and Mrs. Carlyon. They sent for him as soon as ’is mother was took.”
“Did you know Mrs. Furnival?”
“I have seen her, sir. She and Mr. Furnival dined here on occasion, but that’s all I could say—not exactly ‘know.’ She didn’t come ’ere very often.”
“I thought the general was a good friend of the Furnivals’?”
“Yes sir, so ’e was. But far more often ’e went there.”
“How often?”
Hagger looked harassed and tired, but there was no guilt in his expression and no evasion. “Well, as I understand it from Holmes, that’s ’is valet, about once or twice a week. But if you’re thinking it was anything improper, sir, all I can say is I most sincerely think as you’re mistaken. The general ’ad business with Mr. Furnival, and ’e went there to ’elp the gentleman. And most obliged Mr. Furnival was too, from what I hear.”
Monk asked the question he had been leading towards, the one that mattered most, and whose answer now he curiously dreaded.
“Who were Mrs. Carlyon’s friends, if not Mrs. Furnival? I imagine she had friends, people she called upon and who came here, people with whom she attended parties, dances, the theater and so on?”
“Oh yes, sir, naturally.”
“Who are they?”
Hagger listed a dozen or so names, most of them married couples.
“Mr. Oundel?” Monk asked. “Was there no Mrs. Oundel?” He felt surprisingly miserable as he asked it. He did not want the answer.
“No sir, she died some time ago. Very lonely, he was, poor gentleman. Used to come ’ere often.”
“I see. Mrs. Carlyon was fond of him?”
“Yes sir, I think she was. Sony for ’im, I should say. ’E used to call in the afternoons sometimes, and they’d sit in the garden and talk for ages. Went ’ome fairly lifted in spirits.” He smiled as he said it, and looked at Monk with a sudden sadness in his eyes. “Very good to ’im, she was.”
Monk felt a little sick.
“What is Mr. Oundel’s occupation? Or is he a gentleman of leisure?”
“Bless you, sir, ’e’s retired. Must be eighty if ’e’s a day, poor old gentleman.”
“Oh.” Monk felt such an overwhelming relief it was absurd. He wanted to smile, to say something wild and happy. Hagger would think he had taken leave of his wits—or at the very least his manners. “Yes—yes, I see. Thank you very much. You have been most helpful. Perhaps I should speak to her ladies’ maid? She is still in the house?”
“Oh yes sir, we wouldn’t presume to let any of the staff go until—I mean …” Hagger stopped awkardly.
“Of course,” Monk agreed. “I understand. Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.” He rose to his feet.
Hagger also rose to his feet, his face tightened, and he fumbled awkwardly. “Is there any hope, sir, that …”
“I don’t know,” Monk said candidly. “What I need to know, Mr. Hagger, is what reason Mrs. Carlyon could possibly have for wishing her husband dead.”
“Oh—I’m sure I can’t think of any! Can’t you—I mean, I wish…”
“No,” Monk cut off hope instantly. “I am afraid she is definitely responsible; there can be no doubt.”
Hagger’s face fell. “I see. I had hoped—I mean … someone else … and she was protecting them.”
“Is that the sort of person she was?”
“Yes sir, I believe so—a great deal of courage, stood up to anyone to protect ’er own …”
“Miss Sabella?”
“Yes sir—but …” Hagger was caught in a dilemma, his face pink, his body stiff.
“It’s all right,” Monk assured him. “Miss Sabella was not responsible. That is beyond question.”
Hagger relaxed a little. “I don’t know ’ow to ’elp,” he said miserably. “There isn’t any reason why a decent woman kills her husband—unless he threatened her life.”
“Was the general ever violent towards her?”
Hagger looked shocked. “Oh no sir! Most certainly not.”
“Would you know, if he had been?”
“I believe so, sir. But you can ask Ginny, what’s Mrs. Carlyon’s maid. She’d know beyond question.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Hagger, if you will be so good as to allow me to go upstairs and find her?”
“I’ll ’ave ’er sent for.”
“No—I should prefer to speak to her in her normal place of work, if you please. Make her less nervous, you understand?” Actually that was not the reason. Monk wished to see Alexandra’s bedroom and if possible her dressing room and something of her wardrobe. It would furnish him a better picture of the woman. All he had seen her wearing was a dark skirt and plain blouse; far from her usual dress, he imagined.
“By all means,” Hagger concurred. “If you’ll follow me
, sir.” And he led the way through a surprisingly busy kitchen, where the cook was presiding over the first preparation for a large dinner. The scullery maid had apparently already prepared the vegetables, the kitchen maid was carrying dirty pots and pans to the sink for the scullery maid to wash, and the cook herself was chopping large quantities of meat ready to put into a pie dish, lined with pastry, and the crust ready rolled to go on when she had finished.
A packet of Purcel’s portable jelly mixture, newly available since the Great Exhibition of 1851, was lying ready to make for a later course, along with cold apple pie, cream and fresh cheese. It looked as if the meal would feed a dozen.
Then of course Monk remembered that even when all the family were at home, they only added three more to the household, which was predominantly staff, and with upstairs and downstairs, indoor and outdoor, must have numbered at least twelve, and they continued regardless of the death of the general or the imprisonment of Mrs. Carlyon, at least for the moment.
Along the corridor they passed the pantry, where a footman was cleaning the knives with India rubber, a buff leather knife board and a green-and-red tin of Wellington knife polish. Then past the housekeeper’s sitting room with door closed, the butler’s sitting room similarly, and through the green baize door to the main house. Of course most of the cleaning work would normally be done before the family rose for breakfast, but at present there was hardly any need, so the maids had an extra hour in bed, and were now occupied in sweeping, beating carpets, polishing floors with melted candle ends and turpentine, cleaning brass with boiling vinegar.
Up the stairs and along the landing Monk followed Hagger until they came to the master bedroom, apparently the general’s, past his dressing room next door, and on to a very fine sunny and spacious room which he announced as being Mrs. Carlyon’s. Opening off it to the left was a dressing room where cupboard doors stood open and a ladies’ maid was busy brushing down a blue-gray outdoor cape which must have suited Alexandra’s fair coloring excellently.
The girl looked up in surprise as she saw Hagger, and Monk behind him. Monk judged her to be in her mid-twenties, thin and dark, but with a remarkably pleasant countenance.