A Dangerous Mourning Read online

  Monk could imagine the outrage, the fear and the excuses that would take place over the next days or weeks. Whitehall would be spurred by complaints. Explanations would be offered, polite refusals given, and then when their lordships had left, Runcorn would be sent for and reports requested with icy disfavor hiding a hot panic.

  And Runcorn would break out in a sweat of humiliation and anxiety. He hated failure and had no idea how to stand his ground. And he in turn would pass on his fears, disguised as official anger, to Monk.

  Basil Moidore would be at the beginning of the chain—and at the end, when Monk returned to his house to tear apart the comfort and safe beliefs of his family, all their assumptions about one another and the dead woman they were burying with such a fashionable funeral now.

  A newsboy strolled past as Monk turned to go inside.

  “ ’Orrible murder!” the boy shouted out, regardless of standing beside the church steps. “Police baffled! Read all about it!”

  The service was very formal, sonorous voices intoning all the well-known words, organ music swelling somberly, everything jewel colors of stained glass, gray masses of stone, light on a hundred textures of black, the shuffle of feet and rustle of fabric. Someone sniffed. Footsteps were loud as ushers moved down the aisles. Boots squeaked.

  Monk waited at the back, and as they left to go after the coffin to the family vault he followed as closely as he dared.

  During the interment he stood behind them, next to a large man with a bald head, his few strands of hair fluttering in the sharpening November wind.

  Beatrice Moidore was immediately in front of him, close to her husband now.

  “Did you see that policeman here?” she asked him very quietly. “Standing at the back behind the Lewises.”

  “Of course,” he replied. “Thank God at least he is discreet and he looks like a mourner.”

  “His suit is beautifully cut,” she said with a lift of surprise in her voice. “They must pay them more than I thought. He almost looks like a gentleman.”

  “He does not,” Basil said sharply. “Don’t be ridiculous, Beatrice.”

  “He’ll be back, you know.” She ignored his criticism.

  “Of course he’ll be back,” he said between his teeth. “He’ll be back every day until he gives up—or discovers who it was.”

  “Why did you say ‘give up’ first?” she asked. “Don’t you think he will find out?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Basil?”

  “What?”

  “What will we do if he doesn’t?”

  His voice was resigned. “Nothing. There is nothing to do.”

  “I don’t think I can live the rest of my life not knowing.”

  He lifted his shoulders fractionally. “You will have to, my dear. There will be no alternative. Many cases are unsolved. We shall have to remember her as she was, grieve for her, and then continue our lives.”

  “Are you being willfully deaf to me, Basil?” Her voice shook only at the last word.

  “I have heard every word you said, Beatrice—and replied to it,” he said impatiently. Both of them remained looking ahead all the time, as if their full attention were on the interment. Opposite them Fenella was leaning heavily on Septimus. He propped her up automatically, his mind obviously elsewhere. From the look of sadness not only in his face but in the whole attitude of his body, he was thinking of Octavia.

  “It was not an intruder,” Beatrice went on with quiet anger. “Every day we shall look ’round at faces, listen to inflections of voices and hear double meanings in everything that is said, and wonder if it was that person, or if not, if they know who it was.”

  “You are being hysterical,” Basil snapped, his voice hard in spite of its very quietness. “If it will help you to keep control of yourself, I’ll dismiss all the servants and we’ll hire a new staff. Now for God’s sake pay attention to the service!”

  “Dismiss the servants.” Her words were strangled in her throat. “Oh, Basil! How will that help?”

  He stood still, his body rigid under the black broadcloth, his shoulders high.

  “Are you saying you think it was one of the family?” he said at last, all expression ironed out of his voice.

  She lifted her head a little higher. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Do you know something, Beatrice?”

  “Only what we all know—and what common sense tells me.” Unconsciously she turned her head a fraction towards Myles Kellard on the far side of the crypt.

  Beside him Araminta was staring back at her mother. She could not possibly have heard anything of what had passed between her parents, but her hands tightened in front of her, holding a small handkerchief and tearing it apart.

  The interment was over. The vicar intoned the last amen, and the company turned to depart. Cyprian and his wife, Araminta with several feet between herself and her husband, Septimus militarily upright and Fenella staggering a trifle, lastly Sir Basil and Lady Moidore side by side.

  Monk watched them go with pity, anger and a growing sense of darkness.

  4

  “DO YOU WANT ME to keep on looking for the jewelry?” Evan asked, his face puckered with doubt. Obviously he believed there was no purpose to it at all.

  Monk agreed with him. In all probability it had been thrown away, or even destroyed. Whatever the motive had been for the death of Octavia Haslett, he was sure it was not robbery, not even a greedy servant sneaking into her room to steal. It would be too stupid to do it at the one time he, or she, could be absolutely sure Octavia would be there, when there was all day to do such a thing undisturbed.

  “No,” he said decisively. “Much better use your time questioning the servants.” He smiled, baring his teeth, and Evan made a grimace back again. He had already been twice to the Moidore house, each time asking the same things and receiving much the same brief, nervous answers. He could not deduce guilt from their fear. Nearly all servants were afraid of the police; the sheer embarrassment of it was enough to shadow their reputations, let alone suspicion of having any knowledge of a murder. “Someone in that house killed her,” he added.

  Evan raised his eyebrows. “One of the servants?” He kept most of the surprise out of his voice, but there was still a lift of doubt there, and the innocence of his gaze only added to it.

  “A far more comfortable thought,” Monk replied. “We shall certainly find more favor with the powers in the land if we can arrest someone below stairs. But I think that is a gift we cannot reasonably look for. No, I was hoping that by talking with the servants enough we might learn something about the family. Servants notice a great deal, and although they’re trained not to repeat any of it, they might unintentionally, if their own lives are in jeopardy.” They were standing in Monk’s office, smaller and darker than Runcorn’s, even in this bright, sharp, late autumn morning. The plain wooden table was piled with papers, the old carpet worn in a track from door to chair. “You’ve seen most of them,” he went on. “Any impressions so far?”

  “Usual sort of complement,” Evan said slowly. “Maids are mostly young—on the surface they look flighty, given to giggles and triviality.” The sunlight came through the dusty window and picked out the fine lines on his face, throwing his expression into sharp relief. “And yet they earn their livings in a rigid world, full of obedience and among people who care little for them personally. They know a kind of reality that is harsher than mine. Some of the girls are only children.” He looked up at Monk. “In another year or two I’ll be old enough to be their father.” The thought seemed to startle him, and he frowned. “The between-stairs maid is only twelve. I haven’t discovered yet if they know anything of use, but I can’t believe it was one of them.”

  “Maids?” Monk tried to clarify.

  “Yes—older ones I suppose are possible.” Evan looked dubious. “Can’t think why they would, though.”

  “Men?”

  “Can’t imagine the butler.” Evan smiled with a little
twist. “He’s a dry old stick, very formal, very military. If a person ever stirred passion of any sort in him I think it was so long ago even the memory of it has gone now. And why on earth would an excruciatingly respectable butler stab his mistress’s daughter in her bedroom? What could he possibly be doing there in the middle of the night anyway?”

  Monk smiled in spite of himself. “You don’t read enough of the more lurid press, Evan. Listen to the running patterers some time.”

  “Rubbish,” Evan said heartily. “Not Phillips.”

  “Footmen—grooms—bootboy?” Monk pressed. “And what about the older women?”

  Evan was half leaning, half sitting on the windowsill.

  “Grooms are in the stables and the back door is locked at night,” Evan replied. “Bootboy possibly, but he’s only fourteen. Can’t think of a motive for him. Older women—I suppose it is imaginable, some jealous or slight perhaps, but it would have to be a very violent one to provoke murder. None of them looks raving mad, or has ever shown the remotest inclination to violence. And they’d have to be mad to do such a thing. Anyway, passions in servants are far more often against each other. They are used to being spoken to in all manner of ways by the family.” He looked at Monk with gravity beneath the wry amusement. “It’s each other they take exception to. There’s a rigid hierarchy, and there’s been blood spilled before now over what job is whose.”

  He saw Monk’s expression.

  “Oh—not murder. Just a few hard bruises and the occasional broken head,” he explained. “But I think downstairs emotions concern others downstairs.”

  “What about if Mrs. Haslett knew something about them, some past sin of thieving or immorality?” Monk suggested. “That would lose them a very comfortable position. Without references they’d not get another—and a servant who can’t get a place has nowhere to go but the sweatshops or the street.”

  “Could be,” Evan agreed. “Or the footmen. There are two—Harold and Percival. Both seem fairly ordinary so far. I should say Percival is the more intelligent, and perhaps ambitious.”

  “What does a footman aspire to be?” Monk said a little waspishly.

  “A butler, I imagine,” Evan replied with a faint smile. “Don’t look like that, sir. Butler is a comfortable, responsible and very respected position. Butlers consider themselves socially far superior to the police. They live in fine houses, eat the best, and drink it. I’ve seen butlers who drink better claret than their masters—”

  “Do their masters know that?”

  “Some masters don’t have the palate to know claret from cooking wine.” Evan shrugged. “All the same, it’s a little kingdom that many men would find most attractive.”

  Monk raised his eyebrows sarcastically. “And how would knifing the master’s daughter get him any closer to this enjoyable position?”

  “It wouldn’t—unless she knew something about him that would get him dismissed without a reference.”

  That was plausible, and Monk knew it.

  “Then you had better go back and see what you can learn,” he directed. “I’m going to speak to the family again, which I still think, unfortunately, is far more likely. I want to see them alone, away from Sir Basil.” His face tightened. “He orchestrated the last time as if I had hardly been there.”

  “Master in his house.” Evan hitched himself off the windowsill. “You can hardly be surprised.”

  “That is why I intend to see them away from Queen Anne Street, if I can,” Monk replied tersely. “I daresay it will take me all week.”

  Evan rolled his eyes upward briefly, and without speaking again went out; Monk heard his footsteps down the stairs.

  It did take Monk most of the week. He began straightaway with great success, almost immediately finding Romola Moidore walking in a leisurely fashion in Green Park. She started along the grass parallel with Constitution Row, gazing at the trees beyond by Buckingham Palace. The footman Percival had informed Monk she would be there, having ridden in the carriage with Mr. Cyprian, who was taking luncheon at his club in nearby Piccadilly.

  She was expecting to meet a Mrs. Ketteridge, but Monk caught up with her while she was still alone. She was dressed entirely in black, as befitted a woman whose family was in mourning, but she still looked extremely smart. Her wide skirts were tiered and trimmed with velvet, the pergola sleeves of her dress were lined with black silk, her bonnet was small and worn low on the back of the head, and her hair was in the very fashionable style turned under at the ears into a lowset knot.

  She was startled to see him, and not at all pleased. However there was nowhere for her to go to avoid him without being obvious, and perhaps she bore in mind her father-in-law’s strictures that they were all to be helpful. He had not said so in so many words in Monk’s hearing, but his implication was obvious.

  “Good morning, Mr. Monk,” she said coolly, standing quite still and facing him as if he were a stray dog that had approached too close and should be warded off with the fringed umbrella which she held firmly in her right hand, its point a little above the ground, ready to jab at him.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Moidore,” he replied, inclining his head a little in politeness.

  “I really don’t know anything of use to you.” She tried to avoid the issue even now, as if he might go away. “I have no idea at all what can have happened. I still think you must have made a mistake—or been misled—”

  “Were you fond of your sister-in-law, Mrs. Moidore?” he asked conversationally.

  She tried to remain facing him, then decided she might as well walk, since it seemed he was determined to. She resented promenading with a policeman, as though he were a social acquaintance, and it showed in her face; although no one else would have known his station, certainly his clothes were almost as well cut and as fashionable as hers, and his bearing every bit as assured.

  “Of course I was,” she retorted hotly. “If I knew anything, I should not defend her attacker for an instant. I simply do not know.”

  “I do not doubt your honesty—or your indignation, ma’am,” he said, although it was not entirely true. He trusted no one so far. “I was thinking that if you were fond of her, then you will have known her well. What kind of person was she?”

  Romola was taken by surprise; the question was not what she had been expecting.

  “I—well—it is very hard to say,” she protested. “Really, that is a most unfair question. Poor Octavia is dead. It is most indecent to speak of the dead in anything but the kindest of terms, especially when they have died so terribly.”

  “I commend your delicacy, Mrs. Moidore,” he replied with forced patience, measuring his step to hers. “But I believe at the moment truth, however tasteless, would serve her better. And since it seems an unavoidable conclusion that whoever murdered her is still in your house, you could be excused for placing your own safety, and that of your children, to the forefront of your thoughts.”

  That stopped her as if she had walked straight into one of the trees along the border. She drew in her breath sharply and almost cried out, then remembered the other passersby just in time and bit her knuckles instead.

  “What kind of person was Mrs. Haslett?” Monk asked again.

  She resumed her slow pace along the path, her face very pale, her skirts brushing the gravel.

  “She was very emotional, very impulsive,” she replied after only the briefest thought. “When she fell in love with Harry Haslett her family disapproved, but she was absolutely determined. She refused to consider anyone else. I have always been surprised that Sir Basil permitted it, but I suppose it was a perfectly acceptable match, and Lady Moidore approved. His family was excellent, and he had reasonable prospects for the future—” She shrugged. “Somewhat distant, but Octavia was a younger daughter, who could reasonably expect to have to wait.”

  “Had he an unfortunate reputation?” Monk asked.

  “Not that I ever heard.”

  “Then why was Sir Basil so against the
match? If he was of good family and had expectations, surely he would be agreeable?”

  “I think it was a matter of personality. I know Sir Basil had been at school with his father and did not care for him. He was a year or two older, and a most successful person.” She shrugged very slightly. “Sir Basil never said so, of course, but perhaps he cheated? Or in some other way that a gentleman would not mention, behaved dishonorably?” She looked straight ahead of her. A party of ladies and gentlemen was approaching and she nodded at them but did not make any sign of welcome. She was annoyed by the circumstance. Monk saw the color rise in her cheeks and guessed her dilemma. She did not wish them to speculate as to who he was that Romola walked alone with him in the park, and yet still less did she wish to introduce a policeman to her acquaintances.

  He smiled sourly, a touch of mockery at himself, because it stung him, as well as at her. He despised her that appearances mattered so much, and himself because it caught him with a raw smart too, and for the same reasons.

  “He was uncouth, brash?” he prompted with a trace of asperity.

  “Not at all,” she replied with satisfaction at contradicting him. “He was charming, friendly, full of good humor, but like Octavia, determined to have his own way.”

  “Not easily governed,” he said wryly, liking Harry Haslett more with each discovery.

  “No—” There was a touch of envy in her now, and a real sadness that came through the polite, expected grief. “He was always kind for one’s comfort, but he never pretended to an opinion he did not have.”

  “He sounds a most excellent man.”

  “He was. Octavia was devastated when he was killed—in the Crimea, you know. I can remember the day the news came. I thought she would never recover—” She tightened her lips and blinked hard, as if tears threatened to rob her of composure. “I am not sure she ever did,” she added very quietly. “She loved him very much. I believe no one else in the family realized quite how much until then.”