A Dangerous Mourning Page 12

  Finally Cyprian regained his self-control.

  “It would have been something despicable,” he continued. “And probably still a danger to someone before Tavie would have told another person’s secret, Inspector.” He spoke with conviction. “If some servant had had an illegitimate child, or a passionate affair, Tavie was the last person who would have betrayed them to Papa—or anyone else. I don’t honestly think she would have reported a theft, unless it had been something of immense value.”

  “So the secret she discovered that afternoon was no trivial one, but something of profound ugliness,” Monk said in reply.

  Cyprian’s face closed. “It would seem so. I’m sorry I cannot help you any further, but I really have no idea what such a thing could be, or about whom.”

  “You have made the picture much clearer with your candor. Thank you, sir.” Monk bowed very slightly, and after Cyprian’s acknowledgment, took his leave. He walked back along the Serpentine to Hyde Park Corner, but this time going briskly up Constitution Hill towards Buckingham Palace and St. James’s.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when he met Sir Basil, who was coming across the Horse Guards Parade from Whitehall. He looked startled to see Monk.

  “Have you something to report?” he said rather abruptly. He was dressed in dark city trousers and a frock coat seamed at the waist as was the latest cut. His top hat was tall and straight sided, and worn elegantly a little to one side on his head.

  “Not yet, sir,” Monk answered, wondering what he had expected so soon. “I have a few questions to ask.”

  Basil frowned. “That could not have waited until I was at home? I do not appreciate being accosted in the street, Inspector.”

  Monk made no apology. “Some information about the servants which I cannot obtain from the butler.”

  “There is none,” Basil said frostily. “It is the butler’s job to employ the servants and to interview them and evaluate their references. If I did not believe he was competent to do it, I should replace him.”

  “Indeed.” Already Monk was stung by his tone of voice and the sharp, chilly look in his eyes, as if Monk’s ignorance were no more than he expected. “But were there any disciplining to do, would you not be made aware of it?”

  “I doubt it, unless it concerned a member of the family—which, I presume, is what you are suggesting?” Basil replied. “Mere impertinences or tardiness would be dealt with by Phillips, or in the female servants’ case, by the housekeeper, or the cook. Dishonesty or moral laxity would incur dismissal, and Phillips would engage a replacement. I would know about that. But surely you did not follow me to Westminster to ask me such paltry things, which you could have asked the butler—or anyone else in the house!”

  “I cannot expect the same degree of truth from anyone else in the house, sir,” Monk snapped back tartly. “Since one of them is responsible for Mrs. Haslett’s death, they may be somewhat partisan in the matter.”

  Basil glared at him, the wind catching at the tails of his jacket and sending them flapping. He took his high hat off to save the indignity of having it blown askew.

  “What do you imagine they would lie about to you and have the remotest chance of getting by with it?” he said with an edge of sarcasm.

  Monk ignored the question.

  “Any personal relationships between your staff, sir?” he asked instead. “Footmen and maids, for example? The butler and one of the ladies’ maids—bootboy and scullery maid?”

  Basil’s black eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Good God! Do you imagine I have the slightest idea—or any interest in the romantic daydreams of my servants, Inspector? You seem to live in a quite different world from the one I inhabit—or men like me.”

  Monk was furious and he did not even attempt to curb his tongue.

  “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 y
earning 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 Runcorn 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 corner, 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 fellows 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 cares
sing 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 costs, 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.”