The William Monk Mysteries Page 14

  She considered this thought for a moment before deciding to accept it. He imagined she was seeing her son again as he had been in life, elegant, laughing, direct of gaze.

  “It might have been,” she conceded. “It could be that some young person was indiscreet, and provoked jealousy.”

  “Perhaps someone who had a little too much to drink?” He pursued it with a tact that did not come to him naturally. “And saw in it more than there was?”

  “A gentleman knows how to conduct himself.” She looked at Monk with a slight turn downwards at the corners of her mouth. The word gentleman was not lost on him. “Even when he has had too much to drink. But unfortunately some people are not as discriminating in their choice of guests as they should be.”

  “If you would give me some names and addresses, ma’am; I shall conduct my inquiries as cautiously as I can, and naturally shall not mention your name. I imagine all persons of good conscience will be as keen to discover who murdered Major Grey as you are yourself.”

  It was a well-placed argument, and she acknowledged it with a momentary glance directly into his eyes.

  “Quite,” she agreed. “If you have a notebook I shall oblige you.” She reached across to the rosewood table almost at her side and opened a drawer. She took out a leather-bound and gold-tooled address book.

  He made ready and was well started when Lovel Grey came in, again dressed in casual clothes—this time breeches and a Norfolk jacket of well-worn tweed. His face darkened when he saw Monk.

  “I really think, Mr. Monk, that if you have something to report, you may do so to me!” he said with extreme irritation. “If you have not, then your presence here serves no purpose, and you are distressing my mother. I am surprised you should come again.”

  Monk stood up instinctively, annoyed with himself for the necessity.

  “I came, my lord, because I needed some further information, which Lady Shelburne has been kind enough to give me.” He could feel the color hot in his face.

  “There is nothing we can tell you that could be of the least relevance,” Lovel snapped. “For heaven’s sake, man, can’t you do your job without rushing out here every few days?” He moved restlessly, fidgeting with the crop in his hand. “We cannot help you! If you are beaten, admit it! Some crimes are never solved, especially where madmen are concerned.”

  Monk was trying to compose a civil reply when Lady Shelburne herself intervened in a small, tight voice.

  “That may be so, Lovel, but not in this case. Joscelin was killed by someone who knew him, however distasteful that may be to us. Naturally it is also possible it was someone known here. It is far more discreet of Mr. Monk to ask us than to go around inquiring of the whole neighborhood.”

  “Good God!” Lovel’s face fell. “You cannot be serious. To allow him to do that would be monstrous. We’d be ruined.”

  “Nonsense!” She closed her address book with a snap and replaced it in the drawer. “We do not ruin so easily. There have been Shelburnes on the land for five hundred years, and will continue to be. However I have no intention of allowing Mr. Monk to do any such thing.” She looked at Monk coldly. “That is why I am providing him with a list myself, and suitable questions to ask—and to avoid.”

  “There is no need to do either.” Lovel turned furiously from his mother to Monk and back again, his color high. “Whoever killed Joscelin must have been one of his London acquaintances—if indeed it really was someone he knew at all, which I still doubt. In spite of what you say, I believe it was purely chance he was the victim, and not someone else. I daresay he was seen at a club, or some such place, by someone who saw he had money and hoped to rob him.”

  “It was not robbery, sir,” Monk said firmly. “There were all sorts of valuable items quite visible and untouched in his rooms, even the money in his wallet was still there.”

  “And how do you know how much he had in his wallet?” Lovel demanded. “He may have had hundreds!”

  “Thieves do not usually count out change and return it to you,” Monk replied, moderating the natural sarcasm in his voice only slightly.

  Lovel was too angry to stop. “And have you some reason to suppose this was a ‘usual’ thief? I did not know you had proceeded so far. In fact I did not know you had proceeded at all.”

  “Most unusual, thank heaven.” Monk ignored the jibe. “Thieves seldom kill. Did Major Grey often walk about with hundreds of pounds in his pocket?”

  Lovel’s face was scarlet. He threw the crop across the room, intending it to land on the sofa, but it fell beyond and rattled to the floor. He ignored it. “No of course not!” he shouted. “But then this was a unique occasion. He was not simply robbed and left lying, he was beaten to death, if you remember.”

  Lady Fabia’s face pinched with misery and disgust.

  “Really, Lovel, the man is doing his best, for whatever that is worth. There is no need to be offensive.”

  Suddenly his tone changed. “You are upset, Mama; and it’s quite natural that you should be. Please leave this to me. If I think there is anything to tell Mr. Monk, I shall do so. Why don’t you go into the withdrawing room and have tea with Rosamond?”

  “Don’t patronize me, Lovel!” she snapped, rising to her feet. “I am not too upset to conduct myself properly, and to help the police find the man who murdered my son.”

  “There is nothing whatsoever we can do, Mama!” He was fast losing his temper again. “Least of all assist them to pester half the country for personal information about poor Joscelin’s life and friends.”

  “It was one of poor Joscelin’s ’friends’ who beat him to death!” Her cheeks were ashen white and a lesser woman might well have fainted before now, but she stood ramrod stiff, her white hands clenched.

  “Rubbish!” Lovel dismissed it instantly. “It was probably someone he played at cards and who simply couldn’t take losing. Joscelin gambled a damned sight more than he led you to believe. Some people play for stakes they can’t afford, and then when they’re beaten, they lose control of themselves and go temporarily off their heads.” He breathed in and out hard. “Gaming clubs are not always as discriminating as they should be as to whom they allow in. That is quite probably what happened to Joscelin. Do you seriously imagine anyone at Shelburne would know anything about it?”

  “It is also possible it was someone who was jealous over a woman,” she answered icily. “Joscelin was very charming, you know.”

  Lovel flushed and the whole skin of his face appeared to tighten.

  “So I have frequently been reminded,” he said in a soft, dangerous little voice. “But not everyone was as susceptible to it as you, Mama. It is a very superficial quality.”

  She stared at him with something that bordered on contempt.

  “You never understood charm, Lovel, which is your great misfortune. Perhaps you would be good enough to order extra tea in the withdrawing room.” Deliberately she ignored her son and contravened propriety, as if to annoy him. “Will you join us, Mr. Monk? Perhaps my daughter-in-law may be able to suggest something. She was accustomed to attend many of the same functions as Joscelin, and women are frequently more observant of other women, especially where”—she hesitated—“affairs of the emotions are concerned.”

  Without waiting for his reply she assumed his compliance and, still ignoring Lovel, turned to the door and stopped. Lovel wavered for only the barest second, then he came forward obediently and opened the door for her. She swept through without looking again at either of them.

  In the withdrawing room the atmosphere was stiff. Rosamond had difficulty hiding her amazement at being expected to take tea with a policeman as if he were a gentleman; and even the maid with the extra cups and muffins seemed uncomfortable. Apparently the below-stairs gossip had already told her who Monk was. Monk silently thought of Evan, and wondered if he had made any progress.

  When the maid had handed everyone their cups and plates and was gone Lady Fabia began in a level, quiet voice, avoiding
Lovel’s eyes.

  “Rosamond, my dear, the police require to know everything they can about Joscelin’s social activities in the last few months before he died. You attended most of the same functions, and are thus more aware of any relationships than I. For example, who might have shown more interest in him than was prudent?”

  “I?” Rosamond was either profoundly surprised or a better actress than Monk had judged her to be on their earlier meeting.

  “Yes you, my dear.” Lady Fabia passed her the muffins, which she ignored. “I am talking to you. I shall, of course, also ask Ursula.”

  “Who is Ursula?” Monk interrupted.

  “Miss Ursula Wadham; she is betrothed to my second son, Menard. You may safely leave it to me to glean from her any information that would be of use.” She dismissed Monk and turned back to Rosamond. “Well?”

  “I don’t recall Joscelin having any … relationship in—in particular.” Rosamond sounded rather awkward, as if the subject disturbed her. Watching her, Monk wondered for a moment if she had been in love with Joscelin herself, if perhaps that was why Lovel was so reluctant to have the matter pursued.

  Could it even have gone further than a mere attraction?

  “That is not what I asked,” Lady Fabia said with thin patience. “I asked you if anyone else had shown any interest in Joscelin, albeit a one-sided one?”

  Rosamond’s head came up. For a moment Monk thought she was about to resist her mother-in-law, then the moment died.

  “Norah Partridge was very fond of him,” she replied slowly, measuring her words. “But that is hardly new; and I cannot see Sir John taking it badly enough to go all the way up to London and commit murder. I do believe he is fond of Norah, but not enough for that.”

  “Then you are more observant than I thought,” Lady Fabia said with acid surprise. “But without much understanding of men, my dear. It is not necessary to want something yourself in order profoundly to resent someone else’s having the ability to take it away from you; especially if they have the tactlessness to do it publicly.” She swiveled to Monk. He was not offered the muffins. “There is somewhere for you to begin. I doubt John Partridge would be moved to murder—or that he would use a stick if he were.” Her face flickered with pain again. “But Norah had other admirers. She is a somewhat extravagant creature, and not possessed of much judgment.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. If you think of anything further?”

  For another hour they raked over past romances, affairs and supposed affairs, and Monk half listened. He was not interested in the facts so much as the nuances behind their expression. Joscelin had obviously been his mother’s favorite, and if the absent Menard was like his elder brother, it was easy to understand why. But whatever her feelings, the laws of primogeniture ruled that not only the title and the lands, but also the money to support them and the way of life that went with them, must pass to Lovel, the firstborn.

  Lovel himself contributed nothing, and Rosamond only enough to satisfy her mother-in-law, of whom she seemed in awe far more than of her husband.

  Monk did not see Lady Callandra Daviot, rather to his disappointment. He would have liked her candor on the subject, although he was not sure she would have expressed herself as freely in front of the grieving family as she had in the garden in the rain.

  He thanked them and excused himself in time to find Evan and walk down to the village for a pint of cider before the train back to London.

  “Well?” Monk asked as soon as they were out of sight of the house.

  “Ah.” Evan could scarcely suppress his enthusiasm; his stride was surprisingly long, his lean body taut with energy, and he splashed through puddles on the road with complete disregard for his soaking boots. “It’s fascinating. I’ve never been inside a really big house before, I mean inside to know it. My father was a clergyman, you know, and I went along to the manor house sometimes when I was a child—but it was nothing like this. Good Lord, those servants see things that would paralyze me with shame—I mean the family treat them as if they were deaf and blind.”

  “They don’t think of them as people,” Monk replied. “At least not people in the same sense as themselves. They are two different worlds, and they don’t impinge, except physically. Therefore their opinions don’t matter. Did you learn anything else?” He smiled slightly at Evan’s innocence.

  Evan grinned. “I’ll say, although of course they wouldn’t intentionally tell a policeman, or anyone else, anything they thought confidential about the family. It would be more than their livelihood was worth. Very closemouthed, they thought they were.”

  “So how did you learn?” Monk asked curiously, looking at Evan’s innocent, imaginative features.

  Evan blushed very slightly. “Threw myself on Cook’s mercy.” He looked down at the ground, but did not decrease his pace in the slightest. “Slandered my landlady appallingly, I’m afraid. Spoke very unkindly about her cooking—oh, and I stood outside for some time before going in, so my hands were cold—” He glanced up at Monk, then away again. “Very motherly sort, Lady Shelburne’s cook.” He smiled rather smugly. “Daresay I did a lot better than you did.”

  “I didn’t eat at all,” Monk said tartly.

  “I’m sorry.” Evan did not sound it.

  “And what did your dramatic debut earn you, apart from luncheon?” Monk asked. “I presume you overheard a good deal—while you were busy being pathetic and eating them out of house and home?”

  “Oh yes—did you know that Rosamond comes from a well-to-do family, but a bit come-lately? And she fell for Joscelin first, but her mother insisted she marry the eldest brother, who also offered for her. And she was a good, obedient girl and did as she was told. At least that is what I read between the lines of what the tweeny was saying to the laundry maid—before the parlor maid came in and stopped them gossiping and they were packed off to their duties.”

  Monk whistled through his teeth.

  “And,” Evan went on before he could speak, “they had no children for the first few years, then one son, heir to the title, about a year and a half ago. Someone particularly spiteful is said to have observed that he has the typical Shelburne looks, but more like Joscelin than Lovel—so the second footman heard said in the public house. Blue eyes—you see, Lord Shelburne is dark—so is she—at least her eyes are—”

  Monk stopped in the road, staring at him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure that’s what they say, and Lord Shelburne must have heard it—at last—” He looked appalled. “Oh God! That’s what Runcorn meant, isn’t it? Very nasty, very nasty indeed.” He was comical in his dismay, suddenly the enthusiasm gone out of him. “What on earth are we going to do? I can imagine how Lady Fabia will react if you try opening that one up!”

  “So can I,” Monk said grimly. “And I don’t know what we are going to do.”

  6

  HESTER LATTERLY STOOD in the small withdrawing room of her brother’s house in Thanet Street, a little off the Marylebone Road, and stared out of the window at the carriages passing. It was a smaller house, far less attractive than the family home on Regent Square. But after her father’s death that house had had to be sold. She had always imagined that Charles and Imogen would move out of this house and back to Regent Square in such an event, but apparently the funds were needed to settle affairs, and there was nothing above that for any inheritance for any of them. Hence she was now residing with Charles and Imogen, and would be obliged to do so until she should make some arrangements of her own. What they might be now occupied her thoughts.

  Her choice was narrow. Disposal of her parents’ possessions had been completed, all the necessary letters written and servants given excellent references. Most had fortunately found new positions. It remained for Hester herself to make a decision. Of course Charles had said she was more than welcome to remain as long as she wished—indefinitely, if she chose. The thought was appalling. A permanent guest, neither use nor ornament, intruding
on what should be a private house for husband and wife, and in time their children. Aunts were all very well, but not for breakfast, luncheon and dinner every day of the week.

  Life had to offer more than that.

  Naturally Charles had spoken of marriage, but to be frank, as the situation surely warranted, Hester was very few people’s idea of a good match. She was pleasing enough in feature, if a little tall—she looked over the heads of rather too many men for her own comfort, or theirs. But she had no dowry and no expectations at all. Her family was well-bred, but of no connection to any of the great houses; in fact genteel enough to have aspirations, and to have taught its daughters no useful arts, but not privileged enough for birth alone to be sufficient attraction.

  All of which might have been overcome if her personality were as charming as Imogen’s—but it was not. Where Imogen was gentle, gracious, full of tact and discretion, Hester was abrasive, contemptuous of hypocrisy and impatient of dithering or incompetence and disinclined to suffer foolishness with any grace at all. She was also fonder of reading and study than was attractive in a woman, and not free of the intellectual arrogance of one to whom thought comes easily.

  It was not entirely her fault, which mitigated blame but did not improve her chances of gaining or keeping an admirer. She had been among the first to leave England and sail, in appalling conditions, to the Crimea and offer her help to Florence Nightingale in the troop hospital in Scutari.

  She could remember quite clearly her first sight of the city, which she had expected to be ravaged by war, and how her breath had caught in her throat with delight at the vividness of the white walls and the copper domes green against the blue sky.

  Of course afterwards it had been totally different. She had witnessed such wretchedness and waste there, exacerbated by incompetence that beggared the imagination, and her courage had sustained her, her selflessness never looked for reward, her patience for the truly afflicted never flagged. And at the same time the sight of such terrible suffering had made her rougher to lesser pain than was just. Each person’s pain is severe to him at the time, and the thought that there might be vastly worse occurs to very few. Hester did not stop to consider this, except when it was forced upon her, and such was most people’s abhorrence of candor on unpleasant subjects that very few did.