A Dangerous Mourning Read online

  “About right,” Evan conceded, pulling a face. “There’s a long editorial in the Times on the efficiency of the new police force, even in the most trying and sensitive of cases, to wit-in the very home of one of London’s most eminent gentlemen. Runcorn is mentioned several times as being in charge of the investigation. You aren’t mentioned at all.” He shrugged. “Neither am I.”

  Monk smiled for the first time, at Evan’s innocence.

  “There’s also a piece by someone regretting the rising arrogance of the working classes,” Evan went on. “And predicting the downfall of the social order as we know it and the general decline of Christian morals.”

  “Naturally,” Monk said tersely. “There always is. I think someone writes a pile of them and sends one in every time he thinks the occasion excuses it. What else? Does anyone speculate as to whether Percival is actually guilty or not?”

  Evan looked very young. Monk could see the shadow of the boy in him so clearly behind the man, the vulnerability in the mouth, the innocence in the eyes.

  “None that I saw. Everyone wants him hanged,” Evan said miserably. “There seems to be general relief all ’round, and everyone is very happy to call the case closed and put an end to it. The running patterers have already started composing songs about it, and I passed one selling it by the yard on the Tottenham Court Road.” His words were sophisticated, but his expression belied them. “Very lurid, and not much resemblance to the truth as we saw it—or thought we did. All twopenny dreadful stuff, innocent widow and lust in the pantry, going to bed with a carving knife to defend her virtue, and the evil footman afire with unholy passions creeping up the stairs to have his way with her.” He looked up at Monk. “They want to bring back drawing and quartering. Bloodthirsty swine!”

  “They’ve been frightened,” Monk said without pity. “An ugly thing, fear.”

  Evan frowned. “Do you think that’s what it was—in Queen Anne Street? Everyone afraid, and just wanted to put it onto someone, anyone, to get us out of the house, and to stop thinking about each other and learning more than they wanted to know?”

  Monk leaned forward, pushing the plates away, and rested his elbows on the table wearily.

  “Perhaps.” He sighed. “God—I’ve made a mess of it! The worst thing is that Percival will hang. He’s an arrogant and selfish sod, but he doesn’t deserve to die for that. But nearly as bad is that whoever did kill him is still in that house, and is going to get away with it. And try as they might to ignore things, forget things, at least one of them has a fair idea who it is.” He looked up. “Can you imagine it, Evan? Living the rest of your life with someone you know committed murder and let another man swing for it? Passing them on the stairs, sitting opposite them at the dinner table, watching them smile and tell jokes as if it had never happened?”

  “What are you going to do?” Evan was watching him with intelligent, troubled eyes.

  “What in hell’s name can I do?” Monk exploded. “Runcorn’s arrested Percival and will send him to trial. I haven’t any evidence I’ve not already given him, and I’m not only off the case, I’m off the force. I don’t even know how I’m going to keep a roof over my head, damn it. I’m the last person to help Percival—I can’t even help myself.”

  “You’re the only one who can help him,” Evan said quietly. There was friendship in his face and understanding, but no moderation of the truth. “Except perhaps Miss Latterly,” he added. “Anyway, apart from us, there’s no one else who’s going to try.” He stood up from the chair, uncoiling his legs. “I’ll go and tell her what happened. She’ll know about Percival, of course, and the fact that it was Tarrant and not you will have told her something was wrong, but she won’t know whether it’s illness, another case, or what.” He smiled with a wry twist of his lips. “Unless of course she knows you well enough to have guessed you lost your temper with Runcorn?”

  Monk was about to deny that as ridiculous, then he remembered Hester and the doctor in the infirmary, and had a sudden blossoming of fellow-feeling, a warmth inside evaporating a little of the chill in him.

  “She might,” he conceded.

  “I’ll go to Queen Anne Street and tell her.” Evan straightened his jacket, unconsciously elegant even now. “Before I’m thrown off the case too and I’ve no excuse to go back there.”

  Monk looked up at him. “Thank you—”

  Evan made a little salute, with more courage in it than hope, and went out, leaving Monk alone with the remnants of his breakfast.

  He stared at the table for several minutes longer, his mind half searching for something further, then suddenly a shaft of memory returned so vividly it stunned him. At some other time he had sat at a polished dining table in a room filled with gracious furniture and mirrors framed in gilt and a bowl of flowers. He had felt the same grief, and the overwhelming burden of guilt because he could not help.

  It was the home of the mentor of whom he had been reminded so sharply on the pavement in Piccadilly outside Cyprian’s club. There had been a financial disaster, a scandal in which he had been ruined. The woman in the funeral carriage whose ugly, grieving face had struck him so powerfully—it was his mentor’s wife he had seen in her place, she whose beautiful hands he recalled; it was her distress he had ached to relieve, and been helpless. The whole tragedy had played itself out relentlessly, leaving the victims in its wake.

  He remembered the passion and the impotence seething inside him as he had sat on that other table, and the resolve then to learn some skill that would give him weapons to fight injustice, uncover the dark frauds that seemed so inaccessible. That was when he had changed his mind from commerce and its rewards and chosen the police.

  Police. He had been arrogant, dedicated, brilliant—and earned himself promotion—and dislike; and now he had nothing left, not even memory of his original skills.

  “He what?” Hester demanded as she faced Evan in Mrs. Willis’s sitting room. Its dark, Spartan furnishings and religious texts on the walls were sharply familiar to her now, but this news was a blow she could barely comprehend. “What did you say?”

  “He refused to arrest Percival, and told Runcorn what he thought of him,” Evan elaborated. “With the result, of course, that Runcorn threw him off the force.”

  “What is he going to do?” She was appalled. The sense of fear and helplessness was too close in her own memory to need imagination, and her position at Queen Anne Street was only temporary. Beatrice was not ill, and now that Percival had been arrested she would in all probability recover in a matter of days, as long as she believed he was guilty. Hester looked at Evan. “Where will he find employment? Has he any family?”

  Evan looked at the floor, then up at her again.

  “Not here in London, and I don’t think he would go to them anyway. I don’t know what he’ll do,” he said unhappily. “It’s all he knows, and I think all he cares about. It’s his natural skill.”

  “Does anybody employ detectives, apart from the police?” she asked.

  He smiled, and there was a flash of hope in his eyes, then it faded. “But if he hired out his skills privately, he would need means to live until he developed a reputation—it would be too difficult.”

  “Perhaps,” she said reluctantly, not yet prepared to consider the idea. “In the meantime, what can we do about Percival?”

  “Can you meet Monk somewhere to discuss it? He can’t come here now. Will Lady Moidore give you half an afternoon free?”

  “I haven’t had any time since I came here. I shall ask. If she permits me, where will he be?”

  “It’s cold outside.” He glanced beyond her to the single, narrow window facing onto a small square of grass and two laurel bushes. “How about the chocolate house in Regent Street?”

  “Excellent. I will go and ask Lady Moidore now.”

  “What will you say?” he asked quickly.

  “I shall lie,” she answered without hesitation. “I shall say a family emergency has arisen and I nee
d to speak with them.” She pulled a harsh, humorous face. “She should understand a family emergency, if anyone does!”

  “A family emergency.” Beatrice turned from staring out of the window at the sky and looked at Hester with consternation. “I’m sorry. Is it illness? I can recommend a doctor, if you do not already have one, but I imagine you do—you must have several.”

  “Thank you, that is most thoughtful.” Hester felt distinctly guilty. “But as far as I know there is no ill health; it is a matter of losing a position, which may cause a considerable amount of hardship.”

  Beatrice was fully dressed for the first time in several days, but she had not yet ventured into the main rooms of the house, nor had she joined in the life of the household, except to spend a little time with her grandchildren, Julia and Arthur. She looked very pale and her features were drawn. If she felt any relief at Percival’s arrest it did not show in her expression. Her body was tense and she stood awkwardly, ill at ease. She forced a smile, bright and unnatural.

  “I am so sorry. I hope you will be able to help, even if it is only with comfort and good advice. Sometimes that is all we have for each other—don’t you think?” She swung around and stared at Hester as if the answer were of intense importance to her. Then before Hester could reply she walked away and started fishing in one of her dressing table drawers searching for something.

  “Of course you know the police arrested Percival and took him away last night. Mary said it wasn’t Mr. Monk. I wonder why. Do you know, Hester?”

  There was no possible way Hester could have known the truth except by being privy to police affairs that she could not share.

  “I have no idea, your ladyship. Perhaps he has become involved in another matter, and someone else was delegated to do this. After all, the detection has been completed—I suppose.”

  Beatrice’s fingers froze and she stood perfectly still.

  “You suppose? You mean it might not? What else could they want? Percival is guilty, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.” Hester kept her voice quite light. “I assume they must believe so, or they would not have arrested him; though we cannot say beyond any possible doubt until he has been tried.”

  Beatrice drew more tightly into herself. “They’ll hang him, won’t they?”

  Hester felt a trifle sick. “Yes,” she agreed very quietly. Then she felt compelled to persist. “Does that distress you?”

  “It shouldn’t—should it?” Beatrice sounded surprised at herself. “He murdered my daughter.”

  “But it does?” Hester allowed nothing to slip by. “It is very final, isn’t it? I mean—it allows for no mistakes, no time for second thoughts on anything.”

  Still Beatrice stood motionless on the spot, her hands plunged in the silks, chiffons and laces in the drawer.

  “Second thoughts? What do you mean?”

  Now Hester retreated. “I’m not sure. I suppose another way of looking at the evidence—perhaps if someone were lying—or remembered inaccurately—”

  “You are saying that the murderer is still here—among us, Hester.” There was no panic in Beatrice’s voice, just cold pain. “And whoever it is, is calmly watching Percival go to his death on—on false evidence.”

  Hester swallowed hard and found her voice difficult to force into her throat.

  “I suppose whoever it is must be very frightened. Perhaps it was an accident at first—I mean it was a struggle that was not meant to end in death. Don’t you think?” At last Beatrice turned around, her hands empty. “You mean Myles?” she said slowly and distinctly. “You think it was Myles who went to her room and she fought with him and he took the knife from her and stabbed her, because by then he had too much to lose if she should speak against him and told everyone what had happened?” She leaned a little against the chest. “That is what they are saying happened with Percival, you know. Yes, of course you know. You are in the servants’ hall more than I am. That’s what Mary says.”

  She looked down at her hands. “And it is what Romola believes. She is terribly relieved, you know. She thinks it is all over now. We can stop suspecting one another. She thought it was Septimus, you know, that Tavie discovered something about him! Which is ridiculous—she always knew his story!” She tried to laugh at the idea, and failed. “Now she imagines we will forget it all and go on just as before. We’ll forget everything we’ve learned about each other—and ourselves: the shallowness, the self-deception, how quick we are to blame someone else when we are afraid. Anything to protect ourselves. As if nothing would be different, except that Tavie won’t be here.” She smiled, a dazzling, nervous gesture without warmth. “Sometimes I think Romola is the stupidest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “It won’t be the same,” Hester agreed, torn between wanting to comfort her and the need to follow every shade or inflection of truth she could. “But in time we may at least forgive, and some things can be forgotten.”

  “Can they?” Beatrice looked not at her but out of the window again. “Will Minta ever forget that Myles raped that wretched girl? Whatever rape is. What is rape, Hester? If you do your duty within marriage, that is lawful and right. You would be condemned for doing anything less. How different is it outside marriage that it should be regarded as such a despicable crime?”

  “Is it?” Hester allowed some of her anger to come through. “It seems to me very few people were upset about Mr. Kellard’s rape of the maid, in fact they were angrier with her for speaking of it than they were with him for having done it. It all hangs upon who is involved.”

  “I suppose so. But that is small comfort if it is your husband. I can see the hurt of it in her face. Not often—but sometimes in repose, when she does not think of anyone looking at her, I see pain under the composure.” She turned back, frowning, a slow troubled expression not intended for Hester. “And sometimes I think a terrible anger.”

  “But Mr. Kellard is unhurt,” Hester said very gently, longing to be able to comfort her and knowing now beyond doubt that Percival’s arrest was by no means the beginning of healing. “Surely if Mrs. Kellard were thinking any violence it would be him she would direct it against? It is only natural to be angry, but in time she may forget the sharpness of it, and even think of the fact less and less often.” She nearly added that if Myles were to be tender enough with her, and generous, then it would eventually cease to matter. But thinking of Myles she could not believe it, and to speak such an ephemeral hope aloud might only add to the wound. Beatrice must see him at least as clearly as Hester, who knew him such a short while.

  “Yes,” Beatrice said without conviction. “Of course, you are right. And please, take what time you need this afternoon.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she turned to leave, Basil came in, having knocked so perfunctorily that neither of them heard him. He walked past Hester, barely noticing her, his eyes on Beatrice.

  “Good,” he said briskly. “I see you are dressed today. Naturally you are feeling much better.”

  “No—” Beatrice began, but he cut her off.

  “Of course you are.” His smile was businesslike. “I’m delighted, my dear. This fearful tragedy has naturally affected your health, but the worst of it is already over, and you will gain strength every day.”

  “Over.” She faced him with incredulity. “Do you really believe it is over, Basil?”

  “Of course it is.” He did not look at her but walked around the room slowly, looking at the dressing table, then straightening one of the pictures. “There will be the trial, of course; but you do not need to attend.”

  “I wish to!”

  “If it will help you to feel the matter is dealt with, I can understand it, although I think it would be better if you accepted my account.”

  “It is not over, Basil! Just because they have arrested Percival …”

  He swung around to face her, impatience in his eyes and mouth.

  “All of it is over that needs to concern you, Beatrice. If it
will help you to see justice done, then go to the trial by all means, otherwise I advise you to remain at home. Either way, the investigation is closed and you may cease to think about it. You are much better, and I am delighted to see it.” She accepted the futility of arguing and looked away, her hands fiddling with the lace handkerchief from her pocket.

  “I have decided to help Cyprian to obtain a seat in Parliament,” Basil went on, satisfied her concern was over. “He has been interested in politics for some time, and it would be an excellent thing for him to do. I have connections that will make a safe Tory seat available to him by the next general election.”

  “Tory?” Beatrice was surprised. “But his beliefs are radical!”

  “Nonsense!” He dismissed it with a laugh. “He reads some very odd literature, I know; but he doesn’t take it seriously.”

  “I think he does.”

  “Rubbish. You have to consider such stuff to know how to fight against it, that is all.”

  “Basil—I—”

  “Absolute nonsense, my dear. It will do him excellently. You will see the change in him. Now I am due in Whitehall in half an hour. I will see you for dinner.” And with a perfunctory kiss on her cheek he left, again walking past Hester as if she were invisible.

  * * *

  Hester walked into the chocolate house in Regent Street and saw Monk immediately, sitting at one of the small tables, leaning forward staring into the dregs of a glass cup, his face smooth and bleak. She had seen that expression before, when he had thought the Grey case catastrophic.

  She sailed in with a swish of skirts, albeit only blue stuff and not satin, and sat down on the chair opposite him prepared to be angry even before he spoke. His defeatism reached her emotions the more easily because she had no idea how to fight any further herself.