A Dangerous Mourning (26 page)

"And you told no one?" Monk said with grating unbelief. "You had this extraordinary piece of information, and you kept it the secret the family would wish? You were discreet

and obedient. Why, for heaven's sake?" He allowed into his voice an exact mockery of Percival's own contempt for him a few moments earlier. "Knowledge like that is power—you expect me to believe you didn't use it?"

Percival was not discomfited.”I don't know what you mean, sir."

Monk knew he was lying.

"No reason to tell anyone," Percival went on. "Not in my interest." The sneer returned. "Sir Basil wouldn't like it, and then I might find myself in the workhouse. It's different now. This is a matter of duty that any other employer would understand. When it's a matter of concealing a crime—"

"So suddenly rape has become a crime?" Monk was disgusted. “When did that happen? When your own neck was in danger?"

If Percival was frightened or embarrassed there was no trace of it in his expression.

"Not rape, sir—murder. That has always been the crime." Again his shoulders lifted expressively. "If it's actually called murder, not justice, privilege, or some such thing."

"Like rape of a servant, for example." Monk for one instant agreed with him. He hated it. "All right, you can go."

"Shall I tell Sir Basil you want to see him?"

"If you want to keep your position, you'd better not put it like that."

Percival did not bother to reply, but went out, moving easily, even gracefully, his body relaxed.

Monk was too concerned, too angry at the appalling injustice and suffering, and apprehensive of his interview with Basil Moidore to spare any emotion for contempt of Percival.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour before Harold came back to tell him that Sir Basil would see him in the library.

"Good morning, Monk. You wanted to see me?" Basil stood near the window with the armchair and the table forcing a distance between them. He looked harassed and his face creased in lines of temper. Monk irritated him by his questions, his stance, the very shape of his face.

"Good morning, sir," Monk replied. "Yes, some new information has come to me this morning. I would like to ask you if it is true, and if it is, to tell me what you know of the matter.''

Basil did not seem concerned, and was only moderately interested. He was still dressed in black, but elegant, selfconsciously smart black. It was not the mourning of someone bowed down with grief.

“What matter is this, Inspector?''

"A maid that worked here two years ago, by the name of Martha Riven."

Basil's face tightened, and he moved from the window and stood straighter.

"What can she possibly have to do with my daughter's death?"

"Was she raped, Sir Basil?"

Basil's eyes widened. Distaste registered sharply in his face, then another, more thoughtful expression. "I have no idea!"

Monk controlled himself with great difficulty. "Did she come to you and say that she was?"

A slight smile moved Basil's mouth, and his hand at his side curled and uncurled.

"Inspector, if you had ever kept a house with a large staff, many of them young, imaginative and excitable women, you would hear a great many stories of all sorts of entanglements, charges and countercharges of wrongs. Certainly she came and said she had been molested—but I have no way of knowing whether she really had or whether she had got herself with child and was trying to lay the blame on someone else—and get us to look after her. Possibly one of the male servants forced his attentions—" His hands uncurled, and he shrugged very faintly.

Monk bit his tongue and stared at Basil with hard eyes.

"Is that what you believe, sir? You spoke with the girl. I believe she charged that it was Mr. Kellard who assaulted her. Presumably you also spoke with Mr. Kellard. Did he tell you he had never had anything to do with her?''

"Is that your business, Inspector?" Basil said coldly.

"If Mr. Kellard raped this girl, yes, Sir Basil, it is. It may well be the root of this present crime.''

"Indeed? I fail to see how." But there was no conciliation in his voice, and no outrage.

"Then I will explain it," Monk said between his teeth. "If Mr. Kellard raped this unfortunate girl, the fact was concealed and the girl dismissed to whatever fate she could find, then

that says a great deal about Mr. Keilard's nature and his belief that he is tree to force his attentions upon women, regardless of their feelings. It seems highly probable that he admired Mrs. Haslett, and may have tried to force his attentions upon her also."

"And murdered her?" Basil was considering it. There was caution in his voice, the beginning of a new thought, but still heavily tinged with doubt.”Martha never suggested he threatened her with any weapon, and she perfectly obviously had not been injured—"

"You had her examined?" Monk asked baldly.

Temper flashed in Basil's face. "Of course I didn't. Whatever for? She made no claim of violence—I told you that."

"I daresay she considered it of no purpose—and she was right. She charged rape, and was dismissed without a character to live or die in the streets.'' As soon as he had said it he knew his words were the result of temper, not judgment.

Basil's cheeks darkened with anger. "Some chit of a maid gets with child and accuses my daughter's husband of raping her! For God's sake, man, do you expect me to keep her in the house? Or recommend her to the houses of my friends?" Still he remained at the far side of the room, glaring at Monk across the table and the chair. "I have a duty both to my family, especially my daughter and her happiness, and to my acquaintances. To give any recommendation to a young woman with a character that would charge such a thing of her employer would be completely irresponsible."

Monk wanted to ask him about his duty toward Martha Rivett, but knew that such an affront would very probably cause him just the sort of complaint that Runcorn would delight in, and would give Runcorn an excuse for censure, perhaps even removal from the case.

"You did not believe her, sir?" He was civil with difficulty. "Mr. Kellard denied having any relationship with her?"

"No he didn't," Basil said sharply. "He said she had led him on and was perfectly willing; it was only later when she discovered she was with child she made this charge to protect herself—and I daresay to try and force us to care for her, to stop her spreading about such a story. The giri was obviously of loose character and out to take a chance to profit from it if she could."

"So you put an end to it. I assume you believed Mr. Kel-lard's account?"

Basil looked at him coldly. "No, as a matter of fact I did not. I think it very probable he forced his attentions on the girl, but that is hardly important now. Men have natural appetites, always have had. I daresay she flirted with him and he mistook her. Are you suggesting he tried the same with my daughter Octavia?''

"It seems possible."

Basil frowned. "And if he did, why should that lead to murder, which is what you seem to be suggesting? If she had struck at him, that would be understandable, but why should he kill her?"

"If she intended telling people," Monk replied. "To rape a maid is apparently acceptable, but would you have viewed it with the same leniency had he raped your daughter? And would Mrs. Kellard, if she knew?"

Basil's face was scored with deep lines, now all dragged downward with distaste and anxiety.

"She does not know," he said slowly, meeting Monk's eyes. "I trust I make myself plain, Inspector? For her to be aware of Myles's indiscretion would distress her, and serve no purpose. He is her husband and will remain so. I don't know what women do in your walk of life, but in ours they bear their difficulties with dignity and silence. Do you understand me?"

"Of course I do," Monk said tartly. "If she does not know now, I shall not tell her unless it becomes necessary—by which time I imagine it will be common knowledge. Similarly may I ask you, sir, not to forewarn Mr. Kellard of my knowledge in the matter. I can hardly expect him to confess to anything, but I may learn quite a lot from his first reaction when I speak to him about it."

"You expect me to . . ." Basil began indignantly, then his voice faded away as he realized what he was saying.

"I do," Monk agreed with a downward turn of his mouth. "Apartfrom the ends of justice towards Mrs. Haslett, you and I both know that it was someone in this house. If you protect Mr. Kellard to save scandal—and Mrs. Kellard's feelings— you only prolong the investigation, the suspicion, Lady Moi-dore's distress—and it will still come down to someone in the house in the end."

For a moment their eyes met, and there was intense dislike—and complete understanding.

"If Mrs. Kellard needs to know, I will be the one to tell her," Basil stated.

"If you wish," Monk agreed. "Although I would not leave it too long. If I can learn of it, so may she—"

Basil jerked upward.”Who told you? It damned well wasn't Myles! Was it Lady Moidore?"

"No, I have not spoken to Lady Moidore."

"Well, don't stand there, man! Who was it?"

"I prefer not to say, sir."

"I don't give a damn what you prefer! Who was it?"

"If you force me, sir—I decline to say."

"You—you what?" He tried to outstare Monk, and then realized he could not intimidate him without a specific threat and that he was not prepared at this point to make one. He looked down again; he was not used to being defied, and he had no ready reaction. "Well pursue your investigation for the moment, but I will know in the end, I promise you."

Monk did not force his victory; it was too tenuous and the temper between them too volatile.

"Yes sir, very possibly. Since she is the only other person you are aware of having known of this, may I speak with Lady Moidore, please?"

"I doubt she can tell you anything. I dealt with the affair."

"I'm sure you did, sir. But she knew of it, and may have observed emotions in people that you did not. She would have opportunities not afforded you, domestic occasions; and women are more sensitive to such things, on the whole."

Basil hesitated.

Monk thought of several arguments: the quick ending of the case, some justice for Octavia—and then caution argued that Octavia was dead and Basil might well think that saving the reputations of those alive was more important. He could do nothing for Octavia now, but he could still protect Araminta from deep shame and hurt. Monk ended by saying nothing.

"Very well," Basil agreed reluctantly. "But have the nurse present, and if Lady Moidore is distressed, you will cease immediately. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Monk said instantly. To have Hester's impressions also was an advantage he had not thought to look for. "Thank you."

Again he was required to wait while Beatrice dressed appropriately for receiving the police, and some half an hour later it was Hester herself who came to the morning room to collect him and take him to the withdrawing room.

"Shut the door," he ordered as soon as she was inside.

She obeyed, watching him curiously. "Do you know something?" she asked, her tone guarded, as though whatever it was she would find it only partly welcome.

He waited until the latch was fast and she had returned to the center of the floor.

"There was a maid here about two years ago who charged that Myles Kellard raped her, and she was promptly dismissed without a character."

"Oh—" She looked startled. Obviously she had heard nothing of it from the servants. Then, as amazement dissolved, she was furiously angry, the hot color in her cheeks. "You mean they threw her out? What happened to Myles?"

"Nothing," he said dryly. "What did you expect?"

She stood stiffly, shoulders back, chin high, and stared at him. Then gradually she realized the inevitability of what he had said and that her first thought of justice and open judgment was never a reality.

"Who knows about it?" she asked instead.

"Only Sir Basil and Lady Moidore, so far as I am aware," he replied. "That is what Sir Basil believes, anyway."

"Who told you? Not Sir Basil, surely?"

He smiled with a hard, twisted grimace.”Percival, when he thought I was closing in on him. He certainly won't go docilely into the darkness for them, whatever poor Martha Rivett did. If Percival goes down, he'll do his best to take as many of the rest of them with him as he can.''

"I don't like him," she said quietly, looking down. "But I can't blame him for fighting. I think I would. I might suffer injustice for someone I loved—but not for these people, who are only too willing to see him take the blame to get it away from them. What are you going to ask Lady Moidore? You know it's true—"

"I don't," he contradicted. "Myles Kellard says she was a trollop who invited it—Basil doesn't care whether that is true or not. She couldn't stay here after she'd accused Kellard— apart from the fact she was with child. All Basil cared about was clearing up the mess here and protecting Araminta."

The surprise was evident in her face. "She doesn't know?"

"You think she does?" he said quickly.

"She hates him for something. It may not be that—"

"Could be anything,'' he agreed. “Even so, I can't see how knowing that would be a reason for anyone to murder Octa-via—even if the rape was what Octavia found out the day before she was killed."

"Neither do I," she admitted. "There's something very important we don't know yet.''

"And I don't suppose I'll learn it from Lady Moidore. Still, I had better go and see her now. I don't want them to suspect we discuss them or they will not speak so freely in front of you. Come."

Obediently she opened the door again and led him across the wide hallway and into the withdrawing room. It was cold and windy outside, and the first drops of heavy rain were beating against the long windows. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, and its glow spread across the red Aubusson carpet and even touched the velvet of the curtains that hung from huge swathed pelmets in swags and rich falls to the fringed sashes, spreading their skirts on the floor.