Part 7 (1/2)
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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sumptions about one another and the dead woman they were burying with such a fas.h.i.+onable 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 gla.s.s, gray ma.s.ses 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 G.o.d 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'fl 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?”
”IVe 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 att.i.tude 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed 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.
Chapter 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 embarra.s.sment 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 fer 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 Runcom'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 for?”
”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?”
”Cant imagine the butler.” Evan smiled with a little twist. ”He's a dry old stick, very formal, very military. If a person ever stirred pa.s.sion 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 sometime.”
”Rubbish,” Evan said heartily. ”Not Phillips.”
”Footmen-grooms-bootboy? ” Monk pressed. ”And what about the older women?”