Part 7 (2/2)
Evan was half leaning, half sitting on the windowsill.
”Grooms are in the stables and the back door is locked at night,” Evan replied. ”Bootboy possibly, but he's only fourteen. Can't think of a motive for him. Older women-I suppose it is imaginable, some jealous or slight perhaps, but it would have to be a very violent one to provoke murder. None of them looks raving mad, or has ever shown the remotest inclination to violence. And they'd have to be mad to do such a thing. Anyway, pa.s.sions in servants are far more often against each other. They are used to being spoken to in all manner of ways by the family.'' He looked at Monk with gravity beneath the wry amus.e.m.e.nt. ”It's each other they take exception to. There's a rigid hierarchy, and there's been blood spilled before now over what job is whose.”
He saw Monk's expression.
”Oh-not murder. Just a few hard bruises and the occasional broken head,” he explained. ”But I think downstairs emotions concern others downstairs.”
”What about if Mrs. Haslett knew something about them, some past sin of thieving or immorality?” Monk suggested. ”That would lose them a very comfortable position. Without references they'd not get another-and a servant who can't get a place has nowhere to go but the sweatshops or the street.”
”Could be,” Evan agreed. ”Or the footmen. There are two-Harold and Percival. Both seem fairly ordinary so far. I should say Percival is the more intelligent, and perhaps ambitious.”
”What does a footman aspire to be?” Monk said a little waspishly.
”A butler, I imagine,” Evan replied with a feint smile. ”Don't look like that, sir. Butler is a comfortable, responsible and very respected position. Butlers consider themselves socially far superior to the police. They live in fine houses, eat the best, and drink it. I've seen butlers who drink better claret than their masters-”
”Do their masters know that?”
”Some masters don't have the palate to know claret from cooking wine.” Evan shrugged. ”All the same, it's a little kingdom that many men would find most attractive.”
Monk raised his eyebrows sarcastically. ”And how would knifing the master's daughter get him any closer to this enjoyable position?”
”It wouldn't-unless she knew something about him that would get him dismissed without a reference.”
That was plausible, and Monk knew it.
”Then you had better go back and see what you can learn,'' he directed. ”I'm going to speak to the family again, which I still think, unfortunately, is far more likely. I want to see them alone, away from Sir Basil.'' His face tightened. ”He orchestrated the last time as if I had hardly been there.”
”Master in his house.” Evan hitched himself off the win-dowsill. ”You can hardly be surprised.”
”That is why I intend to see them away from Queen Anne Street, if I can,” Monk replied tersely. ”I daresay it will take me all week.”
Evan rolled his eyes upward briefly, and without speaking again went out; Monk heard his footsteps down the stairs.
It did take Monk most of the week. He began straightaway with great success, almost immediately finding Romola Moi-dore walking in a leisurely fas.h.i.+on in Green Park. She started along the gra.s.s parallel with Const.i.tution Row, gazing at the trees beyond by Buckingham Palace. The footman Percival had informed Monk she would be there, having ridden in the carriage with Mr. Cyprian, who was taking luncheon at his club in nearby Piccadilly.
She was expecting to meet a Mrs. Ketteridge, but Monk caught up with her while she was still alone. She was dressed entirely in black, as befitted a woman whose family was in mourning, but she still looked extremely smart. Her wide skirts were tiered and trimmed with velvet, the pergola sleeves of her dress were lined with black silk, her bonnet was small and worn low on the back of the head, and her hair was in the very fas.h.i.+onable style turned under at the ears into a lowset knot.
She was startled to see him, and not at all pleased. However there was nowhere for her to go to avoid him without being obvious, and perhaps she bore in mind her father-in-law's strictures that they were all to be helpful. He had not said so in so many words in Monk's hearing, but his implication was obvious.
”Good morning, Mr. Monk,” she said coolly, standing quite still and facing him as if he were a stray dog that had approached too close and should be warded off with the fringed umbrella which she heldfirmly in her right hand, its point a little above the ground, ready to jab at him.
”Good morning, Mrs. Moidore,” he replied, inclining his head a little in politeness.
”I really don't know anything of use to you.” She tried to avoid the issue even now, as if he might go away. ”I have no idea at all what can have happened. I still think you must have made a mistake-or been misled-”
”Were you fond of your sister-in-law, Mrs. Moidore?” he asked conversationally.
She tried to remain facing him, then decided she might as well walk, since it seemed he was determined to. She resented promenading with a policeman, as though he were a social acquaintance, and it showed in her face; although no one else would have known his station, certainly his clothes were almost as well cut and as fas.h.i.+onable as hers, and his bearing every bit as a.s.sured.
”Of course I was,” she retorted hotly. ”If I knew anything, I should not defend her attacker for an instant. I simply do not know.”
”I do not doubt your honesty-or your indignation, ma'am,” he said, although it was not entirely true. He trusted no one so far. ”I was thinking that if you were fond of her, then you will have known her well. What kind of person was she?”
Romola was taken by surprise; the question was not what she had been expecting.
”I-well-it is very hard to say,” she protested. ”Really, that is a most unfair question. Poor Octavia is dead. It is most indecent to speak of the dead in anything but the kindest of terms, especially when they have died so terribly.”
”I commend your delicacy, Mrs. Moidore,” he replied with forced patience, measuring his step to hers. ”But I believe at the moment truth, however tasteless, would serve her better. And since it seems an unavoidable conclusion that whoever murdered her is still in your house, you could be excused for placing your own safety, and that of your children, to the forefront of your thoughts.”
That stopped her as if she had walked straight into one of the trees along the border. She drew in her breath sharply and almost cried out, then remembered the other pa.s.sersby just in time and bit her knuckles instead.
”What kind of person was Mrs. Haslett?” Monk asked again.
She resumed her slow pace along the path, her face very pale, her skirts brus.h.i.+ng the gravel.
”She was very emotional, very impulsive,” she replied after only the briefest thought. ”When she fell in love with Harry Haslett her family disapproved, but she was absolutely determined. She refused to consider anyone else. I have always been surprised that Sir Basil permitted it, but I suppose it was a perfectly acceptable match, and Lady Moidore approved. His family was excellent, and he had reasonable prospects for the future-” She shrugged. ”Somewhat distant, but Octavia was a younger daughter, who could reasonably expect to have to wait.”
”Had he an unfortunate reputation?” Monk asked.
”Not that I ever heard.''
”Then why was Sir Basil so against the match? If he was of good family and had expectations, surely he would be agreeable?”
”I think it was a matter of personality. I know Sir Basil had been at school with his father and did not care for him. He was a year or two older, and a most successful person.” She shrugged very slightly. ”Sir Basil never said so, of course, but perhaps he cheated? Or in some other way that a gentleman would not mention, behaved dishonorably?” She looked straight ahead of her. A party of ladies and gentlemen was approaching and she nodded at them but did not make any sign of welcome. She was annoyed by the circ.u.mstance. Monk saw the color rise in her cheeks and guessed her dilemma. She did not wish them to speculate as to who he was that Romola walked alone with him in the park, and yet still less did she wish to introduce a policeman to her acquaintances.
He smiled sourly, a touch of mockery at himself, because it stung him, as well as at her. He despised her that appearances mattered so much, and himself because it caught him with a raw smart too, and for the same reasons.
”He was uncouth, brash?” he prompted with a trace of asperity.
”Not at all,” she replied with satisfaction at contradicting him. ”He was charming, friendly, full of good humor, but like Octavia, determined to have his own way.”
”Not easily governed,” he said wryly, liking Harry Haslett more with each discovery.
”No-” There was a touch of envy in her now, and a real sadness that came through the polite, expected grief. ”He was always kind for one's comfort, but he never pretended to an opinion he did not have.”
”He sounds a most excellent man.”
”He was. Octavia was devastated when he was killed-in the Crimea, you know. I can remember the day the news came. I thought she would never recover-” She tightened her lips and blinked hard, as if tears threatened to rob her of composure. ”I am not sure she ever did,” she added very quietly. ”She loved him very much. I believe no one else in (lie family realized quite how much until then.”
They had been gradually slowing their pace; now conscious again of the cold wind, they quickened.
”I am very sorry,” he said, and meant it.
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