Part 8 (2/2)
”Since shortly after her husband died,” he replied brusquely.
Monk lengthened his own stride to match, avoiding b.u.mping into the people moving less rapidly or pa.s.sing in the opposite direction.
”Are she and your father very close?” He knew they were not; he had not forgotten the look on Fenella's face as she had left the morning room in Queen Anne Street.
Cyprian hesitated, then decided the lie would be transparent, if not now, then later.
”No. Aunt Fenella found herself in very reduced circ.u.mstances.” His fece was tight; he hated exposing such vulnerability. ”Papa offered her a home. It is a natural family responsibility.”
Monk tried to imagine it, the personal sense of obligation, the duty of grat.i.tude, the implicit requirement of certain forms of obedience. He would like to know what affection there was beneath the duties, but he knew Cyprian would respond little to an open inquiry.
A carriage pa.s.sed them too close to the curb, and its wheels sent up a spray of muddy water. Monk leaped inwards to preserve his trousers.
”It must have been very distressing for her to find herself suddenly thrown upon the resources of others,” he said sympathetically. It was not feigned. He could imagine Fenella's shock-and profound resentment.
”Most,” Cyprian agreed taciturnly. ”But death frequently leaves widows in altered circ.u.mstances. One must expect it.”
”Did she expect it?” Monk absently brushed the water off his coat.
Cyprian smiled, possibly at Monk's unconscious vanity.
”I have no idea, Mr. Monk. I did not ask her. It would have been both impertinent and intrusive. It was not my place, nor is it yours. It happened many years ago, twelve to be precise, and has no bearing on our present tragedy.”
”Is Mr. Thirsk in the same unfortunate position?” Monk kept exactly level with him along the pavement, brus.h.i.+ng past three fas.h.i.+onable ladies taking the air and a couple dallying in polite flirtation in spite of the cold.
”He resides with us because of misfortune,” Cyprian snapped. ”If that is what you mean. Obviously he was not widowed.” He smiled briefly in a sarcasm that had more bitterness than amus.e.m.e.nt.
”How long has he lived in Queen Anne Street?”
”About ten years, as far as I recall.''
”And he is your mother's brother?”
”You are already aware of that.” He dodged a group of gentlemen ambling along deep in conversation and oblivious of the obstruction they caused. ”Really, if this is a sample of your attempts at detection, I am surprised you maintain employment. Uncle Septimus occasionally drinks a little more than you may consider prudent, and he is certainly not wealthy, but he is a kind and decent man whose misfortune has nothing whatever to do with my sister's death, and you will learn nothing useful by prying into it!”
Monk admired him for his defense, true or not. And he determined to discover what the misfortune was, and if Octa-via had learned something about him that might have robbed him of this double-edged but much needed hospitality had she told her father.
”Does he gamble, sir?” he said aloud.
”What?'' But there was a flush of color on Cyprian's cheeks, and he knocked against an elderly gentleman in his path and was obliged to apologize.
A coster's cart came by, its owner crying his wares in a loud, singsong voice.
”I wondered if Mr. Thirsk gambled,” Monk repeated. ”It is a pastime many gentlemen indulge in, especially if their lives offer little other change or excitement-and any extra finance would be welcome.''
Cyprian's face remained carefully expressionless, but the color in his cheeks did not fade, and Monk guessed he had touched a nerve, whether on Septimus's account or Cyprian's own.
”Does he belong to the same club as you do, sir?” Monk turned and faced him.
”No,” Cyprian replied, resuming walking after only a momentary hesitation. ”No, Uncle Septimus has his own club.”
”Not to his taste?” Monk made it sound very casual.
”No,” Cyprian agreed quickly. ”He prefers more men his own age-and experience, I suppose.”
They crossed Hamilton Place, hesitating for a carriage and dodging a hansom.
”What would that be?'' Monk asked when they were on the pavement again.
Cyprian said nothing.
”Is Sir Basil aware that Mr. Thirsk gambles from time to time?” Monk pursued.
Cyprian drew in his breath, then let it out slowly before answering. Monk knew he had considered denying it, then put loyalty to Septimus before loyalty to his father. It was another judgment Monk approved.
”Probably not,'' Cyprian said.”I would appreciate it if you did not find it necessary to inform him.”
”I can think of no circ.u.mstance in which it would be necessary,” Monk agreed. He made an educated guess, based on the nature of the club from which Cyprian had emerged. ”Similarly your own gambling, sir.”
Cyprian stopped and swiveled to face him, his eyes wide. Then he saw Monk's expression and relaxed, a faint smile on his lips, before resuming his stride.
”Was Mrs. Haslett aware of this?” Monk asked him. ”Could that be what she meant when she said Mr. Thirsk would understand what she had discovered?”
”I have no idea.” Cyprian looked miserable.
”What else have they particularly in common?” Monk went on. ”What interests or experiences that would make his sympathy the sharper? Is Mr. Thirsk a widower?”
”No-no, he never married.”
”And yet he did not always live in Queen Anne Street. Where did he live before that?”
Cyprian walked in silence. They crossed Hyde Park Comer, taking several minutes to avoid carriages, hansoms, a dray with four fine Clydesdales drawing it, several costers' carts and a crossing sweeper darting in and out like a minnow trying to clear a path and catch his odd penny rewards at the same time. Monk was pleased to see Cyprian toss him a coin, and added another to it himself.
On the far side they went past the beginning of Rotten Row and strolled across the gra.s.s towards the Serpentine. A troop of gentlemen in immaculate habits rode along the Row, their horses' hooves thudding on the damp earth. Two of them laughed loudly and broke into a canter, harness jingling. Ahead of them three women turned back to look.
Cyprian made up his mind at last.
”Uncle Septimus was in the army. He was cas.h.i.+ered. That is why he has no means. Father took him in. He was a younger son so he inherited nothing. There was nowhere else for him.''
”How distressing.'' Monk meant it. He could imagine quite sharply the sudden reduction from the finance, power and status of an officer to the ignominy and poverty, and the utter friendlessness, of being cas.h.i.+ered, stripped of everything- and to your friends, ceasing to exist.
”It wasn't dishonesty or cowardice,” Cyprian went on, now that he was started, his voice urgent, concerned that Monk should know the truth. ”He fell in love, and his love was very much returned. He says he did nothing about it-no affair, but that hardly makes it any better-”
Monk was startled. There was no sense in it. Officers were permitted to marry, and many did.
Cyprian's face was full of pity-and wry, deprecating humor.
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