Part 10 (1/2)

Monk did not press him. He knew it would serve no purpose. Septimus was quite capable of keeping silence if he felt honor required it, and taking whatever consequences there were.

Monk finished his cider. ”I'll go and see Mr. Kellard myself. But if you do think of anything that suggests what Mrs. Haslett had discovered that last day, what it was she thought you would understand better than others, please let me know. It may well be that this secret was what caused her death.”

”I have thought,” Septimus replied, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face. ”I have gone over and over in my mind everything we have in common, or that she might have believed we had, and I have found very little. We neither of us cared for Myles-but that seems very trivial. He has never injured me in any way-nor her, that I am aware of. We were both financially dependent upon Basil-but then so is everyone else in the house!”

”Is Mr. Kellard not remunerated for his work at the bank?'' Monk was surprised.

Septimus looked at him with mild scorn, not unkindly.

”Certainly. But not to the extent that will support him in the way to which he would like to be accustomed-and definitely not Ararninta as well. Also there are social implications to be considered; there are benefits to being Basil Moidore's daughter which do not accrue to being merely Myles Kellard's wife, not least of them living in Queen Anne Street.”

Monk had not expected to feel any sympathy for Myles Kellard, but that single sentence, with its wealth of implications, gave him a sudden very sharp change of perception.

”Perhaps you are not aware of the level of entertaining that is conducted there,” Septimus continued, ”when the house is not in mourning? We regularly dined diplomats and cabinet ministers, amba.s.sadors and foreign princes, industrial moguls, patrons of the arts and sciences, and on occasion even minor members of our own royalty. Not a few d.u.c.h.esses and dozens of society called in the afternoons. And of course there were all the invitations in return. I should think there are few of the great houses that have not received the Moidores at one time or another.”

”Did Mrs. Haslett feel the same way?” Monk asked.

Septimus smiled with a rueful turning down of the lips. ”She had no choice. She and Haslett were to have moved into a house of their own, but he went into the army before it could be accomplished, and of course Tavie remained in Queen Anne Street. And then Harry, the poor beggar, was killed at Inker-mann. One of the saddest things I know. He was the devil of a nice fellow.” He stared into the bottom of his mug, not at the ale dregs but into old grief that still hurt. ”Ikvie never got over it. She loved him-more than the rest of the family ever understood.”

”I'm sorry,” Monk said gently. ”You were very fond of Mrs. Haslett-”

Septimus looked up. ”Yes, yes I was. She used to listen to me as if what I said mattered to her. She would let me ramble on-sometimes we drank a little too much together. She was kinder than Fenella-” He stopped, realizing he was on the verge of behaving like less than a gentleman. He stiffened his back painfully and lifted his chin. ”If I can help, Inspector, you may be a.s.sured that I will.''

”I am a.s.sured, Mr. Thirsk.'' Monk rose to his feet.”Thank you for your time.''

”I have more of it than I need.” Septimus smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Then he tipped up his mug and drank the dregs, and Monk could see his face distorted through the gla.s.s bottom.

Monk found Fenella Sandeman the next day at the end of a long late-morning ride, standing by her horse at the Kensington Gardens end of Rotten Row. She was superbly dressed in a black riding habit with gleaming boots and immaculate black Mousquetaire hat. Only her high-necked blouse and stock were vivid white. Her dark hair was neatly arranged, and her face with its unnatural color and painted eyebrows looked rakish and artificial in the cool November daylight.

”Why, Mr. Monk,” she said in amazement, looking him up and down and evidently approving what she saw. ”Whatever brings you walking in the park?” She gave a girlish giggle. ”Shouldn't you be questioning the servants or something? How does one detect?''

She ignored her horse, leaving the rein loosely over her arm as if that were sufficient.

”In a large number of ways, ma'am.” He tried to be courteous and at the same time not play to her mood of levity. ”Before I speak to the servants I would like to gain a clearer impression from the family, so that when I do ask questions they are the right ones.''

”So you've come to interrogate me.” She s.h.i.+vered melodramatically. ”Well, Inspector, ask me anything. I shall give you what answers I consider wisest.'' She was a small woman, and she looked up at him through half-closed lashes.

Surely she could not be drunk this early in the day? She must be amusing herself at his expense. He afFected not to notice her flippancy and kept a perfectly sober face, as if they were engaged in a serious conversation which might yield important information.

' ”Thank you, Mrs. Sandeman. I am informed you have lived in Queen Anne Street since shortly after the death of your husband some eleven or twelve years ago-”

”You have been delving into my past!” Her voice was husky, and far from being annoyed, she sounded flattered by the thought.

”Into everyone's, ma'am,” he said coldly. ”If you have been there such a time, you will have had frequent opportunity to observe both the family and the staff. You must know them all quite well.”

She swung the riding crop, startling the horse and narrowly missing its head. She seemed quite oblivious of the animal, and fortunately it was sufficiently well schooled. It remained close to her, measuring its pace obediently to hers as she moved very slowly along the path.

”Of course,” she agreed jauntily. ”Who do you wish to know about?” She shrugged her beautifully clothed shoulders. ”Myles is fun, but quite worthless-but then some of the most attractive men are, don't you think?” She turned sideways to look at him. Her eyes must have been marvelous once, very large and dark. Now the rest of her face had so altered they were grotesque.

He smiled very slightly. ”I think my interest in them is probably very different from yours, Mrs. Sandeman.”

She laughed uproariously for several moments, causing half a dozen people within earshot to turn curiously to find the cause of such mirth. When she had regained her composure she was still openly amused.

Monk was discomfited. He disliked being stared at as a matter of ribaldry.

”Don't you find pious women very tedious, Mr. Monk?” She opened her eyes very wide. ”Be honest with me.”

”Are there pious women in your family, Mrs. Sandeman?” His voice was cooler than he intended, but if she was aware she gave no sign.

”It's full of them.” She sighed. ”Absolutely p.r.i.c.kling like fleas on a hedgehog. My mother was one, may heaven rest her soul. My sister-in-law is another, may heaven preserve me-I live in her house. You have no idea how hard it is to have any privacy! Pious women are so good at minding other people's business-I suppose it is so much more interesting than their own.” She laughed again with a rich, gurgling sound.

He was becoming increasingly aware that she found him attractive, and it made him intensely uncomfortable.

”And Araminta is worse, poor creature,” she continued, walking with grace and swinging her stick. The horse plodded obediently at her heels, its rein trailing loosely over her arm. ”I suppose she has to be, with Myles. I told you he was worthless, didn't I? Of course Tavie was all right.” She looked straight ahead of her along the Row towards a fas.h.i.+onable group riding slowly in their direction. ”She drank, you know?” She glanced at him, then away again. ”All that tommyrot about ill health and headaches! She was drunk-or suffering the aftereffects. She took it from the kitchen.” She shrugged. ”I daresay one of the servants gave it to her. They all liked her because she was generous. Took advantage, if you ask me. Treat servants above their station, and they forget who they are and take liberties.”

Then she swung around and stared at him, her eyes exaggeratedly wide. ”Oh, my goodness! Oh, my dear, how perfectly awful. Do you suppose that was what happened to her?” Her very small, elegantly gloved hand flew to her mouth. ”She was overfamiliar with one of the servants? He ran away with the wrong idea-or, heaven help us, the right one,” she said breathlessly. ”And then she fought him off- and he killed her in the heat of his pa.s.sion? Oh, how perfectly frightful. What a scandal!” She gulped. ”Ha-ha-ha. Basil will never get over it. Just imagine what his friends will say.”

Monk was unaccountably revolted, not by the thought, which was pedestrian enough, but by her excitement at it. He controlled his disgust with difficulty, unconsciously taking a step backwards.

”Do you think that is what happened, ma'am?”

She heard nothing in his tone to dampen her t.i.tillation.

”Oh, it is quite possible,” she went on, painting the picture for herself, turning away and beginning to walk again. ”I know just the man to have done it. Percival-one of the footmen. Fine-looking man-but then all footmen are, don't you think?” She glanced sideways, then away again. ”No, perhaps you don't. I daresay you've never had much occasion. Not many footmen in your line of work.” She laughed again and hunched her shoulders without looking at him. ”Percival has that kind of face-far too intelligent to be a good servant. Ambitious. And such a marvelously cruel mouth. A man with a mouth like that could do anything.” She shuddered, wriggling her body as if shedding some enc.u.mbrance-or feeling something delicious against her skin. It occurred to Monk to wonder if perhaps she herself had encouraged the young footman into a relations.h.i.+p above and outside his station. But looking at her immaculate, artificial face the thought was peculiarly repellent. As close as he was to her now, in the hard daylight, it was clear that she must be nearer sixty than fifty, and Percival not more than thirty at the very outside.

”Have you any grounds for that idea, Mrs. Sandeman, other than what you observe in his face?” he asked her.

”Oh-you are angry.” She turned her limpid gaze up at him. ”I have offended your sense of propriety. You are a trifle pious yourself, aren't you, Inspector?”

Was he? He had no idea. He knew his instinctive reaction now: the gentle, vulnerable faces like Imogen Latterly's that stirred his emotions; the pa.s.sionate, intelligent ones like Hester's which both pleased and irritated him; the calculating, predatorily female ones like Fenella Sandeman's which he found alien and distasteful. But he had no memory of any actual relations.h.i.+p. Was he a prig, a cold man, selfish and incapable of commitment, even short-lived?

”No, Mrs. Sandeman, but I am offended by the idea of a footman who takes liberties with his mistress's daughter and then knifes her to death,” he said ruthlessly. ”Are you not?”

Still she was not angry. Her boredom cut him more deeply than any subtle insult or mere aloofness.

”Oh, how sordid. Yes of course I am. You do have a cra.s.s way with words, Inspector. One could not have you in the withdrawing room. Such a shame. You have a-” She regarded him with a frank appreciation which he found very unnerving. ”An air of danger about you.'' Her eyes were very bright and she stared at him invitingly.

He knew what the euphemism stood for, and found himself backing away.

”Most people find police intrusive, ma'am; I am used to it. Thank you for your time, you have been most helpful.” And he bowed very slightly and turned on his heel, leaving her standing beside her horse with her crop in one hand and the rein still over her arm. Before he had reached the edge of the gra.s.s she was speaking to a middle-aged gentleman who had just dismounted from a large gray and was flattering her shamelessly.

He found the idea of an amorous footman both unpleasant and unlikely, but it could not be dismissed. He had put off interviewing the servants himself for too long. He hailed a hansom along the Knightsbridge Road and directed it to take him to Queen Anne Street, where he paid the driver and went down the areaway steps to the back door.

Inside the kitchen was warm and busy and full of the odors of roasting meat, baking pastry and fresh apples. Coils of peel lay on the table, and Mrs. Boden, the cook, was up to her elbows in flour. Her face was red with exertion and heat, but she had an agreeable expression and was still a handsome woman, even though the veins were beginning to break on her skin and when she smiled her teeth were discolored and would not last much longer.

”If you're wanting your Mr. Evan, he's in the housekeeper's sitting room,” she greeted Monk. ”And if you're looking for a cup o' tea you're too soon. Come back in half an hour. And don't get under my feet. I 've dinner to think of; even in mourning they've still got to eat-and so have all of us.”

”Us” were the servants, and he noted the distinction immediately.