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"Yes you, my dear." Lady Fabia passed her the muffins, which she ignored. "I am talking to you. I shall, of course, also ask Ursula."
"Who is Ursula?" Monk interrupted.
"Miss Ursula Wadham; she is betrothed to my second son, Menard. You may safely leave it to me to glean from her any information that would be of use." She dismissed Monk and turned back to Rosamond. "Well?"
"I don't recall Joscelin having any . . . relationship in— in particular." Rosamond sounded rather awkward, as if the subject disturbed her. Watching her, Monk wondered for a moment if she had been in love with Joscelin herself, if perhaps that was why Lovel was so reluctant to have the matter pursued.
Could it even have gone further than a mere attraction?
"That is not what I asked," Lady Fabia said with thin patience. "I asked you if anyone else had shown any interest in Joscelin, albeit a one-sided one?"
Rosamond's head came up. For a moment Monk thought she was about to resist her mother-in-law, then the moment died.
"Norah Partridge was very fond of him," she replied slowly, measuring her words. "But that is hardly new; and I cannot see Sir John taking it badly enough to go all the way up to London and commit murder. I do believe he is fond of Norah, but not enough for that."
"Then you are more observant than I thought," Lady Fabia said with acid surprise. "But without much understanding of men, my dear. It is not necessary to want something yourself in order profoundly to resent someone else's having the ability to take it away from you; especially if they have the tactlessness to do it publicly.'' She swiveled to Monk. He was not offered the muffins. "There is somewhere for you to begin. I doubt John Partridge would be moved to murder—or that he would use a stick if he were." Her face flickered with pain again. "But No-rah had other admirers. She is a somewhat extravagant creature, and not possessed of much judgment.''
"Thank you, ma'am. If you think of anything further?"
For another hour they raked over past romances, affairs and supposed affairs, and Monk half listened. He was not interested in the facts so much as the nuances behind their expression. Joscelin had obviously been his mother's favorite, and if the absent Menard was like his elder brother, it was easy to understand why. But whatever her feelings, the laws of primogeniture ruled that not only the title and the lands, but also the money to support them and the way of life that went with them, must pass to Lovel, the firstborn.
Lovel himself contributed nothing, and Rosamond only enough to satisfy her mother-in-law, of whom she seemed in awe far more than of her husband.
Monk did not see Lady Callandra Daviot, rather to his disappointment. He would have liked her candor on the subject, although he was not sure she would have expressed herself as freely in front of the grieving family as she had in the garden in the rain.
He thanked them and excused himself in time to find Evan and walk down to the village for a pint of cider before the train back to London.
"Well?" Monk asked as soon as they were out of sight of the house.
"Ah." Evan could scarcely suppress his enthusiasm; his stride was surprisingly long, his lean body taut with energy, and he splashed through puddles on the road with complete disregard for his soaking boots. "It's fascinating. I've never been inside a really big house before, I mean inside to know it. My father was a clergyman, you know, and I went along to the manor house sometimes
when I was a child—but it was nothing like this. Good Lord, those servants see things that would paralyze me with shame—I mean the family treat them as if they were deaf and blind."
"They don't think of them as people," Monk replied. "At least not people in the same sense as themselves. They are two different worlds, and they don't impinge, except physically. Therefore their opinions don't matter. Did you learn anything else?" He smiled slightly at Evan's innocence.
Evan grinned. "I'll say, although of course they wouldn't intentionally tell a policeman, or anyone else, anything they thought confidential about the family. It would be more than their livelihood was worth. Very closemouthed, they thought they were."
"So how did you learn?" Monk asked curiously, looking at Evan's innocent, imaginative features.
Evan blushed very slightly. "Threw myself on Cook's mercy." He looked down at the ground, but did not decrease his pace in the slightest. "Slandered my landlady appallingly, I'm afraid. Spoke very unkindly about her cooking—oh, and I stood outside for some time before going in, so my hands were cold—" He glanced up at Monk, then away again. "Very motherly sort, Lady Shel-burne's cook." He smiled rather smugly. "Daresay I did a lot better than you did."
"I didn't eat at all," Monk said tartly.
"I'm sorry." Evan did not sound it.
"And what did your dramatic debut earn you, apart from luncheon?" Monk asked. "I presume you overheard a good deal—while you were busy being pathetic and eating them out of house and home?"
"Oh yes—did you know that Rosamond comes from a well-to-do family, but a bit come-lately? And she fell for Joscelin first, but her mother insisted she marry the eldest brother, who also offered for her. And she was a good, obedient girl and did as she was told. At least that is what I read between the lines of what the tweeny was saying to
the laundry maid—before the parlor maid came in and stopped them gossiping and they were packed off to their duties."
Monk whistled through his teeth.
"And," Evan went on before he could speak, "they had no children for the first few years, then one son, heir to the title, about a year and a half ago. Someone particularly spiteful is said to have observed that he has the typical Shelburne looks, but more like Joscelin than Lovel—so the second footman heard said in the public house. Blue eyes—you see, Lord Shelburne is dark—so is she-at least her eyes are—"
Monk stopped in the road, staring at him.
"Are you sure?"
