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“I don’t know,” he said at last, with obvious difficulty. “Blood in the study might be indicative—Percival would not have killed her there. The whole premise is that he forced his way into her bedroom and she fought him off and was killed in the process—”
She stood up, suddenly full of energy now that there was something to do.
“I will look for it. It won’t be difficult—”
“Be careful,” he said so sharply that it was almost a bark. “Hester!”
She opened her mouth to be dismissive, full of the excitement of at last having some idea to pursue.
“Hester!” He caught her by the shoulder, his hands hard.
She winced and would have pulled away had she the strength.
“Hester—listen to me!” he said urgently. “This man—or woman—has done far more than conceal a suicide. They have committed a slow and very deliberate murder.” His face was tight with distress. “Have you ever seen a man hanged? I have. And I watched Percival struggle as the net tightened around him for the weeks before—and then I visited him in Newgate. It is a terrible way to die.”
She felt a little sick, but she did not retreat.
“They will have no pity for you,” he went on relentlessly, “if you threaten them in even the slightest way. In fact I think now that you know this, it would be better if you were to send in your notice. Tell them by letter that you have had an accident and cannot return. No one is needing a nurse; a ladies’ maid could perfectly well perform all that Lady Moidore wants.”
“I will not.” She stood almost chest to chest with him and glared. “I am going back to Queen Anne Street to see if I can discover what really happened to Octavia—and possibly who did it and caused Percival to be hanged.” She realized the enormity of what she was saying, but she had left herself no retreat.
“Hester.”
“What?”
He took a deep breath and let her go. “Then I will remain in the street nearby, and shall look to see you at least every hour at a window that gives to the street. If I don’t, I shall call Evan at the police station and have him enter the place—”
“You can’t!” she protested.
“I can!”
“On what pretext, for heaven’s sake?”
He smiled with bitter humor. “That you are wanted in connection with a domestic theft. I can always release you afterwards—with unblemished character—a case of mistaken identity.”
She was more relieved than she would show.
“I am obliged to you.” She tried to say it stiffly, but her emotion showed through, and for a moment they stared at each other with that perfect understanding that occasionally flashed between them. Then she excused herself, picked up her coat again and allowed him to help her into it, and took her leave.
She entered the Queen Anne Street house discreetly and avoided all but the most essential conversation, going upstairs to check that Septimus was still recovering well. He was pleased to see her and greeted her with interest. She found it hard not to tell him anything of her discoveries or conclusions, and she made excuses to escape and go to Beatrice as soon as she could without hurting his feelings.
After she had brought up her dinner she asked permission to retire early, saying she had letters to write, and Beatrice was content to acquiesce.
She slept very restlessly, and it was no difficulty to rise at a little after two in the morning and creep downstairs with a candle. She dared not turn up the gas. It would glare like the sun and be too far away for her to reach to turn it down should she hear anyone else about. She slipped down the female servants’ staircase to the landing, then down the main staircase to the hall and into Sir Basil’s study. With an unsteady hand she knelt down, candle close to the floor, and searched the red-and-blue Turkey carpet to find an irregularity in the pattern that might mark a bloodstain.
It took her about ten minutes, and it seemed like half the night, before she heard the clock in the hall chime and it nearly startled her into dropping the candle. As it was she spilled hot wax and had to pick it off the wool with her fingernail.
It was then she realized the irregularity was not simply the nature of the carpet maker but an ugliness, an asymmetry nowhere else balanced, and on bending closer she saw how large it was, now nearly washed out, but still quite discernible. It was behind the large oak desk, where one might naturally stand to open any of the small side drawers, only three of which had lo
cks.
She rose slowly to her feet. Her eye went straight to the second drawer, where she could see faint scoring marks around the keyhole, as if someone had forced it open with a crude tool and a replacement lock and repolishing of the bruised wood could not completely hide it.
There was no way in which she could open it; she had neither skill nor instrument—and more than that, she did not wish to alarm the one person who would most notice a further damage to the desk. But she could easily guess what Octavia had found—a letter, or more than one, from Lord Cardigan, and perhaps even the colonel of the regiment, which had confirmed beyond doubt what she already had learned from the War Office.
Hester stood motionless, staring at the desk with its neatly laid-out dish of sand for blotting ink on a letter, sticks of scarlet wax and tapers for seals, stand of carved sardonyx and red jasper for ink and quills, and a long, exquisite paper knife in imitation of the legendary sword of King Arthur, embedded in its magical stone. It was a beautiful thing, at least ten inches long and with an engraved hilt. The stone itself which formed its stand was a single piece of yellow agate, the largest she had ever seen.
She stood, imagining Octavia in exactly the same spot, her mind whirling with misery, loneliness and the ultimate defeat. She must have stared at that beautiful thing as well.
