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Basil leaned forward across the table.
“Then if no one broke in, and no one was concealed here, you have created an impossible situation—unless you are suggesting—” He stopped, the color drained out of his face and slowly a very real horror replaced the irritation and impatience. He stood stock-still. “Are you?” he said very quietly.
“Yes, Sir Basil,” Monk answered him.
“That’s—” Basil stopped. For several seconds he remained in absolute silence, his thoughts apparently inward, racing, ideas grasped and rejected. Finally he came to some realization he could not cast aside. “I see,” he said at last. “I cannot think of any imaginable reason, but we must face the inevitable. It seems preposterous, and I still believe that you will find some flaw in your reasoning, or that your evidence is faulty. But until then we must proceed on your assumption.” He frowned very slightly. “What do you require next? I assure you we have no violent quarrels or conflicts in the house and no one has behaved in any way out of their usual custom.” He regarded Monk with something between dislike and a bitter humor. “And we do not have personal relationships with our servants, let alone of the sort which would occasion this.” He put his hands in his pockets. “It is absurd—but I do not wish to obstruct you.”
“I agree a quarrel seems unlikely.” Monk measured his words, both to keep his own dignity and to show Basil there was some sense to the argument. “Especially in the middle of the night when all the household was in bed. But it is not impossible Mrs. Haslett was privy to some secret, albeit unintentionally, that someone feared she might expose—” It was not only possible, it excluded her from all blame. He saw Basil’s face lose some of its anxiety, and a flicker of hope appeared in his eyes. His shoulder eased as he breathed out and let his arms drop.
“Poor Octavia.” He looked at one of the soft landscape paintings on the wall. “That does sound possible. I apologize. I spoke hastily. You had better pursue your inquiries. What do you wish to do first?”
Monk respected him for his ability to admit both haste and discourtesy. It was more than he had expected, and something he would have found hard himself. The measure of the man was larger than he thought.
“I would like to speak to the family first, sir. They may have observed something, or Mrs. Haslett may have confided in one of them.”
“The family?” Basil’s mouth twitched, but whether it was from fear or a dark, inward humor Monk could not even guess. “Very wel
l.” He reached for the bell pull and tugged it. When the butler appeared he sent him to bring Cyprian Moidore to the morning room.
Monk waited in silence until he came.
Cyprian closed the door behind him and looked at his father. Seeing them almost side by side the resemblance was striking: the same shape of head; the dark, almost black eyes; and the broad mouth with its extraordinary mobility. And yet the expressions were so different the whole bearing was altered. Basil was more aware of his own power and was quicker tempered, the flash of humor more deeply covered. Cyprian was less certain, as if his strength was untried and he feared it might not prove adequate. Was the softer side of him compassion, or simply caution because he was still vulnerable and he knew it?
“The police have discerned that no one broke in to kill Octavia,” Basil explained briefly and without preamble. He did not watch his son’s face; apparently he was not concerned how the news affected him, nor did he explain Monk’s reasoning of possible motive. “The only solution left seems to be that it was someone already living here. Obviously not the family—therefore, we must presume, one of the servants. Inspector Monk wishes to speak to all of us to see what we observed—if indeed we observed anything.”
Cyprian stared at his father, then swung around to look at Monk as if he had been some monster brought in from a foreign land.
“I am sorry, sir.” Monk put in the apology Basil had omitted. “I am aware that it must be distressing, but if you could tell me what you did on Monday, and what you can recall of anything Mrs. Haslett may have said, especially if at any time she confided a concern to you, or some matter she may have discovered that could be seen as dangerous to anyone else.”
Cyprian frowned, concentration coming slowly to his face as thought took over from astonishment. He turned his back on his father.
“You think Octavia was killed because she knew someone’s secret about—” He shrugged. “What? What could one of our servants have done that—” He stopped. It was apparent from his eyes that his question was answered in his imagination and he preferred not to speak it. “Tavie said nothing to me. But then I was out most of the day. I wrote a few letters in the morning, then about eleven I went to my club in Piccadilly for luncheon and spent the afternoon with Lord Ainslie, talking about cattle, mostly. He has some stock, and I considered buying some. We keep a large estate in Hertfordshire.”
Monk had a rapid impression that Cyprian was lying, not about the meeting but about the subject of it.
“Damned Owenite politician!” Basil said with a flash of temper. “Have us all living in communities like farm animals.”
“Not at all!” Cyprian retorted. “His thoughts are—”
“You were here at dinner,” Basil overrode him curtly before he could form his argument. “Didn’t you see Octavia then?”
“Only at table,” Cyprian said with an edge to his voice. “And if you recall, Tavie barely spoke—to me, or to anyone else.”
Basil turned from the fireplace and looked at Monk.
“My daughter was not always in the best of health. I think on that occasion she was feeling unwell. She certainly was extremely quiet and seemed in some distress.” He put his hands back in his pockets. “I assumed at the time she had a headache, but looking back now, perhaps she was aware of some ugly secret and it consumed her thoughts. Although she can hardly have realized the danger it represented.”
“I wish to God she had told someone,” Cyprian said with sudden passion. There was no need to add all the tumult of feelings that lay behind it, the regret and the sense of having failed. It lay heavy in his voice and in the strain in his features.
Before the elder Moidore replied there was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” he said, raising his head sharply, irked by the intrusion.
Monk wondered for a moment who the woman was, then as Cyprian’s expression changed, he remembered meeting her in the withdrawing room the first morning: Romola Moidore. This time she looked less drained with shock; her skin had a bloom to it and her complexion was flawless. Her features were regular, her eyes wide and her hair thick. The only thing which prevented her from being a beauty was a suggestion of sulkiness about the mouth, a feeling that her good temper was not to be relied on. She looked at Monk with surprise. Obviously she did not remember him.
“Inspector Monk,” Cyprian supplied. Then, when her face did not clear: “Of the police.” He glanced at Monk, and for a moment there was a bright intelligence in his eyes. He was leaving Monk to make whatever impact he chose.
Basil immediately spoiled it by explaining.
