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“Whoever killed Octavia is someone who lives in this house. That means one of the servants.” His eyes were on her face, his voice careful. “The only reason that makes any sense is if one of them has a secret so shameful they would rather commit murder than have it revealed. Either Octavia knew this secret or they believed she did.”
Romola sat down sharply, the color fading from her cheeks, and she put her hand to her mouth, but her eyes did not leave Basil’s face. Never once did she look to her husband.
Cyprian glared at his father, who looked back at him boldly—and with something that Monk thought might well be dislike. He wished he could remember his own father, but rack his memory as he might, nothing came back but a faint blur, an impression of size and the smell of salt and tobacco, and the touch of beard, and skin softer than he expected. Nothing returned of the man, his voice, his words, a face. Monk had no real idea, only a few sentences from his sister, and a smile as if there were something familiar and precious.
Romola was speaking, her voice scratchy with fear.
“Here in the house?” She looked at Monk, although she was speaking to Cyprian. “One of the servants?”
“There doesn’t seem to be any other explanation,” Cyprian replied. “Did Tavie say anything to you—think carefully—anything about any of the servants?”
“No,” she said almost immediately. “This is terrible. The very thought of it makes me feel ill.”
A shadow passed over Cyprian’s face, and for a moment it seemed as if he were about to speak, but he was aware of his father’s eyes on him.
“Did Octavia speak to you alone that day?” Basil asked her without change of tone.
“No—no,” she denied quickly. “I interviewed governesses all morning. None of them seemed suitable. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“See some more!” Basil snapped. “If you pay a requisite salary you will find someone who will do.”
She shot him a look of repressed dislike, guarded enough that to a casual eye it could have been anxiety.
“I was at home all day.” She turned back to Monk, her hands still clenched. “I received friends in the afternoon, but Tavie went out. I have no idea where; she said nothing when she came in. In fact she passed by me in the hall as if she had not seen me there at all.”
“Was she distressed?” Cyprian asked quickly. “Did she seem frightened, or upset about anything?”
Basil watched them, waiting.
“Yes,” Romola said with a moment’s thought. “Yes she did. I assumed she had had an unpleasant afternoon, perhaps friends who were disagreeable, but maybe it was more than that?”
“What did she say?” Cyprian pursued.
“Nothing. I told you, she barely seemed aware she had passed me. If you remember, she said very little at dinner, and we presumed she was not well.”
They all looked at Monk, waiting for him to resolve some answer from the facts.
“Perhaps she confided in her sister?” he suggested.
“Unlikely,” Basil said tersely. “But Minta is an observant woman.” He turned to Romola. “Thank you, my dear. You may return to your tasks. Do not forget what I have counseled you. Perhaps you would be good enough to ask Araminta to join us here.”
“Yes, Papa-in-law,” she said obediently, and left without looking at Cyprian or Monk again.
Araminta Kellard was not
a woman Monk could have forgotten as he had her sister-in-law. From her vivid fire-gold hair, her curiously asymmetrical features, to her slender, stiff body, she was unique. When she came into the room she looked first at her father, ignored Cyprian and faced Monk with guarded interest, then turned back to her father.
“Papa?”
“Did Tavie say anything to you about learning something shocking or distressing recently?” Basil asked her. “Particularly the day before she died?”
Araminta sat down and considered very carefully for several moments, without looking at anyone else in the room. “No,” she said at last. She regarded Monk with steady, amber-hazel eyes. “Nothing specific. But I was aware that she was extremely concerned about something which she learned that afternoon. I am sorry, I have no idea what it was. Do you believe that is why she was killed?”
Monk looked at her with more interest than he had for anyone else he had yet seen in this house. There was an almost mesmeric intensity in her, and yet she was utterly composed. Her thin hands were tight in her lap, but her gaze was unwavering and penetratingly intelligent. Monk had no idea what wounds tore at the fabric of her emotions beneath, and he did not imagine he would easily frame any questions, no matter how subtle, which would cause her to betray them.
“It is possible, Mrs. Kellard,” he answered. “But if you can think of any other motive anyone might have to wish her harm, or fear her, please let me know. It is only a matter of deduction. There is no evidence as yet, except that no one broke in.”
“From which you conclude that it was someone already here,” she said very quietly. “Someone who lives in this house.”
