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“Has she a short memory?” Monk inquired.
“Erratic,” Cyprian replied with an oblique smile. He reached for the bell, but when the butler arrived it was Basil who instructed him to fetch first Mrs. Sandeman, and then Mr. Thirsk.
Fenella Sandeman bore an extraordinary resemblance to Basil. She had the same dark eyes and short, straight nose, her mouth was similarly wide and mobile, but her whole head was narrower and the lines were smoothed out. In her youth she must have had an exotic charm close to real beauty, now it was merely extraordinary. Monk did not need to ask the relationship; it was too plain to miss. She was of approximately the same age as Basil, perhaps nearer sixty than fifty, but she fought against time with every artifice imagination could conceive. Monk did not know enough of women to realize precisely what tricks they were, but he knew their presence. If he had ever understood them it was forgotten, with so much else. But he saw an artificiality in her face: the color of the skin was unnatural, the line of her brows harsh, her hair stiff and too dark.
She looked at Monk with great interest and refused Basil’s invitation to sit down.
“How do you do,” she said with a charming husky voice, just a fraction blurred at the edges.
“Fenella, he’s a policeman, not a social acquaintance,” Basil snapped. “He is investigating Octavia’s death. It seems she was killed by someone here in the house, presumably one of the servants.”
“One of the servants?” Fenella’s black-painted eyebrows rose startlingly. “My dear, how appalling.” She did not look in the least alarmed; in fact, if it were not absurd, Monk would have thought she found a kind of excitement in it.
Basil caught the inflection also.
“Remember your conduct!” he said tartly. “You are here because it begins to appear that Octavia may have discovered some secret, albeit accidentally, for which she was killed. Inspector Monk wonders if she may have confided such a thing to you. Did she?”
“Oh my goodness.” She did not even glance at her brother; her eyes were intent on Monk. Had it not been socially ridiculous, and she at the very least twenty years his senior, he would have thought she considered flirting with him. “I shall have to think about it,” she said softly. “I’m sure I cannot recall all that she said over the last few days. Poor child. Her life was full of tragedy. Losing her husband in the war, so soon after her marriage. How awful that s
he should be murdered over some wretched secret.” She shivered and hunched her shoulders, “Whatever could it be?” Her eyes widened dramatically. “An illegitimate child, do you think? No—yes! It would lose a servant her position—but could it really have been a woman? Surely not?” She came a step closer to Monk. “Anyway, none of our servants has had a child—we would all know about it.” She made a sound deep in her throat, almost a giggle. “One can hardly keep such a thing secret, can one? A crime of passion—that’s it. There has been a fateful passion, which no one else knows about, and Tavie stumbled on it by chance—and they killed her—poor child. How can we help, Inspector?”
“Please be careful, Mrs. Sandeman,” Monk replied with a grim face. He was very uncertain how seriously to regard her, but he felt compelled to warn her against jeopardizing her own safety. “You may discover the secret yourself, or allow the person concerned to fear you may. You would be wise to observe in silence.”
She took a step backward, drew in her breath, and her eyes grew even wider. For the first time he wondered, even though it was mid-morning, if she were entirely sober.
Basil must have had the same thought. He extended his hand perfunctorily and guided her to the door.
“Just think about it, Fenella, and if you remember anything, tell me, and I will call Mr. Monk. Now go and have breakfast, or write letters or something.”
For an instant the glamour and excitement vanished from her face and she looked at him with intense dislike; then as quickly it was gone, and she accepted his dismissal, closing the door behind her softly.
Basil looked at Monk, searching to judge his perception, but Monk left his face blank and polite.
The last person to come in had an equally apparent relationship to the family. He had the same wide blue eyes as Lady Moidore, and although his hair was now gray, his skin was fair with the pinkness that would have been natural with light auburn hair, and his features echoed the sensitivity and fine bones of hers. However he was obviously older than she, and the years had treated him harshly. His shoulders were stooped and there was an indelible weariness in him as of the flavor of many defeats, small perhaps, but sharp.
“Septimus Thirsk.” He announced himself with a remnant of military precision, as if an old memory had unaccountably slipped through and prompted him. “What can I do for you, sir?” He ignored his brother-in-law, in whose house he apparently lived, and Cyprian, who had retreated to the window embrasure.
“Were you at home on Monday, the day before Mrs. Haslett was killed, sir?” Monk asked politely.
“I was out, sir, in the morning and for luncheon,” Septimus answered, still standing almost to attention. “I spent the afternoon here, in my quarters most of the time. Dined out.” A shadow of concern crossed his face. “Why does that interest you, sir? I neither saw nor heard any intruder, or I should have reported it.”
“Mrs. Haslett was killed by someone already in the house, Uncle Septimus,” Cyprian explained. “We thought Tavie might have said something to you which would give us some idea why. We’re asking everyone.”
“Said something?” Septimus blinked.
Basil’s face darkened with irritation. “For heaven’s sake, man, the question is simple enough! Did Octavia say or do anything that led you to suppose she had stumbled on a secret unpleasant enough to cause someone to fear her! It’s hardly likely, but it is necessary to ask!”
“Yes she did!” Septimus said instantly, two spots of color burning on his pale cheeks. “When she came in in the late afternoon she said a whole world had been opened up to her and it was quite hideous. She said she had one more thing to discover to prove it finally. I asked her what it was, but she refused to say.”
Basil was stunned and Cyprian stood paralyzed on the spot.
“Where had she been, Mr. Thirsk?” Monk asked quietly. “You said she was coming in.”
“I have no idea,” Septimus replied with the grief replacing anger in his eyes. “I asked her, but she would not tell me, except that one day I would understand, better than anyone else. That was all she would say.”
“Ask the coachman,” Cyprian said immediately. “He’ll know.”
“She didn’t go in our coaches.” Septimus caught Basil’s eye. “I mean your coaches,” he corrected pointedly. “She walked in. I presume she either walked all the way or found a hansom.”
