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From his position like a waiting servant on the steps of All Saints Church, Monk saw the family arrive, first Sir Basil Moidore with his remaining daughter, Araminta, not even a black veil able to hide the blazing color of h
er hair or the whiteness of her face. They climbed the steps together, she holding his arm, although she seemed to support him as much as he her.
Next came Beatrice Moidore, very definitely upheld by Cyprian. She walked uprightly, but was so heavily veiled no expression was visible, but her back and shoulders were stiff and twice she stumbled and he helped her gently, speaking with his head close to hers.
Some distance behind, having come in a separate carriage, Myles Kellard and Romola Moidore came side by side, but not seeming to offer each other anything more than a formal accompaniment. Romola moved as if she was tired; her step was heavy and her shoulders a little bowed. She too wore a veil so her face was invisible. A few feet to her right Myles Kellard looked bleak, or perhaps it was boredom. He climbed the steps slowly, almost absently, and only when they reached the top did he offer her a hand at her elbow, more as a courtesy than a support.
Lastly came Fenella Sandeman in overdramatic black, a hat with too much decoration on it for a funeral, but undoubtedly handsome. Her waist was nipped in so she looked fragile, at a few yards’ distance giving an impression of girlishness, then as she came closer one saw the too-dark hair and the faint withering of the skin. Monk did not know whether to pity her ridiculousness or admire her bravado.
Close behind her, and murmuring to her every now and again, was Septimus Thirsk. The hard gray daylight showed the weariness in his face and his sense of having been beaten, finding his moments of happiness in very small victories, the great ones having long ago been abandoned.
Monk did not go inside the church yet, but waited while the reverent, the grieving and the envious made their way past him. He overheard snatches of conversation, expressions of pity, but far more of outrage. What was the world coming to? Where was the much vaunted new Metropolitan Police Force while all this was going on? What was the purpose in paying to have them if people like the Moidores could be murdered in their own beds? One must speak to the Home Secretary and demand something be done!
Monk could imagine the outrage, the fear and the excuses that would take place over the next days or weeks. Whitehall would be spurred by complaints. Explanations would be offered, polite refusals given, and then when their lordships had left, Runcorn would be sent for and reports requested with icy disfavor hiding a hot panic.
And Runcorn would break out in a sweat of humiliation and anxiety. He hated failure and had no idea how to stand his ground. And he in turn would pass on his fears, disguised as official anger, to Monk.
Basil Moidore would be at the beginning of the chain—and at the end, when Monk returned to his house to tear apart the comfort and safe beliefs of his family, all their assumptions about one another and the dead woman they were burying with such a fashionable funeral now.
A newsboy strolled past as Monk turned to go inside.
“ ’Orrible murder!” the boy shouted out, regardless of standing beside the church steps. “Police baffled! Read all about it!”
The service was very formal, sonorous voices intoning all the well-known words, organ music swelling somberly, everything jewel colors of stained glass, gray masses of stone, light on a hundred textures of black, the shuffle of feet and rustle of fabric. Someone sniffed. Footsteps were loud as ushers moved down the aisles. Boots squeaked.
Monk waited at the back, and as they left to go after the coffin to the family vault he followed as closely as he dared.
During the interment he stood behind them, next to a large man with a bald head, his few strands of hair fluttering in the sharpening November wind.
Beatrice Moidore was immediately in front of him, close to her husband now.
“Did you see that policeman here?” she asked him very quietly. “Standing at the back behind the Lewises.”
“Of course,” he replied. “Thank God at least he is discreet and he looks like a mourner.”
“His suit is beautifully cut,” she said with a lift of surprise in her voice. “They must pay them more than I thought. He almost looks like a gentleman.”
“He does not,” Basil said sharply. “Don’t be ridiculous, Beatrice.”
“He’ll be back, you know.” She ignored his criticism.
“Of course he’ll be back,” he said between his teeth. “He’ll be back every day until he gives up—or discovers who it was.”
“Why did you say ‘give up’ first?” she asked. “Don’t you think he will find out?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Basil?”
“What?”
“What will we do if he doesn’t?”
His voice was resigned. “Nothing. There is nothing to do.”
“I don’t think I can live the rest of my life not knowing.”
He lifted his shoulders fractionally. “You will have to, my dear. There will be no alternative. Many cases are unsolved. We shall have to remember her as she was, grieve for her, and then continue our lives.”
