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“Are you being willfully deaf to me, Basil?” Her voice shook only at the last word.
“I have heard every word you said, Beatrice—and replied to it,” he said impatiently. Both of them remained looking ahead all the time, as if their full attention were on the interment. Opposite them Fenella was leaning heavily on Septimus. He propped her up automatically, his mind obviously elsewhere. From the look of sadness not only in his face but in the whole attitude of his body, he was thinking of Octavia.
“It was not an intruder,” Beatrice went on with quiet anger. “Every day we shall look ’round at faces, listen to inflections of voices and hear double meanings in everything that is said, and wonder if it was that person, or if not, if they know who it was.”
“You are being hysterical,” Basil snapped, his voice hard in spite of its very quietness. “If it will help you to keep control of yourself, I’ll dismiss all the servants and we’ll hire a new staff. Now for God’s sake pay attention to the service!”
“Dismiss the servants.” Her words were strangled in her throat. “Oh, Basil! How will that help?”
He stood still, his body rigid under the black broadcloth, his shoulders high.
“Are you saying you think it was one of the family?” he said at last, all expression ironed out of his voice.
She lifted her head a little higher. “Wasn’t it?”
“Do you know something, Beatrice?”
“Only what we all know—and what common sense tells me.” Unconsciously she turned her head a fraction towards Myles Kellard on the far side of the crypt.
Beside him Araminta was staring back at her mother. She could not possibly have heard anything of what had passed between her parents, but her hands tightened in front of her, holding a small handkerchief and tearing it apart.
The interment was over. The vicar intoned the last amen, and the company turned to depart. Cyprian and his wife, Araminta with several feet between herself and her husband, Septimus militarily upright and Fenella staggering a trifle, lastly Sir Basil and Lady Moidore side by side.
Monk watched them go with pity, anger and a growing sense of darkness.
4
“DO YOU WANT ME to keep on looking for the jewelry?” Evan asked, his face puckered with doubt. Obviously he believed there was no purpose to it at all.
Monk agreed with him. In all probability it had been thrown away, or even destroyed. Whatever the motive had been for the death of Octavia Haslett, he was sure it was not robbery, not even a greedy servant sneaking into her room to steal. It would be too stupid to do it at the one time he, or she, could be absolutely sure Octavia would be there, when there was all day to do such a thing undisturbed.
“No,” he said decisively. “Much better use your time questioning the servants.” He smiled, baring his teeth, and Evan made a grimace back again. He had already been twice to the Moidore house, each time asking the same things and receiving much the same brief, nervous answers. He could not deduce guilt from their fear. Nearly all servants were afraid of the police; the sheer embarrassment of it was enough to shadow their reputations, let alone suspicion of having any knowledge of a murder. “Someone in that house killed her,” he added.
Evan raised his eyebrows. “One of the servants?” He kept most of the surprise out of his voice, but there was still a lift of doubt there, and the innocence of his gaze only added to it.
“A far more comfortable thought,” Monk replied. “We shall certainly find more favor with the powers in the land if we can arrest someone below stairs. But I think that is a gift we cannot reasonably look for. No, I was hoping that by talking with the servants enough we might learn something about the family. Servants notice a great deal, and although they’re trained not to repeat any of it, they might unintentionally, if their own lives are in jeopardy.” They were standing in Monk’s office, smaller and darker than Runcorn’s, even in this bright, sharp, late autumn morning. The plain wooden table was piled with papers, the old carpet worn in a track from door to chair. “You’ve seen most of them,” he went on. “Any impressions so far?”
“Usual sort of complement,” Evan said slowly. “Maids are mostly young—on the surface they look flighty, given to giggles and triviality.” The sunlight came through the dusty window and picked out the fine lines on his face, throwing his expression into sharp relief. “And yet they earn their livings in a rigid world, full of obedience and among people who care little for them personally. They know a kind of reality that is harsher than mine. Some of the girls are only children.” He looked up at Monk. “In another year or two I’ll be old enough to be their father.” The thought seemed to startle him, and he frowned. “The between-stairs maid is only twelve. I haven’t discovered yet if they know anything of use, but I can’t believe it was one of them.”
“Maids?” Monk tried to clarify.
“Yes—older ones I suppose are possible.” Evan looked dubious. “Can’t think why they would, though.”
“Men?”
“Can’t imagine the butler.” Evan smiled with a little
twist. “He’s a dry old stick, very formal, very military. If a person ever stirred passion of any sort in him I think it was so long ago even the memory of it has gone now. And why on earth would an excruciatingly respectable butler stab his mistress’s daughter in her bedroom? What could he possibly be doing there in the middle of the night anyway?”
Monk smiled in spite of himself. “You don’t read enough of the more lurid press, Evan. Listen to the running patterers some time.”
“Rubbish,” Evan said heartily. “Not Phillips.”
“Footmen—grooms—bootboy?” Monk pressed. “And what about the older women?”
Evan was half leaning, half sitting on the windowsill.
“Grooms are in the stables and the back door is locked at night,” Evan replied. “Bootboy possibly, but he’s only fourteen. Can’t think of a motive for him. Older women—I suppose it is imaginable, some jealous or slight perhaps, but it would have to be a very violent one to provoke murder. None of them looks raving mad, or has ever shown the remotest inclination to violence. And they’d have to be mad to do such a thing. Anyway, passions in servants are far more often against each other. They are used to being spoken to in all manner of ways by the family.” He looked at Monk with gravity beneath the wry amusement. “It’s each other they take exception to. There’s a rigid hierarchy, and there’s been blood spilled before now over what job is whose.”
