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Monk found Septimus the following lunchtime in the public house which he frequented regularly. It was a small, cheerful place just off the Strand, known for its patronage by actors and law students. Groups of young men stood around talking eagerly, gesticulating, flinging arms in the air and poking fingers at an imaginary audience, but whether it was envisioned in a theater or a courtroom was impossible even to guess. There was a smell of sawdust and ale, and at this time of the day, a pleasant steam of vegetables, gravy and thick pastry.
He had been there only a few minutes, with a glass of cider, when he saw Septimus alone on a leather-upholstered seat in the corner, drinking. He walked over and sat down opposite him.
“Good day, Inspector.” Septimus put down his mug, and it was a moment before Monk realized how he had seen him while he was still drinking. The mug’s bottom was glass, an old-fashioned custom so a drinker might not be taken by surprise in the days when men carried swords and coaching inn brawls were not uncommon.
“Good day, Mr. Thirsk,” Monk replied, and he admired the mug with Septimus’s name engraved on it.
“I cannot tell you anything more,” Septimus said with a sad little smile. “If I knew who killed Tavie, or had the faintest idea why, I would have come to you without your bothering to follow me here.”
Monk sipped his cider.
“I came because I thought it would be easier to speak without interruption here than it would in Queen Anne Street.”
Septimus’s faded blue eyes lit with a moment’s humor. “You mean without Basil’s reminding me of my obligation, my duty to be discreet and behave like a gentleman, even if I cannot afford to be one, except now and again, by his grace and favor.”
Monk did not insult him by evasion. “Something like that,” he agreed. He glanced sideways as a young man with a fair face, not unlike Evan, lurched close to them in mock despair, clutching his heart, then began a dramatic monologue directed at his fellows at a neighboring table. Even after a full minute or two, Monk was not sure whether he was an aspiring actor or a would-be lawyer defending a client. He thought briefly and satirically of Oliver Rathbone, and pictured him as a callow youth at some public house like this.
“I see no military men,” he remarked, looking back at Septimus.
Septimus smiled down into his ale. “Someone has told you my story.”
“Mr. Cyprian,” Monk admitted. “With great sympathy.”
“He would.” Septimus pulled a face. “Now if you had asked Myles you would have had quite a different tale, meaner, grubbier, less flattering to women. And dear Fenella …” He took another deep draft of his ale. “Hers would have been more lurid, far more dramatic; the tragedy would have become grotesque, the love a frenzied passion, the whole thing rather gaudy; the real feeling, and the real pain, lost in effect—like the colored lights of a stage.”
“And yet you like to come to a public house full of actors of one sort or another,” Monk pointed out.
Septimus looked across the tables and his eye fell on a man of perhaps thirty-five, lean and oddly dressed, his face animated, but under the mask a weariness of disappointed hopes.
“I like it here,” he said gently. “I like the people. They have imagination to take them out of the commonplace, to forget the defeats of reality and feed on the triumphs of dreams.” His face was softened, its tired lines lifted by tolerance and affection. “They can evoke any mood they want into their faces and make themselves believe it for an hour or two. That takes courage, Mr. Monk; it takes a rare inner strength. The world, people like Basil, find it ridiculous—but I find it very heartening.”
There was a roar of laughter from one of the other tables, and for a moment he glanced towards it before turning back to Monk again. “If we can still surmount what is natural and believe what we wish to believe, in spite of the force of evidence, then for a while at least we are masters of our fate, and we can paint the world we want. I had rather do it with actors than with too much wine or a pipe full of opium.”
Someone climbed on a chair and began an oration to a few catcalls and a smattering of applause.
“And I like their humor,” Septimus went on. “They know how to laugh at themselves and each other—they like to laugh, they don’t see any sin in it, or any danger to their dignity. They like to argue. They don’t feel it a mortal wound if anyone queries what they say, indeed they expect to be questioned.” He smiled ruefully. “And if they are forced to a new idea, they turn it over like a child with a toy. They may be vain, Mr. Monk; indeed they assuredly are vain, like a garden full of peacocks forever fanning their tails and squawking.” He looked at Monk without perception or double meaning. “And they are ambitious, self-absorbed, quarrelsome and often supremely trivial.”
Monk felt a pang of guilt, as if an arrow had brushed by his cheek and missed its mark.
“But they amuse me,” Septimus said gently. “And they listen to me without condemnation, and never once has one of them tried to convince me I have some moral or social obligation to be different. No, Mr. Monk, I enjoy myself here. I feel comfortable.”
“You have explained yourself excellently, sir.” Monk smiled at him, for once without guile. “I understand why. Tell me something about Mr. Kellard.”
The pleasure vanished out of Septimus’s face. “Why? Do you think he had something to do with Tavie’s death?”
“Is it likely, do you think?”
Septimus shrugged and set down his mug.
“I don’t know. I don’t like the man. My opinion is of no use to you.”
“Why do you not like him, Mr. Thirsk?”
But the old military code of honor was too strong. Septimus smiled dryly, full of self-mockery. “A matter of instinct, Mr. Monk,” he lied, and Monk knew he was lying. “We have nothing in common in our natures or our interests. He is a banker, I was a soldier, and now I am a time server, enjoying the company of young men who playact and tell stories about crime and passion and the criminal world. And I laugh at all the wrong things, and drink too much now and again. I ruined my life over the love of a woman.” He turned the mug in his hand, fingers cares
sing it. “Myles despises that. I think it is absurd—but not contemptible. At least I was capable of such a feeling. There is something to be said for that.”
“There is everything to be said for it.” Monk surprised himself; he had no memory of ever having loved, let alone to such cost, and yet he knew without question that to care for any person or issue enough to sacrifice greatly for it was the surest sign of being wholly alive. What a waste of the essence of a man that he should never give enough of himself to any cause, that he should always hear that passive, cowardly voice uppermost which counts the cost and puts caution first. One would grow old and die with the power of one’s soul untasted.
