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And yet there was something. Even as the thoughts passed through his mind a memory stirred of intense emotions, outrage and grief for someone else, a passion to fight at all costs, not for himself but for others—and for one in particular. He knew loyalty and gratitude, he simply could not force it back into his mind for whom.
Septimus was looking at him curiously.
Monk smiled. “Perhaps he envies you, Mr. Thirsk,” he said spontaneously.
Septimus’s eyebrows rose in amazement. He looked at Monk’s face, seeking sarcasm, and found none.
Monk explained himself. “Without realizing it,” he added. “Maybe Mr. Kellard lacks the depth, or the courage, to feel anything deeply enough to pay for it. To suspect yourself a coward is a very bitter thing indeed.”
Very slowly Septimus smiled, with great sweetness.
“Thank you, Mr. Monk. That is the finest thing anyone has said to me in years.” Then he bit his lip. “I am sorry. I still cannot tell you anything about Myles. All I know is suspicion, and it is not my wound to expose. Perhaps there is no wound at all, and he is merely a bored man with too much time on his hands and an imagination that works too hard.”
Monk did not press him. He knew it would serve no purpose. Septimus was quite capable of keeping silence if he felt honor required it, and taking whatever consequences there were.
Monk finished his cider. “I’ll go and see Mr. Kellard myself. But if you do think of anything that suggests what Mrs. Haslett had discovered that last day, what it was she thought you would understand better than others, please let me know. It may well be that this secret was what caused her death.”
“I have thought,” Septimus replied, screwing up his face. “I have gone over and over in my mind everything we have in common, or that she might have believed we had, and I have found very little. We neither of us cared for Myles—but that seems very trivial. He has never injured me in any way—nor her, that I am aware of. We were both financially dependent upon Basil—but then so is everyone else in the house!”
“Is Mr. Kellard not remunerated for his work at the bank?” Monk was surprised.
Septimus looked at him with mild scorn, not unkindly.
“Certainly. But not to the extent that will support him in the way to which he would like to be accustomed—and definitely not Araminta as well. Also there are social implications to be considered; there are benefits to being Basil Moidore’s daughter which do not accrue to being merely Myles Kellard’s wife, not least of them living in Queen Anne Street.”
Monk had not expected to feel any sympathy for Myles Kellard, but that single sentence, with its wealth of implications, gave him a sudden very sharp change of perception.
“Perhaps you are not aware of the level of entertaining that is conducted there,” Septimus continued, “when the house is not in mourning? We regularly dined diplomats and cabinet ministers, ambassadors and foreign princes, industrial moguls, patrons of the arts and sciences, and on occasion even minor members of our own royalty. Not a few duchesses and dozens of society called in the afternoons. And of course there were all the invitations in return. I should think there are few of the great houses that have not received the Moidores at one time or another.”
“Did Mrs. Haslett feel the same way?” Monk asked. Septimus smiled with a rueful turning down of the lips. “She had no choice. She and Haslett were to have moved into a house of their own, but he went into the army before it could be accomplished, and of course Tavie remained in Queen Anne Street. And then Harry, the poor beggar, was killed at Inkermann. One of the saddest things I know. He was the devil of a nice fellow.” He stared into the bottom of his mug, not at the ale dregs but into old grief that still hurt. “Tavie never got over it. She loved him—more than the rest of the family ever understood.”
“I’m sorry,” Monk said gently. “You were very fond of Mrs. Haslett—”
Septimus looked up. “Yes, yes I was. She used to listen to me as if what I said mattered to her. She would let me ramble on—sometimes we drank a little too much together. She was kinder than Fenella—” He stopped, realizing he was on the verge of behaving like less than a gentleman. He stiffened his back painfully and lifted his chin. “If I can help, Inspector, you may be assured that I will.”
“I am assured, Mr. Thirsk.” Monk rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time.”
“I have more of it than I need.” Septimus smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Then he tipped up his mug and drank the dregs, and Monk could see his face distorted through the glass bottom.
* * *
Monk found Fenella Sandeman the next day at the end of a long late-morning ride, standing by her horse at the Kensington Gardens end of Rotten Row. She was superbly dressed in a black riding habit with gleaming boots and immaculate black Mousquetaire hat. Only her high-necked blouse and stock were vivid white. Her dark hair was neatly arranged, and her face with its unnatural color and painted eyebrows looked rakish and artificial in the cool November daylight.
“Why, Mr. Monk,” she said in amazement, looking him up and down and evidently approving what she saw. “Whatever brings you walking in the park?” She gave a girlish giggle. “Shouldn’t you be questioning the servants or something? How does one detect?”
She ignored her horse, leaving the rein loosely over her arm as if that were sufficient.
“In a large number of ways, ma’am.” He tried to be courteous and at the same time not play to her mood of levity. “Before I speak to the servants I would like to gain a clearer impression from the family, so that when I do ask questions they are the right ones.”
“So you’ve come to interrogate me.” She shivered melodramatically. “Well, Inspector, ask me anything. I shall give you what answers I consider wisest.” She was a small woman, and she looked up at him through half-closed lashes.
Surely she could not be drunk this early in the day? She must be amusing herself at his expense. He affected not to notice her flippancy and kept a perfectly sober face, as if they were engaged in a serious conversation which might yield important information.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sandeman. I am informed you have lived in Queen Anne Street since shortly after the death of your husband some eleven or twelve years ago—”
“You have been delving into my past!” Her voice was husky, and far from being annoyed, she sounded flattered by the thought.
“Into everyone’s, ma’am,” he said coldly. “If you have been there such a time, you will have had frequent opportunity to observe both the family and the staff. You must know them all quite well.”
