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“All right, who was she?”
He looked at Monk with a level, jubilant stare.
“Parlormaid before Dinah. Pretty thing, neat and slender, walked like a princess. He took a fancy to her, and wouldn’t be told no. Didn’t believe she meant it. Raped her.”
“How do you know this?” Monk was skeptical, but not totally disbelieving. Percival was too sure of himself for it to be simply a malicious invention, nor was there the sweat of desperation on his skin. He stood easily, his body relaxed, almost excited.
“Servants are invisible,” Percival replied, eyes wide. “Don’t you know that? Part of the furniture. I overheard Sir Basil when he made some of the arrangements. Poor little bitch was dismissed for being of loose tongue and even looser morals. He got her out of the house before she could tell anyone else. She made the mistake of going to him about it, because she was afraid she was with child—which she was. Funny thing is he didn’t even doubt her—he knew she was telling the truth. But he said she must have encouraged him—it was her fault. Threw her out without a reference.” He shrugged. “God knows what happened to her.”
Monk thought Percival’s anger was outrage for his own class rather than pity for the girl, and was ashamed of himself for his judgment. It was harsh and without proof, and yet he did not change it.
“And you don’t know where she is now?”
Percival snorted. “A maid without a position or a character, alone in London, and with child? What do you think? Sweatshops wouldn’t have her with a child, whorehouses wouldn’t either for the same reason. Workhouse, I should think—or the grave.”
“What was her full name?”
“Martha Rivett.”
“How old was she?”
“Seventeen.”
Monk was not surprised, but he felt an almost uncontrollable rage and a ridiculous desire to weep. He did not know why; it was surely more than pity for this one girl whom he had not even met. He must have seen hundreds of others, simple, abused, thrown out without a twinge of guilt. He must have seen their defeated faces, the hope and the death of hope, and he must have seen their bodies dead of hunger, violence and disease.
Why did it hurt? Why was there no skin of callousness grown over it? Was there something, someone who had touched him more closely? Pity—guilt? Perhaps he would never know again. It was gone, like almost everything else.
“Who else knew about it?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion which could have been taken for any of a dozen feelings.
“Only Lady Moidore, so far as I know.” A quick spark flashed in Percival’s eyes. “But maybe that was what Mrs. Haslett found out.” He lifted his shoulders a fraction. “And she threatened to tell Mrs. Kellard? And for that matter maybe she did tell her, that night.… ”He left it hanging. He did not need to add that Araminta might have killed her sister in a fit of fury and shame to keep her from telling the whole household. The possibilities were many, and all ugly, and nothing to do with Percival or any of the other servants.
“And you told no one?” Monk said with grating unbelief. “You had this extraordinary piece of information, and you kept it the secret the family would wish? You were discreet and obedient. Why, for heaven’s sake?” He allowed into his voice an exact mockery of Percival’s own contempt for him a few moments earlier. “Knowledge like that is power—you expect me to believe you didn’t use it?”
Percival was not discomfited. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Monk knew he was lying.
“No reason to tell anyone,” Percival went on. “Not in my interest.” The sneer returned. “Sir Basil wouldn’t like it, and then I might find myself in the workhouse. It’s different now. This is a matter of duty that any other employer would understand. When it’s a matter of concealing a crime—”
“So suddenly rape has become a crime?” Monk was disgusted. “When did that happen? When your own neck was in danger?”
If Percival was frightened or embarrassed there was no trace of it in his expression.
“Not rape, sir—murder. That has always been the crime.” Again his shoulders lifted expressively. “If it’s actually called murder, not justice, privilege, or some such thing.”
“Like rape of a servant, for example.” Monk for one instant agreed with him. He hated it. “All right, you can go.”
“Shall I tell Sir Basil you want to see him?”
“If you want to keep your position, you’d better not put it like that.”
Percival did not bother to reply, but went out, moving easily, even gracefully, his body relaxed.
Monk was too concerned, too angry at the appalling injustice and suffering, and apprehensive of his interview with Basil Moidore to spare any emotion for contempt of Percival.
It was nearly a quarter of an hour before Harold came back to tell him that Sir Basil would see him in the library.
“Good morning, Monk. You wanted to see me?” Basil stood near the window with the armchair and the table forcing a distance between them. He looked harassed and his face creased in lines of temper. Monk irritated him by his questions, his stance, the very shape of his face.
