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Beatrice’s face paled and her head moved fractionally backwards, as if she had been struck but elected to ignore the blow. “It is a terrible thing, Mr. Monk, to charge a person wrongfully with such a gross offense.”
“Is it?” he asked sardonically. “It does not appear to have done Mr. Kellard any damage whatever.”
She ignored his manner. “Only because we did not believe her!”
“Really?” he pursued. “I rather thought that Sir Basil did believe her, from what he said to me.”
She swallowed hard and seemed to sit a little lower in the chair.
“What is it you want of me, Mr. Monk? Even if she was right, and Myles did assault her—in that way—what has it to do with my daughter’s death?”
Now he was sorry he had asked her with so little gentleness. Her loss was deep, and she had answered him without evasion or antagonism.
“It would prove that Mr. Kellard has an appetite which he is prepared to satisfy,” he explained quietly, “regardless of the personal cost to someone else, and that his past experience has shown him he can do it with impunity.”
Now she was as pale as the cambric handkerchief between her clenched fingers.
“Are you suggesting that Myles tried to force himself upon Octavia?” The idea appalled her. Now the horror touched her other daughter as well. Monk felt a stab of guilt for forcing her to think of it—and yet he had no alternative that was honest.
“Is it impossible, ma’am? I believe she was most attractive, and that he had previously been known to admire her.”
“But—but she was not—I mean …” Her voice died away; she was unable to bring herself to speak the words aloud.
“No. No, she was not molested in that way,” he assured her. “But it is possible she had some forewarning he would come and was prepared to defend herself, and in the struggle it was she who was killed, and not he.”
“That is—grotesque!” she protested, her eyes wide. “To assault a maid is one thing—to go deliberately and coldbloodedly to your sister-in-law’s bedroom at night, intent upon the same thing, against her will—is—is quite different, and appalling. It is quite wicked!”
“Is it such a great step from one to the other?” He leaned a little closer to her, his voice quiet and urgent. “Do you really believe that Martha Rivett was not equally unwilling? Just not as well prepared to defend herself—younger, more afraid, and more vulnerable since she was a servant in this house and could look for little protection.”
She was so ashen now that it was not only Hester who was afraid she might collapse; Monk himself was concerned that he had been too brutal. Hester took a step forward, but remained silent, staring at Beatrice.
“That is terrible!” Beatrice’s voice was dry, difficult to force from her throat. “You are saying that we do not care for our servants properly—that we offer them no—no decency—that we are immoral!”
He could not apologize. That was exactly what he had said.
“Not all of you, ma’am—only Mr. Kellard, and that perhaps to spare your daughter the shame and the distress of knowing what her husband had done, you concealed the offense from her—which effectively meant getting rid of the girl and allowing no one else to know of it either.”
She put the hands up to her face and pushed them over her cheeks and upward till her fingers ran through her hair, disarranging its neatness. After a moment’s painful silence she lowered them and stared at him.
“What would you have us do, Mr. Monk? If Araminta knew it would ruin her life. She could not live with him, and she could not divorce him—he has not deserted her. Adultery is no grounds for separation, unless it is the woman who commits it. If it is the man that means nothing at all. You must know that. All a woman can do is conceal it, so she is not publicly ruined and becomes a creature of pity for the kindly—and of contempt for the others. She is not to blame for any of it, and she is my child. Would you not protect your own child, Mr. Monk?”
He had no answer. He did not know the fierce, consuming love for a child, the tenderness and the bond, and the responsibility. He had no child—he had only a sister, Beth, and he could recall very little about her, only how she had followed him, her wide eyes full of admiration, and the white pinafore she wore, frilled on the edges, and how often she fell over as she tried to run after him, to keep up. He could remember holding her soft, damp little hand in his as they walked down on the shore together, he half lifting her over the rocks till they reached the smooth sand. A wave of feeling came back to him, a mixture of impatient exasperation and fierce, consuming protectiveness.
“Perhaps I would, ma’am. But then if I had a daughter she would more likely be a parlormaid like Martha Rivett,” he said ruthlessly, leaving all that that meant hanging in the air between them, and watched the pain, and the guilt, in her face.
The door opened and Araminta came in, the evening’s menu in her hand. She stopped, surprised to see Monk, then turned and looked at her mother’s face. She ignored Hester as she would any other servant doing her duty.
“Mama, you look ill. What has happened?” She swung around to Monk, her eyes brilliant with accusation. “My mother is unwell, Inspector. Have you not the common courtesy to leave her alone? She can tell you nothing she has not already said. Miss Latterly will open the door for you and the footman will show you out.” She turned to Hester, her voice tense with irri
tation. “Then, Miss Latterly, you had better fetch Mama a tisane and some smelling salts. I cannot think what possessed you to allow this. You should take your duties a great deal more seriously, or we shall be obliged to find someone else who will.”
“I am here with Sir Basil’s permission, Mrs. Kellard,” Monk said tartly. “We are all quite aware the discussion is painful, but postponing it will only prolong the distress. There has been murder in this house, and Lady Moidore wishes to discover who was responsible as much as anyone.”
“Mama?” Araminta challenged.
“Of course I do,” Beatrice said very quietly. “I think—”
Araminta’s eyes widened. “You think? Oh—” And suddenly some realization struck her with a force so obvious it was like a physical blow. She turned very slowly to Monk. “What were your questions about, Mr. Monk?”
