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There was no possible way Hester could have known the truth except by being privy to police affairs that she could not share.
“I have no idea, your ladyship. Perhaps he has become involved in another matter, and someone else was delegated to do this. After all, the detection has been completed—I suppose.”
Beatrice’s fingers froze and she stood perfectly still.
“You suppose? You mean it might not? What else could they want? Percival is guilty, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know.” Hester kept her voice quite light. “I assume they must believe so, or they would not have arrested him; though we cannot say beyond any possible doubt until he has been tried.”
Beatrice drew more tightly into herself. “They’ll hang him, won’t they?”
Hester felt a trifle sick. “Yes,” she agreed very quietly. Then she felt compelled to persist. “Does that distress you?”
“It shouldn’t—should it?” Beatrice sounded surprised at herself. “He murdered my daughter.”
“But it does?” Hester allowed nothing to slip by. “It is very final, isn’t it? I mean—it allows for no mistakes, no time for second thoughts on anything.”
Still Beatrice stood motionless on the spot, her hands plunged in the silks, chiffons and laces in the drawer.
“Second thoughts? What do you mean?”
Now Hester retreated. “I’m not sure. I suppose another way of looking at the evidence—perhaps if someone were lying—or remembered inaccurately—”
“You are saying that the murderer is still here—among us, Hester.” There was no panic in Beatrice’s voice, just cold pain. “And whoever it is, is calmly watching Percival go to his death on—on false evidence.”
Hester swallowed hard and found her voice difficult to force into her throat.
“I suppose whoever it is must be very frightened. Perhaps it was an accident at first—I mean it was a struggle that was not meant to end in death. Don’t you think?” At last Beatrice turned around, her hands empty. “You mean Myles?” she said slowly and distinctly. “You think it was Myles who went to her room and she fought with him and he took the knife from her and stabbed her, because by then he had too much to lose if she should speak against him and told everyone what had happened?” She leaned a little against the chest. “That is what they are saying happened with Percival, you know. Yes, of course you know. You are in the servants’ hall more than I am. That’s what Mary says.”
She looked down at her hands. “And it is what Romola believes. She is terribly relieved, you know. She thinks it is all over now. We can stop suspecting one another. She thought it was Septimus, you know, that Tavie discovered something about him! Which is ridiculous—she always knew his story!” She tried to laugh at the idea, and failed. “Now she imagines we will forget it all and go on just as before. We’ll forget everything we’ve learned about each other—and ourselves: the shallowness, the self-deception, how quick we are to blame someone else when we are afraid. Anything to protect ourselves. As if nothing would be different, except that Tavie won’t be here.” She smiled, a dazzling, nervous gesture without warmth. “Sometimes I think Romola is the stupidest woman I’ve ever met.”
“It won’t be the same,” Hester agreed, torn between wanting to comfort her and the need to follow every shade or inflection of truth she could. “But in time we may at least forgive, and some things can be forgotten.”
“Can they?” Beatrice looked not at her but out of the window again. “Will Minta ever forget that Myles raped that wretched girl? Whatever rape is. What is rape, Hester? If you do your duty within marriage, that is lawful and right. You would be condemned for doing anything less. How different is it outside marriage that it should be regarded as such a despicable crime?”
“Is it?” Hester allowed some of her anger to come through. “It seems to me very few people were upset about Mr. Kellard’s rape of the maid, in fact they were angrier with her for speaking of it than they were with him for having done it. It all hangs upon who is involved.”
“I suppose so. But that is small comfort if it is your husband. I can see the hurt of it in her face. Not often—but sometimes in repose, when she does not think of anyone looking at her, I see pain under the composure.” She turned back, frowning, a slow troubled expression not intended for Hester. “And sometimes I think a terrible anger.”
“But Mr. Kellard is unhurt,” Hester said very gently, longing to be able to comfort her and knowing now beyond doubt that Percival’s arrest was by no means the beginning of healing. “Surely if Mrs. Kellard were thinking any violence it would be him she would direct it against? It is only natural to be angry, but in time she may forget the sharpness of it, and even think of the fact less and less often.” She nearly added that if Myles were to be tender enough with her, and generous, then it would eventually cease to matter. But thinking of Myles she could not believe it, and to speak such an ephemeral hope aloud might only add to the wound. Beatrice must see him at least as clearly as Hester, who knew him such a short while.
“Yes,” Beatrice said without conviction. “Of course, you are right. And please, take what time you need this afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
As she turned to leave, Basil came in, having knocked so perfunctorily that neither of them heard him. He walked past Hester, barely noticing her, his eyes on Beatrice.
“Good,” he said briskly. “I see you are dressed today. Naturally you are feeling much better.”
“No—” Beatrice began, but he cut her off.
“Of course you are.” His smile was businesslike. “I’m delighted, my dear. This fearful tragedy has naturally affected your health, but the worst of it is already over, and you will gain strength every day.”
“Over.” She faced him with incredulity. “Do you really believe it is over, Basil?”
“Of course it is.” He did not look at her but walked around the room slowly, looking at the dressing table, then straightening one of the pictures. “There will be the trial, of course; but you do not need to attend.”
“I wish to!”
