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“Then you will doubtless know the members of the household fairly well, having seen them in all their moods, their happiness and their misfortune, for a considerable time,” he concluded. “You must have formed many opinions, based upon your observations.”
“Indeed—one cannot help it.” She gazed at him and a wry, slight smile hovered about her lips. There was a huskiness in her voice. Hester wanted to slide down in her seat and become invisible, but she was beside Beatrice, who was not to be called to testify, so there was nothing she could do but endure it. She looked sideways at Beatrice’s face, but her veil was so heavy Hester could see nothing of her expression.
“Women are very sensitive to people,” Fenella went on. “We have to be; people are our lives—”
“Exactly so.” O’Hare smiled back at her. “In your own establishment you employed servants, before your husband … passed on?”
“Of course.”
“So you are quite accustomed to judging their character and their worth,” O’Hare concluded with a sidelong glance at Rathbone. “What did you observe of Percival Garrod, Mrs. Sandeman? What is your estimate of him?” He held up his pale hand as if to forestall any objection Rathbone might have. “Based, of course, upon what you saw of him during your time in Queen Anne Street?”
She lowered her eyes and a greater hush settled over the room.
“He was very competent at his work, Mr. O’Hare, but he was an arrogant man, and greedy. He liked his fine things in dress and food,” she said softly but very clearly. “He had ideas and aspirations far beyond his station, and there was something of an anger in him that he should be limited to that walk of life in which God had seen fit to place him. He played with the affections of the poor girl Rose Watkins, and then when he imagined he could—” She looked up at him with a devastating stare and her voice grew even huskier. “I really don’t know how to phrase this delicately. I would be so much obliged if you would assist me.”
Beside Hester, Beatrice drew in her breath sharply, and in her lap her hands clenched in their kid gloves.
O’Hare came to Fenella’s defense. “Are you wishing to say, ma’am, that he entertained amorous ideas about a member of the family, perhaps?”
“Yes,” she said with exaggerated demureness. “That is unfortunately exactly what I—I am obliged to say. More than once I caught him speaking boldly about my niece Octavia, and I saw an expression on his face which a woman cannot misunderstand.”
“I see. How distressing for you.”
“Indeed,” she assented.
“What did you do about it, ma’am?”
“Do?” She stared at him, blinking. “Why my dear Mr. O’Hare, there was nothing I could do. If Octavia herself did not object, what was there I could say to her, or to anyone?”
“And she did not object?” O’Hare’s voice rose in amazement, and for an instant he glared around the crowd, then swung back to her. “Are you quite sure, Mrs. Sandeman?”
“Oh quite, Mr. O’Hare. I regret very deeply having to say this, and in such a very public place.” Her voice had a slight catch in it now, and Beatrice was so tense Hester was afraid she was going to cry out. “But poor Octavia appeared to be flattered by his attentions,” Fenella went on relentlessly. “Of course she could have no idea that he meant more than words—and neither had I, or I should have taken the matter to her father, of course, regardless of what she thought of me for it!”
“Naturally,” O’Hare conceded soothingly. “I am sure we all understand that had you foreseen the tragic outcome of the infatuation you would have done all you could to prevent it. However your testimony now of your observations is most helpful in seeing justice for Mrs. Haslett, and we all appreciate how distressing it must be for you to come here and tell us.” Then he pressed her for individual instances of behavior from Percival which bore out her judgment, which she duly gave in some detail. He then asked for the same regarding Octavia’s encouragement of him, and she recounted them as well.
“Oh—just before you leave, Mrs. Sandeman.” O’Hare looked up as if he had almost forgotten. “You said Percival was greedy. In what way?”
“Money, of course,” she replied softly, her eyes bright and spiteful. “He liked fine things he could not afford on a footman’s wages.”
“How do you know this, ma’am?”
“He was a braggart,” she said clearly. “He told me once how he got—little—extras.”
“Indeed? And how was that?” O’Hare asked as innocently as if the reply might have been honorable and worthy of anyone.
“He knew things about people,” she replied with a small, vicious smile. “Small things, trivial to most of us, just little vanities, but ones people would rather their fellows did not know about.”
She shrugged delicately. “The parlormaid Dinah boasts about her family—actually she is a foundling and has no one at all. Her airs annoyed Percival, and he let her know he knew. The senior laundrymaid, Lizzie, is a bossy creature, very superior, but she had an affair once. He knew about that too, maybe from Rose, I don’t know. Small things like that. The cook’s brother is a drunkard; the kitchen maid has a sister who is a cretin.”
O’Hare hid his distaste only partially, but whether it was entirely for Percival or included Fenella for betraying such small domestic tragedies it was impossible to tell.
“A most unpleasant man,” he said aloud. “And how did he know all these things, Mrs. Sandeman?”
Fenella seemed unaware of the chill in him.
“I imagine he steamed open letters,” she said with a shrug. “It was one of his duties to bring in the post.”
“I see.”
