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‘Would you care to stay for supper?’ she asked.
‘I would like to very much,’ he accepted.
‘I shall inform Cook.’ She turned away and pulled the bell by the fireplace.
A moment later the butler appeared again.
‘Madam?’
‘Would you please tell Cook that Sir Oliver is staying for dinner? Will she do whatever is necessary?’
‘Of course, madam.’ He smiled as if it pleased him. As he bowed and left, Beata led the way across the hall to the sitting room. The windows facing the garden were open and the perfume of the last roses drifted in, with the rustle of wind in the leaves of the birch trees.
‘Before we plunge into the tragic death of Adrienne Radnor – and I do find myself thinking it is tragic – how are you?’ he asked.
She gave a little laugh, which was self-deprecating and yet completely honest. ‘You mean how is Ingram? One week he seems to be sinking, the next he rallies again – at least in physical health. He was always a strong man. He seldom ever caught a cold.’
Rathbone was not sure what to say. She had never told him whether she went to the hospital to see York or not. He did not like to ask. He wanted to give her a kind of comfort, even that of being able to speak frankly to someone, not pretending that she wished that Ingram were better. The newspapers reported it as a kind of seizure and no one was tactless enough to suggest otherwise.
Rathbone was the only person, apart from Beata, who had been present when York had a temper tantrum so serious he attacked Rathbone, striking at him with his walking cane. It had been a blow that, if it had struck his head as intended, could have injured him very seriously. As it was, York had fallen to the floor in some kind of fit, foaming at the mouth, eyes sunken back into his head, body convulsed and kicking, lashing out where he could.
No one else needed to know that. Certainly Rathbone had told no one exactly how it had been, how pathetic and repulsive, or how dangerous. Rathbone did not believe that York had gone to a place in his brain from which it was possible to return. But that was not something one said, even to Beata, who probably already knew it.
Beata was watching him, waiting for his response.
Rathbone chose his words with care.
‘Perhaps it would be most merciful for him if he were to have a seizure which, at the least, ended his awareness of his situation.’
‘I have often thought that,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you for giving me leave to share it. There were times when I did not like Ingram very much, but I would not wish this on anyone.’ She looked away. ‘I don’t go to visit him any more. He doesn’t know I am there. Is that cowardly of me? I hate the smell of the place, the voices, the—’
‘No,’ he said quickly, reaching out his hand to touch her arm lightly with his fingers. ‘I imagine he would prefer that you did not see him in such a state. Whether he deserves it or not, it is a last gift you can give him: to keep a memory of him at his best.’
She met his eyes. ‘You are kinder to him than he deserves. He would have ruined you, you know, if he could.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he agreed. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’ He was surprised that he would say that and mean it. Ingram York was important only in that he existed, and as long as he was alive Rathbone could not ask Beata to marry him. There was no question in his mind that as soon as she was free, he would. Perhaps it was bet
ter that it was not quite so soon . . . and yet he ached for it!
He must put it out of his mind now. It was an ugly thing to wish for someone’s death, and he did not want her to see it in his eyes, or hear it in his tone of voice.
‘There is no question that Adrienne Radnor was murdered,’ he said. ‘It appears she was robbed, but her lady’s maid said she carried nothing in her reticule but a handkerchief and a little perfume or ointment – nothing whatever worth taking at all, let alone killing for. And she was not . . .’ He stopped, not wanting to be coarse, although how else could one describe what he wished to say?
‘Raped,’ she replied for him. ‘Does anyone believe she was killed for a handkerchief and a little perfume? Really, Oliver . . .’
‘I think Rand may have killed her in case she betrayed him in some way. She must know a great deal about what went on in that cottage.’
‘He cannot be tried again for kidnapping Mrs Monk or the children,’ she reminded him. ‘What else is there that Miss Radnor might have known about him?’
‘I can’t think of anything,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps far more about his medical experiment than he would wish made public yet? People can be very jealous in guarding their scientific discoveries.’
‘Then he will have to kill Hester too,’ Beata observed. ‘She would understand what he was doing in much greater detail.’
‘Are you saying that because you think Hester is in danger, or because you disagree?’ he asked. It was an ugly thought that had not occurred to him before. Had Monk realised the possibility?
‘You are getting to know me too well,’ she said ruefully. ‘It is because I do not agree with you. He will be only too happy to tell everyone, as soon as he has the formula perfected. He will no doubt wish it to be named “the Rand procedure”, or some such.’
‘Maybe she knew something that could still betray him, if not something for which he could be tried again, at least that could damage his reputation,’ Rathbone suggested.
