A Dangerous Mourning

chapter 4
Do you want me to keep on looking for the jewelry?" Evan asked, his face puckered with doubt. Obviously he believed there was no purpose to it at all.

Monk agreed with him. In all probability it had been thrown away, or even destroyed. Whatever the motive had been for the death of Octavia Haslett, he was sure it was not robbery, not even a greedy servant sneaking into her room to steal. It would be too stupid to do it at the one time he, or she, could be absolutely sure Octavia would be there, when there was all day to do such a thing undisturbed.

"No," he said decisively. "Much better use your time questioning the servants." He smiled, baring his teeth, and Evan made a grimace back again. He had already been twice to the Moidore house, each time asking the same things and receiving much the same brief, nervous answers. He could not deduce guilt from their fear. Nearly all servants were afraid of the police; the sheer embarrassment of it was enough to shadow their reputations, let alone suspicion of having any knowledge of a murder. "Someone in that house killed her," he added.

Evan raised his eyebrows. "One of the servants?" He kept most of the surprise out of his voice, but there was still a lift of doubt there, and the innocence of his gaze only added to it.

"A fer more comfortable thought," Monk replied. "We shall certainly find more favor with the powers in the land if we can arrest someone below stairs. But I think that is a gift we cannot reasonably look for. No, I was hoping that by talking with the servants enough we might learn something about the family. Servants notice a great deal, and although they're trained not to repeat any of it, they might unintentionally, if their own lives are in jeopardy.'' They were standing in Monk's office, smaller and darker than Runcom's, even in this bright, sharp, late autumn morning. The plain wooden table was piled with papers, the old carpet worn in a track from door to chair. "You've seen most of them," he went on. "Any impressions so for?"

"Usual sort of complement," Evan said slowly. "Maids are mostly young-on the surface they look flighty, given to giggles and triviality." The sunlight came through the dusty window and picked out the fine lines on his face, throwing his expression into sharp relief. "And yet they earn their livings in a rigid world, full of obedience and among people who care little for them personally. They know a kind of reality that is harsher than mine. Some of the girls are only children." He looked up at Monk.''In another year or two I'll be old enough to be their father." The thought seemed to startle him, and he frowned. "The between-stairs maid is only twelve. I haven't discovered yet if they know anything of use, but I can't believe it was one of them.''

"Maids?" Monk tried to clarify.

"Yes-older ones I suppose are possible." Evan looked dubious. "Can't think why they would, though."

"Men?"

"Cant imagine the butler." Evan smiled with a little twist. "He's a dry old stick, very formal, very military. If a person ever stirred passion of any sort in him I think it was so long ago even the memory of it has gone now. And why on earth would an excruciatingly respectable butler stab his mistress's daughter in her bedroom? What could he possibly be doing there in the middle of the night anyway?"

Monk smiled in spite of himself. "You don't read enough of the more lurid press, Evan. Listen to the running patterers sometime."

"Rubbish," Evan said heartily. "Not Phillips."

"Footmen-grooms-bootboy? " Monk pressed. "And what about the older women?"

Evan was half leaning, half sitting on the windowsill.

"Grooms are in the stables and the back door is locked at

night," Evan replied. "Bootboy possibly, but he's only fourteen. Can't think of a motive for him. Older women-I suppose it is imaginable, some jealous or slight perhaps, but it would have to be a very violent one to provoke murder. None of them looks raving mad, or has ever shown the remotest inclination to violence. And they'd have to be mad to do such a thing. Anyway, passions in servants are far more often against each other. They are used to being spoken to in all manner of ways by the family.'' He looked at Monk with gravity beneath the wry amusement. "It's each other they take exception to. There's a rigid hierarchy, and there's been blood spilled before now over what job is whose."

He saw Monk's expression.

"Oh-not murder. Just a few hard bruises and the occasional broken head," he explained. "But I think downstairs emotions concern others downstairs."

"What about if Mrs. Haslett knew something about them, some past sin of thieving or immorality?" Monk suggested. "That would lose them a very comfortable position. Without references they'd not get another-and a servant who can't get a place has nowhere to go but the sweatshops or the street."

"Could be," Evan agreed. "Or the footmen. There are two-Harold and Percival. Both seem fairly ordinary so far. I should say Percival is the more intelligent, and perhaps ambitious."

"What does a footman aspire to be?" Monk said a little waspishly.

"A butler, I imagine," Evan replied with a feint smile. "Don't look like that, sir. Butler is a comfortable, responsible and very respected position. Butlers consider themselves socially far superior to the police. They live in fine houses, eat the best, and drink it. I've seen butlers who drink better claret than their masters-"

"Do their masters know that?"

"Some masters don't have the palate to know claret from cooking wine." Evan shrugged. "All the same, it's a little kingdom that many men would find most attractive."

Monk raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "And how would knifing the master's daughter get him any closer to this enjoyable position?"

"It wouldn't-unless she knew something about him that would get him dismissed without a reference."

That was plausible, and Monk knew it.

"Then you had better go back and see what you can learn,'' he directed. "I'm going to speak to the family again, which I still think, unfortunately, is far more likely. I want to see them alone, away from Sir Basil.'' His face tightened. "He orchestrated the last time as if I had hardly been there."

"Master in his house." Evan hitched himself off the win-dowsill. "You can hardly be surprised."

"That is why I intend to see them away from Queen Anne Street, if I can," Monk replied tersely. "I daresay it will take me all week."

Evan rolled his eyes upward briefly, and without speaking again went out; Monk heard his footsteps down the stairs.

It did take Monk most of the week. He began straightaway with great success, almost immediately finding Romola Moi-dore walking in a leisurely fashion in Green Park. She started along the grass parallel with Constitution Row, gazing at the trees beyond by Buckingham Palace. The footman Percival had informed Monk she would be there, having ridden in the carriage with Mr. Cyprian, who was taking luncheon at his club in nearby Piccadilly.

She was expecting to meet a Mrs. Ketteridge, but Monk caught up with her while she was still alone. She was dressed entirely in black, as befitted a woman whose family was in mourning, but she still looked extremely smart. Her wide skirts were tiered and trimmed with velvet, the pergola sleeves of her dress were lined with black silk, her bonnet was small and worn low on the back of the head, and her hair was in the very fashionable style turned under at the ears into a lowset knot.

She was startled to see him, and not at all pleased. However there was nowhere for her to go to avoid him without being obvious, and perhaps she bore in mind her father-in-law's strictures that they were all to be helpful. He had not said so in so many words in Monk's hearing, but his implication was obvious.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk," she said coolly, standing quite still and facing him as if he were a stray dog that had approached too close and should be warded off with the fringed

umbrella which she heldfirmly in her right hand, its point a little above the ground, ready to jab at him.

"Good morning, Mrs. Moidore," he replied, inclining his head a little in politeness.

"I really don't know anything of use to you." She tried to avoid the issue even now, as if he might go away. "I have no idea at all what can have happened. I still think you must have made a mistake-or been misled-"

"Were you fond of your sister-in-law, Mrs. Moidore?" he asked conversationally.

She tried to remain facing him, then decided she might as well walk, since it seemed he was determined to. She resented promenading with a policeman, as though he were a social acquaintance, and it showed in her face; although no one else would have known his station, certainly his clothes were almost as well cut and as fashionable as hers, and his bearing every bit as assured.

"Of course I was," she retorted hotly. "If I knew anything, I should not defend her attacker for an instant. I simply do not know."

"I do not doubt your honesty-or your indignation, ma'am," he said, although it was not entirely true. He trusted no one so far. "I was thinking that if you were fond of her, then you will have known her well. What kind of person was she?"

Romola was taken by surprise; the question was not what she had been expecting.

"I-well-it is very hard to say," she protested. "Really, that is a most unfair question. Poor Octavia is dead. It is most indecent to speak of the dead in anything but the kindest of terms, especially when they have died so terribly."

"I commend your delicacy, Mrs. Moidore," he replied with forced patience, measuring his step to hers. "But I believe at the moment truth, however tasteless, would serve her better. And since it seems an unavoidable conclusion that whoever murdered her is still in your house, you could be excused for placing your own safety, and that of your children, to the forefront of your thoughts."

That stopped her as if she had walked straight into one of the trees along the border. She drew in her breath sharply and almost cried out, then remembered the other passersby just in time and bit her knuckles instead.

"What kind of person was Mrs. Haslett?" Monk asked again.

She resumed her slow pace along the path, her face very pale, her skirts brushing the gravel.

"She was very emotional, very impulsive," she replied after only the briefest thought. "When she fell in love with Harry Haslett her family disapproved, but she was absolutely determined. She refused to consider anyone else. I have always been surprised that Sir Basil permitted it, but I suppose it was a perfectly acceptable match, and Lady Moidore approved. His family was excellent, and he had reasonable prospects for the future-" She shrugged. "Somewhat distant, but Octavia was a younger daughter, who could reasonably expect to have to wait."

"Had he an unfortunate reputation?" Monk asked.

"Not that I ever heard.''

"Then why was Sir Basil so against the match? If he was of good family and had expectations, surely he would be agreeable?"

"I think it was a matter of personality. I know Sir Basil had been at school with his father and did not care for him. He was a year or two older, and a most successful person." She shrugged very slightly. "Sir Basil never said so, of course, but perhaps he cheated? Or in some other way that a gentleman would not mention, behaved dishonorably?" She looked straight ahead of her. A party of ladies and gentlemen was approaching and she nodded at them but did not make any sign of welcome. She was annoyed by the circumstance. Monk saw the color rise in her cheeks and guessed her dilemma. She did not wish them to speculate as to who he was that Romola walked alone with him in the park, and yet still less did she wish to introduce a policeman to her acquaintances.

He smiled sourly, a touch of mockery at himself, because it stung him, as well as at her. He despised her that appearances mattered so much, and himself because it caught him with a raw smart too, and for the same reasons.

"He was uncouth, brash?" he prompted with a trace of asperity.

"Not at all," she replied with satisfaction at contradicting

him. "He was charming, friendly, full of good humor, but like Octavia, determined to have his own way."

"Not easily governed," he said wryly, liking Harry Haslett more with each discovery.

"No-" There was a touch of envy in her now, and a real sadness that came through the polite, expected grief. "He was always kind for one's comfort, but he never pretended to an opinion he did not have."

"He sounds a most excellent man."

"He was. Octavia was devastated when he was killed-in the Crimea, you know. I can remember the day the news came. I thought she would never recover-" She tightened her lips and blinked hard, as if tears threatened to rob her of composure. "I am not sure she ever did," she added very quietly. "She loved him very much. I believe no one else in (lie family realized quite how much until then."

They had been gradually slowing their pace; now conscious again of the cold wind, they quickened.

"I am very sorry," he said, and meant it.

They were passed by a nurserymaid wheeling a perambulator-a brand-new invention which was much better than the old pulling carts, and which was causing something of a stir- and accompanied by a small, self-conscious boy with a hoop.

"She never even considered remarrying," Romola went on without being asked, and having regarded the perambulator with due interest. "Of course it was only a little over two years, but Sir Basil did approach the subject. She was a young woman, and still without children. It would not be unseemly."

Monk remembered the dead face he had seen that first morning. Even through the stiffness and the pallor he had imagined something of what she must have been like: the emotions, the hungers and the dreams. It was a face of passion and will.

"She was very comely?" He made it a question, although there was no doubt in his mind.

Romola hesitated, but there was no meanness in it, only a genuine doubt.

"She was handsome," she said slowly. "But her chief quality was her vividness, and her complete individuality. After Harry died she became very moody and suffered"-she avoided his eyes-"suffered a lot of poor health. When she was well she was quite delightful, everyone found her so. But when she was..." Again she stopped momentarily and searched for the word. "When she was poorly she spoke little-and made no effort to charm."

Monk had a brief vision of what it must be like to be a woman on her own, obliged to work at pleasing people because your acceptance, perhaps even your financial survival, depended upon it. There must be hundreds-thousands-of petty accommodations, suppressions of your own beliefs and opinions because they would not be what someone else wished to hear. What a constant humiliation, like a burning blister on the heel which hurt with every step.

And on the other hand, what a desperate loneliness for a man if he ever realized he was always being told not what she really thought or felt but what she believed he wanted to hear. Would he then ever trust anything as real, or of value?

"Mr. Monk."

She was speaking, and his concentration had left her totally.

"Yes ma'am-I apologize-"

"You asked me about Octavia. I was endeavoring to tell you." She was irritated that he was so inattentive. "She was most appealing, at her best, and many men had called upon her, but she gave none of them the slightest encouragement. Whoever it was who killed her, I do not think you will find the slightest clue to their identity along that line of inquiry."

"No, I imagine you are right. And Mr. Haslett died in the Crimea?"

"Captain Haslett. Yes." She hesitated, looking away from him again. "Mr. Monk."

"Yes ma'am?"

"It occurs to me that some people-some men-have strange ideas about women who are widowed-" She was obviously most uncomfortable about what it was she was attempting to say.

"Indeed," he said encouragingly.

The wind caught at her bonnet, pulling it a little sideways, but she disregarded it. He wondered if she was trying to find a way to say what Sir Basil had prompted, and if the words would be his or her own.

Two little girls in frilled dresses passed by with their governess, walking very stiffly, eyes ahead as if unaware of the soldier coming the other way.

"It is not impossible that one of the servants, one of the men, entertained such-such ludicrous ideas-and became overfamiliar."

They had almost stopped. Romola poked at the ground with the ferrule of her umbrella.

"If-if that happened, and she rebuffed him soundly- possibly he became angry-incensed-I mean..." She tailed off miserably, still avoiding looking at him.

"In the middle of the night?" he said dubiously. "He was certainly extremely bold to go to her bedroom and try such a thing."

The color burned up her cheeks.

"Someone did," she pointed out with a catch in her voice, still staring at the ground. "I know it seems preposterous. Were she not dead, I should laugh at it myself."

"You are right,'' he said reluctantly. "Or it may be that she discovered some secret that could have ruined a servant had she told it, and they killed her to prevent that."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Oh-yes, I suppose that sounds... possible. What kind of a secret? You mean dishonesty-immorality? But how would Tavie have learned of it?"

"I don't know. Have you no idea where she went that afternoon? '' He began to walk again, and she accompanied him.

"No, none at all. She barely spoke to us that evening, except a silly argument over dinner, but nothing new was said."

"What was the argument about?"

"Nothing in particular-just frayed tempers." She looked straight ahead of her. "It was certainly nothing about where she went that afternoon, and nothing about any secret."

"Thank you, Mrs. Moidore. You have been very courteous." He stopped and she stopped also, relaxing a little as she sensed he was leaving.

"I wish I could help, Mr. Monk," she said with her face suddenly pinched and sad. For a moment grief overtook anxiety for herself and fear for the future. "If I recall anything-"

"Tell me-or Mr. Evan. Good day, ma'am."

"Good day." And she turned and walked away, but when

she had gone ten or fifteen yards she looked back again, not to say anything, simply to watch him leave the path and go back towards Piccadilly.

***

Monk knew that Cyprian Moidore was at his club, but he did not wish to ask for entry and interview him there because he felt it highly likely that he would be refused, and the humiliation would burn. Instead he waited outside on the pavement, kicking his heels, turning over in his mind what he would ask Cyprian when he finally came out.

Monk had been waiting about a quarter of an hour when two men passed him walking up towards Half Moon Street. There was something in the gait of one of them that struck a sharp chord in his memory, so vivid that he started forward to accost him. He had actually gone half a dozen steps before he realized that he had no idea who the man was, simply that for a moment he had seemed intimately familiar, and that there was both hope and sadness in him in that instant-and a terrible foreboding of pain to come.

He stood for another thirty minutes in the wind and fitful sun trying to bring back the face that had flashed on his recollection so briefly: a handsome, aristocratic fece of a man at least sixty. And he knew the voice was light, very civilized, even a little affected-and knew it had been a major force in his life and the realization of ambition. He had copied him, his dress, his manner, even his inflection, in trying to lose his own unsophisticated Northumberland accent.

But all he recaptured were fragments, gone as soon as they were there, a feeling of success which was empty of flavor, a recurring pain as of some loss and some responsibility unfulfilled.

He was still standing undecided when Cyprian Moidore came down the steps of his club and along the street, only noticing Monk when he all but bumped into him.

"Oh-Monk." He stopped short. "Are you looking for me?"

Monk recalled himself to the present with a jolt.

"Yes-if you please, sir."

Cyprian looked anxious. "Have you-have you learned something?"

"No sir, I merely wanted to ask you more about your fern-fly."

"Oh." Cyprian started to walk again and Monk fell in beside him, back towards the park. Cyprian was dressed extremely fashionably, his concession to mourning in his dark coat over the jacket above the modern short waistcoat with its shawl collar, and his top hat was tall and straight sided. "Couldn't it have waited until I got home?" he asked with a frown.

"I just spoke to Mrs. Moidore, sir; in Green Park."

Cyprian seemed surprised, even a trifle discomfited. "I doubt she can tell you much. What exactly is it you wish to ask?"

Monk was obliged to walk smartly to keep up with him. "How long has your aunt, Mrs. Sandeman, lived in your father's house, sir?"

Cyprian winced very slightly, only a shadow across his face.

"Since shortly after her husband died," he replied brusquely.

Monk lengthened his own stride to match, avoiding bumping into the people moving less rapidly or passing in the opposite direction.

"Are she and your father very close?" He knew they were not; he had not forgotten the look on Fenella's face as she had left the morning room in Queen Anne Street.

Cyprian hesitated, then decided the lie would be transparent, if not now, then later.

"No. Aunt Fenella found herself in very reduced circumstances." His fece was tight; he hated exposing such vulnerability. "Papa offered her a home. It is a natural family responsibility."

Monk tried to imagine it, the personal sense of obligation, the duty of gratitude, the implicit requirement of certain forms of obedience. He would like to know what affection there was beneath the duties, but he knew Cyprian would respond little to an open inquiry.

A carriage passed them too close to the curb, and its wheels sent up a spray of muddy water. Monk leaped inwards to preserve his trousers.

"It must have been very distressing for her to find herself suddenly thrown upon the resources of others," he said sympathetically. It was not feigned. He could imagine Fenella's shock-and profound resentment.

"Most," Cyprian agreed taciturnly. "But death frequently leaves widows in altered circumstances. One must expect it."

"Did she expect it?" Monk absently brushed the water off his coat.

Cyprian smiled, possibly at Monk's unconscious vanity.

"I have no idea, Mr. Monk. I did not ask her. It would have been both impertinent and intrusive. It was not my place, nor is it yours. It happened many years ago, twelve to be precise, and has no bearing on our present tragedy."

"Is Mr. Thirsk in the same unfortunate position?" Monk kept exactly level with him along the pavement, brushing past three fashionable ladies taking the air and a couple dallying in polite flirtation in spite of the cold.

"He resides with us because of misfortune," Cyprian snapped. "If that is what you mean. Obviously he was not widowed." He smiled briefly in a sarcasm that had more bitterness than amusement.

"How long has he lived in Queen Anne Street?"

"About ten years, as far as I recall.''

"And he is your mother's brother?"

"You are already aware of that." He dodged a group of gentlemen ambling along deep in conversation and oblivious of the obstruction they caused. "Really, if this is a sample of your attempts at detection, I am surprised you maintain employment. Uncle Septimus occasionally drinks a little more than you may consider prudent, and he is certainly not wealthy, but he is a kind and decent man whose misfortune has nothing whatever to do with my sister's death, and you will learn nothing useful by prying into it!"

Monk admired him for his defense, true or not. And he determined to discover what the misfortune was, and if Octa-via had learned something about him that might have robbed him of this double-edged but much needed hospitality had she told her father.

"Does he gamble, sir?" he said aloud.

"What?'' But there was a flush of color on Cyprian's cheeks, and he knocked against an elderly gentleman in his path and was obliged to apologize.

A coster's cart came by, its owner crying his wares in a loud, singsong voice.

"I wondered if Mr. Thirsk gambled," Monk repeated. "It is a pastime many gentlemen indulge in, especially if their lives offer little other change or excitement-and any extra finance would be welcome.''

Cyprian's face remained carefully expressionless, but the color in his cheeks did not fade, and Monk guessed he had touched a nerve, whether on Septimus's account or Cyprian's own.

"Does he belong to the same club as you do, sir?" Monk turned and faced him.

"No," Cyprian replied, resuming walking after only a momentary hesitation. "No, Uncle Septimus has his own club."

"Not to his taste?" Monk made it sound very casual.

"No," Cyprian agreed quickly. "He prefers more men his own age-and experience, I suppose."

They crossed Hamilton Place, hesitating for a carriage and dodging a hansom.

"What would that be?'' Monk asked when they were on the pavement again.

Cyprian said nothing.

"Is Sir Basil aware that Mr. Thirsk gambles from time to time?" Monk pursued.

Cyprian drew in his breath, then let it out slowly before answering. Monk knew he had considered denying it, then put loyalty to Septimus before loyalty to his father. It was another judgment Monk approved.

"Probably not,'' Cyprian said."I would appreciate it if you did not find it necessary to inform him."

"I can think of no circumstance in which it would be necessary," Monk agreed. He made an educated guess, based on the nature of the club from which Cyprian had emerged. "Similarly your own gambling, sir."

Cyprian stopped and swiveled to face him, his eyes wide. Then he saw Monk's expression and relaxed, a faint smile on his lips, before resuming his stride.

"Was Mrs. Haslett aware of this?" Monk asked him. "Could that be what she meant when she said Mr. Thirsk would understand what she had discovered?"

"I have no idea." Cyprian looked miserable.

"What else have they particularly in common?" Monk went on. "What interests or experiences that would make his sympathy the sharper? Is Mr. Thirsk a widower?"

"No-no, he never married."

"And yet he did not always live in Queen Anne Street. Where did he live before that?"

Cyprian walked in silence. They crossed Hyde Park Comer, taking several minutes to avoid carriages, hansoms, a dray with four fine Clydesdales drawing it, several costers' carts and a crossing sweeper darting in and out like a minnow trying to clear a path and catch his odd penny rewards at the same time. Monk was pleased to see Cyprian toss him a coin, and added another to it himself.

On the far side they went past the beginning of Rotten Row and strolled across the grass towards the Serpentine. A troop of gentlemen in immaculate habits rode along the Row, their horses' hooves thudding on the damp earth. Two of them laughed loudly and broke into a canter, harness jingling. Ahead of them three women turned back to look.

Cyprian made up his mind at last.

"Uncle Septimus was in the army. He was cashiered. That is why he has no means. Father took him in. He was a younger son so he inherited nothing. There was nowhere else for him.''

"How distressing.'' Monk meant it. He could imagine quite sharply the sudden reduction from the finance, power and status of an officer to the ignominy and poverty, and the utter friendlessness, of being cashiered, stripped of everything- and to your friends, ceasing to exist.

"It wasn't dishonesty or cowardice," Cyprian went on, now that he was started, his voice urgent, concerned that Monk should know the truth. "He fell in love, and his love was very much returned. He says he did nothing about it-no affair, but that hardly makes it any better-"

Monk was startled. There was no sense in it. Officers were permitted to marry, and many did.

Cyprian's face was full of pity-and wry, deprecating humor.

"I see you don't understand. You will. She was the colonel's wife."

"Oh-" There was nothing more to add. It was an offense that would be inexcusable. Honor was touched, and even more, vanity. A colonel so mortified would have no retaliation except to use his office. "I see."

"Yes. Poor Septimus. He never loved anyone else. He was well in his forties at that time, a major with an excellent record." He stopped speaking and they passed a man and a woman, apparently acquaintances from their polite nods. He tipped his hat and resumed only when they were out of earshot. "He could have been a colonel himself, if his family could have afforded it-but commissions aren't cheap these days. And the higher you go-" He shrugged. "Anyway, that was the end of it. Septimus found himself middle-aged, despised and penniless. Naturally he appealed to Mama, and then came to live with us. If he gambles now and then, who's to blame him? There's little enough pleasure in his life."

"But your father would not approve?"

"No he would not.'' Cyprian's face took on a sudden anger. "Especially since Uncle Septimus usually wins!"

Monk took a blind guess. "Whereas you more usually lose?"

"Not always, and nothing I can't afford. Sometimes I win.''

"Did Mrs. Haslett know this-of either of you?"

"I never discussed it with her-but I think she probably knew, or guessed about Uncle Septimus. He used to bring her presents when he won.'' His face looked suddenly bleak again. "He was very fond of her. She was easy to like, very-" He looked for the word and could not find it. "She had weaknesses that made her comfortable to talk to. She was hurt easily, but for other people, not a matter of her taking offense-Tavie never took offense."

The pain deepened in his face and he looked intensely vulnerable. He stared straight ahead into the cold wind. "She laughed when things were funny. Nobody could tell her who to like and who not to; she made up her own mind. She cried when she was upset, but she never sulked. Lately she drank a little more than was becoming to a lady-" His mouth twisted as he self-consciously used such a euphemism. "And she was disastrously honest." He fell silent, staring across at the wind ripples whipping the water of the Serpentine. Had it not been totally impossible that a gentleman should weep in a public place, Monk thought at that moment Cyprian might have.

Whatever Cyprian knew or guessed about her death, he grieved acutely for his sister.

Monk did not intrude.

Another couple walked past them, the man in the uniform of the Hussars, the woman's skirt fashionably fringed and fussy.

Finally Cyprian regained his self-control.

"It would have been something despicable," he continued. "And probably still a danger to someone before Tavie would have told another person's secret, Inspector." He spoke with conviction. "If some servant had had an illegitimate child, or a passionate affair, Tavie was the last person who would have betrayed them to Papa-or anyone else. I don't honestly think she would have reported a theft, unless it had been something of immense value.''

"So the secret she discovered that afternoon was no trivial one, but something of profound ugliness,'' Monk said in reply.

Cyprian's face closed. "It would seem so. I'm sorry I cannot help you any further, but I really have no idea what such a thing could be, or about whom.''

"You have made the picture much clearer with your candor. Thank you, sir." Monk bowed very slightly, and after Cyprian's acknowledgment, took his leave. He walked back along the Serpentine to Hyde Park Corner, but this time going briskly up Constitution Hill towards Buckingham Palace and St. James's.

It was the middle of the afternoon when he met Sir Basil, who was coming across the Horse Guards Parade from Whitehall. He looked startled to see Monk.

"Have you something to report?" he said rather abruptly. He was dressed in dark city trousers and a frock coat seamed at the waist as was the latest cut. His top hat was tall and straight sided, and worn elegantly a little to one side on his head.

"Not yet, sir," Monk answered, wondering what he had expected so soon. "I have a few questions to ask."

Basil frowned. "That could not have waited until I was at home? I do not appreciate being accosted in the street, Inspector."

Monk made no apology. "Some information about the servants which I cannot obtain from the butler."

"There is none," Basil said frostily. "It is the butler's job to employ the servants and to interview them and evaluate their references. If I did not believe he was competent to do it, I should replace him."

"Indeed." Already Monk was stung by his tone of voice and the sharp, chilly look in his eyes, as if Monk's ignorance were no more than he expected. "But were there any disciplining to do, would you not be made aware of it?''

"I doubt it, unless it concerned a member of the family- which, I presume, is what you are suggesting?" Basil replied. "Mere impertinences or tardiness would be dealt with by Phillips, or in the female servants' case, by the housekeeper, or the cook. Dishonesty or moral laxity would incur dismissal, and Phillips would engage a replacement. I would know about that. But surely you did not follow me to Westminster to ask me such paltry things, which you could have asked the butler- or anyone else in the house!"

"I cannot expect the same degree of truth from anyone else in the house, sir," Monk snapped back tartly. "Since one of them is responsible for Mrs. Haslett's death, they may be somewhat partisan in the matter."

Basil glared at him, the wind catching at the tails of his jacket and sending them flapping. He took his high hat off to save the indignity of having it blown askew.

"What do you imagine they would lie about to you and have the remotest chance of getting by with it?" he said with an edge of sarcasm.

Monk ignored the question.

"Any personal relationships between your staff, sir?" he asked instead. "Footmen and maids, for example? The butler and one of the ladies' maids-bootboy and scullery maid?"

Basil's black eyes widened in disbelief.

"Good God! Do you imagine I have the slightest idea-or any interest in the romantic daydreams of my servants, Inspector? You seem to live in a quite different world from the one I inhabit-or men like me."

Monk was furious and he did not even attempt to curb his tongue.

"Do I take it, Sir Basil, that you would have no concern if your male and female servants have liaisons with each other," he said sarcastically. "In twos-or threes-or whatever? You are quite right-it is a different world. The middle classes are obsessed with preventing such a thing."

The insolence was palpable, and for a moment Sir Basil's temper flashed close to violence, but he was apparently aware that he had invited such a comment, because he moderated his reply uncharacteristically. It was merely contemptuous.

"I find it hard to believe you can maintain your position, such as it is, and be as stupid as you pretend. Of course I should forbid anything of the sort, and dismiss any staff so involved instantly and without reference."

"And if there were such an involvement, presumably it is possible Mrs. Haslett might have become aware of it?" Monk asked blandly, aware of their mutual dislike and both their reasons for masking it.

He was surprised how quickly Basil's expression lightened, something almost like a smile coming to his lips.

"I suppose she might,'' he agreed, grasping the idea."Yes, women are observant of such things. They notice inflections we are inclined to miss. Romance and its intrigue form a much greater part in their lives than they do of ours. It would be natural."

Monk appeared as innocent as he was capable.

"What do you suppose she might have discovered on her trip in the afternoon that affected her so deeply she spoke to Mr. Thirsk of it?" he asked. "Was there a servant for whom she had a particular regard?''

Basil was temporarily confused. He struggled for an answer that would fit all the facts they knew.

"Her ladies' maid, I imagine. That is usual. Otherwise I am aware of no special regard," he said carefully. "And it seems she did not tell anyone where she went."

"What time off do the servants have?" Monk pursued. "Away from the house.''

"Half a day every other week," Basil replied immediately. "That is customary."

"Not a great deal for indulging in romance," Monk observed. "It would seem more probable that whatever it was took place in Queen Anne Street."

Sir Basil's black eyes were hard, and he slapped at his fluttering coattails irritably.

"If you are trying to say that there was something very

serious taking place in my house, of which I was unaware, indeed still am unaware, Inspector, then you have succeeded. Now if you can be as efficient in doing what you are paid for- and discover what it was-we shall all be most obliged. If there is nothing further, good day to you!"

Monk smiled. He had alarmed him, which was what he intended. Now Basil would go home and start demanding a lot of pertinent and inconvenient answers.

"Good day, Sir Basil." Monk tipped his hat very slightly, and turning on his heel, marched on towards Horse Guards Parade, leaving Basil standing on the grass with a face heavy with anger and hardening resolution.

Monk attempted to see Myles Kellard at the merchant bank where he held a position, but he had already left for the day. And he had no desire to see any of the household in Queen Anne Street, where he would be most unlikely to be uninterrupted by Sir Basil or Cyprian.

Instead he made a few inquiries of the doorman of Cyprian's club and learned almost nothing, except that he visited it frequently, and certainly gentlemen did have a flutter on cards or horses from time to time. He really could not say how much; it was hardly anyone else's concern. Gentlemen always settled their debts of honor, or they would be blackballed instantly, not only here but in all probability by every other club in town as well. No, he did not know Mr. Septimus Thirsk; indeed he had not heard that gentleman's name before.

Monk found Evan back at the police station and they compared the results of their day. Evan was tired, and although he had expected to learn little he was still discouraged that that was what had happened. There was a bubble of hope in him that always regarded the best of possibilities.

"Nothing you would call a romance," he said dispiritedly, sitting on the broad ledge of the windowsill in Monk's office. "Igatherfromoneofthelaundrymaids, Lizzie, that she thinks the bootboy had a yearning toward Dinah, the parlormaid, who is tall and fair with skin like cream and a waist you could put your hands 'round." His eyes widened as he visualized her in his memory. "And she's not yet had so much attention paid her that she's full of airs. But then that seems hardly worthy of comment. Both footmen and both grooms also admire her very heartily. I must admit, so did I." He smiled, robbing the remark of any seriousness. "Dinah is as yet unmoved in return. General opinion is that she will set her cap a good deal higher."

"Is that all?" Monk asked with a wry expression. "You spent all day below stairs to learn that? Nothing about the family?"

"Not yet," Evan apologized. "But I am still trying. The other laundrymaid, Rose, is a pretty thing, very small and dark with eyes like cornflowers-and an excellent mimic, by the way. She has a dislike for the footman Percival, which sounds to me as if it may be rooted in having once been something much warmer-"

"Evan!"

Evan opened his eyes wide in innocence. "Based on much observation by the upstairs maid Maggie and the ladies' maid Mary, who has a high regard for other people's romances, moving them along wherever she can. And the other upstairs maid, Annie, has a sharp dislike for poor Percival, although she wouldn't say why."

"Very enlightening," Monk said sarcastically. "Get an instant conviction before any jury with that."

"Don't dismiss it too lightly, sir," Evan said quite seriously, hitching himself off the sill. "Young girls like that, with little else to occupy their minds, can be very observant. A lot of it is superficial, but underneath the giggles they see a great deal."

"I suppose so," Monk said dubiously. "But we'll need to do much better than that to satisfy either Runcom or the law.''

Evan shrugged. "I'll go back tomorrow, but I don't know what else to ask anyone."

***

Monk found Septimus the following lunchtime in the public house which he frequented regularly. It was a small, cheerful place just off the Strand, known for its patronage by actors and law students. Groups of young men stood around talking eagerly, gesticulating, flinging arms in the air and poking fingers at an imaginary audience, but whether it was envisioned in a theater or a courtroom was impossible even to guess. There was a smell of sawdust and ale, and at this time of the day, a pleasant steam of vegetables, gravy and thick pastry.

He had been there only a few minutes, with a glass of cider,

when he saw Septimus alone on a leather-upholstered seat in the corner, drinking. He walked over and sat down opposite him.

"Good day, Inspector." Septimus put down his mug, and it was a moment before Monk realized how he had seen him while he was still drinking. The mug's bottom was glass, an old-fashioned custom so a drinker might not be taken by surprise in the days when men carried swords and coaching inn brawls were not uncommon.

"Good day, Mr. Thirsk," Monk replied, and he admired the mug with Septimus's name engraved on it.

"I cannot tell you anything more," Septimus said with a sad little smile. "If I knew who killed Tavie, or had the faintest idea why, I would have come to you without your bothering to follow me here."

Monk sipped his cider.

"I came because I thought it would be easier to speak without interruption here than it would in Queen Anne Street."

Septimus's faded blue eyes lit with a moment's humor. "You mean without Basil's reminding me of my obligation, my duty to be discreet and behave like a gentleman, even if I cannot afford to be one, except now and again, by his grace and favor."

Monk did not insult him by evasion."Something like that,'' he agreed. He glanced sideways as a young man with a fair face, not unlike Evan, lurched close to them in mock despair, clutching his heart, then began a dramatic monologue directed at his fellows at a neighboring table. Even after a full minute or two, Monk was not sure whether he was an aspiring actor or a would-be lawyer defending a client. He thought briefly and satirically of Oliver Rathbone, and pictured him as a callow youth at some public house like this.

"I see no military men," he remarked, looking back at Septimus.

Septimus smiled down into his ale. "Someone has told you my story."

"Mr. Cyprian," Monk admitted. "With great sympathy."

"He would;" Septimus pulled a face. "Now if you had asked Myles you would have had quite a different tale, meaner, grubbier, less flattering to women. And dear Fenella..." He took another deep draft of his ale. "Hers would have been more lurid, far more dramatic; the tragedy would have become grotesque, the love a frenzied passion, the whole thing rather gaudy; the real feeling, and the real pain, lost in effect-like the colored lights of a stage."

"And yet you like to come to a public house full of actors of one sort or another," Monk pointed out.

Septimus looked across the tables and his eye fell on a man of perhaps thirty-five, lean and oddly dressed, his face animated, but under the mask a weariness of disappointed hopes.

"I like it here," he said gently. "I like the people. They have imagination to take them out of the commonplace, to forget the defeats of reality and feed on the triumphs of dreams." His face was softened, its tired lines lifted by tolerance and affection. "They can evoke any mood they want into their faces and make themselves believe it for an hour or two. That takes courage, Mr. Monk; it takes a rare inner strength. The world, people like Basil, find it ridiculous-but I find it very heartening."

There was a roar of laughter from one of the other tables, and for a moment he glanced towards it before turning back to Monk again. "If we can still surmount what is natural and believe what we wish to believe, in spite of the force of evidence, then for a while at least we are masters of our fate, and we can paint the world we want. I had rather do it with actors than with too much wine or a pipe full of opium.''

Someone climbed on a chair and began an oration to a few catcalls and a smattering of applause.

"And I like their humor," Septimus went on. "They know how to laugh at themselves and each other-they like to laugh, they don't see any sin in it, or any danger to their dignity. They like to argue. They don't feel it a mortal wound if anyone queries what they say, indeed they expect to be questioned." He smiled ruefully. "And if they are forced to a new idea, they turn it over like a child with a toy. They may be vain, Mr. Monk; indeed they assuredly are vain, like a garden full of peacocks forever fanning their tails and squawking." He looked at Monk without perception or double meaning. "And they are ambitious, self-absorbed, quarrelsome and often supremely trivial."

Monk felt a pang of guilt, as if an arrow had brushed by his cheek and missed its mark.

"But they amuse me," Septimus said gently. "And they listen to me without condemnation, and never once has one of them tried to convince me I have some moral or social obligation to be different. No, Mr. Monk, I enjoy myself here. I feel comfortable.''

"You have explained yourself excellently, sir." Monk smiled at him, for once without guile."I understand why. Tell me something about Mr. Kellard."

The pleasure vanished out of Septimus's face. "Why? Do you think he had something to do with Tavie's death?"

"Is it likely, do you think?"

Septimus shrugged and set down his mug.

"I don't know. I don't like the man. My opinion is of no use to you."

"Why do you not like him, Mr. Thirsk?"

But the old military code of honor was too strong. Septimus smiled dryly, full of self-mockery. "A matter of instinct, Mr. Monk," he lied, and Monk knew he was lying. "We have nothing in common in our natures or our interests. He is a banker, I was a soldier, and now I am a time server, enjoying the company of young men who playact and tell stories about crime and passion and the criminal world. And I laugh at all the wrong things, and drink too much now and again. I ruined my life over the love of a woman.'' He turned the mug in his hand, fingers caressing it. "Myles despises that. I think it is absurd-but not contemptible. At least I was capable of such a feeling. There is something to be said for that."

"There is everything to be said for it." Monk surprised himself; he had no memory of ever having loved, let alone to such cost, and yet he knew without question that to care for any person or issue enough to sacrifice greatly for it was the surest sign of being wholly alive. What a waste of the essence of a man that he should never give enough of himself to any cause, that he should always hear that passive, cowardly voice uppermost which counts the cost and puts caution first. One would grow old and die with the power of one's soul untasted.

And yet there was something. Even as the thoughts passed through his mind a memory stirred of intense emotions, outrage and grief for someone else, a passion to fight at all costs, not for himself but for others-and for one in particular. He

knew loyalty and gratitude, he simply could not force it back into his mind for whom.

Septimus was looking at him curiously.

Monk smiled. "Perhaps he envies you, Mr. Thirsk," he said spontaneously.

Septimus's eyebrows rose in amazement. He looked at Monk's face, seeking sarcasm, and found none.

Monk explained himself. "Without realizing it," he added. "Maybe Mr. Kcllard lacks the depth, or the courage, to feel anything deeply enough to pay for it. To suspect yourself a coward is a very bitter thing indeed."

Very slowly Septimus smiled, with great sweetness.

"Thank you, Mr. Monk. That is the finest thing anyone has said to me in years." Then he bit his lip. "I am sorry. I still cannot tell you anything about Myles. All I know is suspicion, and it is not my wound to expose. Perhaps there is no wound at all, and he is merely a bored man with too much time on his hands and an imagination that works too hard."

Monk did not press him. He knew it would serve no purpose. Septimus was quite capable of keeping silence if he felt honor required it, and taking whatever consequences there were.

Monk finished his cider. "I'll go and see Mr. Kellard myself. But if you do think of anything that suggests what Mrs. Haslett had discovered that last day, what it was she thought you would understand better than others, please let me know. It may well be that this secret was what caused her death."

"I have thought," Septimus replied, screwing up his face. "I have gone over and over in my mind everything we have in common, or that she might have believed we had, and I have found very little. We neither of us cared for Myles-but that seems very trivial. He has never injured me in any way-nor her, that I am aware of. We were both financially dependent upon Basil-but then so is everyone else in the house!"

"Is Mr. Kellard not remunerated for his work at the bank?'' Monk was surprised.

Septimus looked at him with mild scorn, not unkindly.

"Certainly. But not to the extent that will support him in the way to which he would like to be accustomed-and definitely not Ararninta as well. Also there are social implications to be considered; there are benefits to being Basil Moidore's

daughter which do not accrue to being merely Myles Kellard's wife, not least of them living in Queen Anne Street."

Monk had not expected to feel any sympathy for Myles Kellard, but that single sentence, with its wealth of implications, gave him a sudden very sharp change of perception.

"Perhaps you are not aware of the level of entertaining that is conducted there," Septimus continued, "when the house is not in mourning? We regularly dined diplomats and cabinet ministers, ambassadors and foreign princes, industrial moguls, patrons of the arts and sciences, and on occasion even minor members of our own royalty. Not a few duchesses and dozens of society called in the afternoons. And of course there were all the invitations in return. I should think there are few of the great houses that have not received the Moidores at one time or another."

"Did Mrs. Haslett feel the same way?" Monk asked.

Septimus smiled with a rueful turning down of the lips. "She had no choice. She and Haslett were to have moved into a house of their own, but he went into the army before it could be accomplished, and of course Tavie remained in Queen Anne Street. And then Harry, the poor beggar, was killed at Inker-mann. One of the saddest things I know. He was the devil of a nice fellow." He stared into the bottom of his mug, not at the ale dregs but into old grief that still hurt. "Ikvie never got over it. She loved him-more than the rest of the family ever understood."

"I'm sorry," Monk said gently. "You were very fond of Mrs. Haslett-"

Septimus looked up. "Yes, yes I was. She used to listen to me as if what I said mattered to her. She would let me ramble on-sometimes we drank a little too much together. She was kinder than Fenella-" He stopped, realizing he was on the verge of behaving like less than a gentleman. He stiffened his back painfully and lifted his chin. "If I can help, Inspector, you may be assured that I will.''

"I am assured, Mr. Thirsk.'' Monk rose to his feet."Thank you for your time.''

"I have more of it than I need." Septimus smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Then he tipped up his mug and drank the dregs, and Monk could see his face distorted through the glass bottom.

***

Monk found Fenella Sandeman the next day at the end of a long late-morning ride, standing by her horse at the Kensington Gardens end of Rotten Row. She was superbly dressed in a black riding habit with gleaming boots and immaculate black Mousquetaire hat. Only her high-necked blouse and stock were vivid white. Her dark hair was neatly arranged, and her face with its unnatural color and painted eyebrows looked rakish and artificial in the cool November daylight.

"Why, Mr. Monk," she said in amazement, looking him up and down and evidently approving what she saw. "Whatever brings you walking in the park?" She gave a girlish giggle. "Shouldn't you be questioning the servants or something? How does one detect?''

She ignored her horse, leaving the rein loosely over her arm as if that were sufficient.

"In a large number of ways, ma'am." He tried to be courteous and at the same time not play to her mood of levity. "Before I speak to the servants I would like to gain a clearer impression from the family, so that when I do ask questions they are the right ones.''

"So you've come to interrogate me." She shivered melodramatically. "Well, Inspector, ask me anything. I shall give you what answers I consider wisest.'' She was a small woman, and she looked up at him through half-closed lashes.

Surely she could not be drunk this early in the day? She must be amusing herself at his expense. He afFected not to notice her flippancy and kept a perfectly sober face, as if they were engaged in a serious conversation which might yield important information.

' "Thank you, Mrs. Sandeman. I am informed you have lived in Queen Anne Street since shortly after the death of your husband some eleven or twelve years ago-"

"You have been delving into my past!" Her voice was husky, and far from being annoyed, she sounded flattered by the thought.

"Into everyone's, ma'am," he said coldly. "If you have been there such a time, you will have had frequent opportunity to observe both the family and the staff. You must know them all quite well."

She swung the riding crop, startling the horse and narrowly

missing its head. She seemed quite oblivious of the animal, and fortunately it was sufficiently well schooled. It remained close to her, measuring its pace obediently to hers as she moved very slowly along the path.

"Of course," she agreed jauntily. "Who do you wish to know about?" She shrugged her beautifully clothed shoulders. "Myles is fun, but quite worthless-but then some of the most attractive men are, don't you think?" She turned sideways to look at him. Her eyes must have been marvelous once, very large and dark. Now the rest of her face had so altered they were grotesque.

He smiled very slightly. "I think my interest in them is probably very different from yours, Mrs. Sandeman."

She laughed uproariously for several moments, causing half a dozen people within earshot to turn curiously to find the cause of such mirth. When she had regained her composure she was still openly amused.

Monk was discomfited. He disliked being stared at as a matter of ribaldry.

"Don't you find pious women very tedious, Mr. Monk?" She opened her eyes very wide. "Be honest with me."

"Are there pious women in your family, Mrs. Sandeman?" His voice was cooler than he intended, but if she was aware she gave no sign.

"It's full of them." She sighed. "Absolutely prickling like fleas on a hedgehog. My mother was one, may heaven rest her soul. My sister-in-law is another, may heaven preserve me-I live in her house. You have no idea how hard it is to have any privacy! Pious women are so good at minding other people's business-I suppose it is so much more interesting than their own." She laughed again with a rich, gurgling sound.

He was becoming increasingly aware that she found him attractive, and it made him intensely uncomfortable.

"And Araminta is worse, poor creature," she continued, walking with grace and swinging her stick. The horse plodded obediently at her heels, its rein trailing loosely over her arm. "I suppose she has to be, with Myles. I told you he was worthless, didn't I? Of course Tavie was all right." She looked straight ahead of her along the Row towards a fashionable group riding slowly in their direction. "She drank, you know?" She glanced at him, then away again. "All that tommyrot about ill health and headaches! She was drunk-or suffering the aftereffects. She took it from the kitchen." She shrugged. "I daresay one of the servants gave it to her. They all liked her because she was generous. Took advantage, if you ask me. Treat servants above their station, and they forget who they are and take liberties."

Then she swung around and stared at him, her eyes exaggeratedly wide. "Oh, my goodness! Oh, my dear, how perfectly awful. Do you suppose that was what happened to her?" Her very small, elegantly gloved hand flew to her mouth. "She was overfamiliar with one of the servants? He ran away with the wrong idea-or, heaven help us, the right one," she said breathlessly. "And then she fought him off- and he killed her in the heat of his passion? Oh, how perfectly frightful. What a scandal!" She gulped. "Ha-ha-ha. Basil will never get over it. Just imagine what his friends will say."

Monk was unaccountably revolted, not by the thought, which was pedestrian enough, but by her excitement at it. He controlled his disgust with difficulty, unconsciously taking a step backwards.

"Do you think that is what happened, ma'am?"

She heard nothing in his tone to dampen her titillation.

"Oh, it is quite possible," she went on, painting the picture for herself, turning away and beginning to walk again. "I know just the man to have done it. Percival-one of the footmen. Fine-looking man-but then all footmen are, don't you think?" She glanced sideways, then away again. "No, perhaps you don't. I daresay you've never had much occasion. Not many footmen in your line of work." She laughed again and hunched her shoulders without looking at him. "Percival has that kind of face-far too intelligent to be a good servant. Ambitious. And such a marvelously cruel mouth. A man with a mouth like that could do anything." She shuddered, wriggling her body as if shedding some encumbrance-or feeling something delicious against her skin. It occurred to Monk to wonder if perhaps she herself had encouraged the young footman into a relationship above and outside his station. But looking at her immaculate, artificial face the thought was peculiarly repellent. As close as he was to her now, in the hard daylight, it was clear that she must be nearer sixty than fifty, and Percival not more than thirty at the very outside.

"Have you any grounds for that idea, Mrs. Sandeman, other than what you observe in his face?" he asked her.

"Oh-you are angry." She turned her limpid gaze up at him. "I have offended your sense of propriety. You are a trifle pious yourself, aren't you, Inspector?"

Was he? He had no idea. He knew his instinctive reaction now: the gentle, vulnerable faces like Imogen Latterly's that stirred his emotions; the passionate, intelligent ones like Hester's which both pleased and irritated him; the calculating, predatorily female ones like Fenella Sandeman's which he found alien and distasteful. But he had no memory of any actual relationship. Was he a prig, a cold man, selfish and incapable of commitment, even short-lived?

"No, Mrs. Sandeman, but I am offended by the idea of a footman who takes liberties with his mistress's daughter and then knifes her to death," he said ruthlessly. "Are you not?"

Still she was not angry. Her boredom cut him more deeply than any subtle insult or mere aloofness.

"Oh, how sordid. Yes of course I am. You do have a crass way with words, Inspector. One could not have you in the withdrawing room. Such a shame. You have a-" She regarded him with a frank appreciation which he found very unnerving. "An air of danger about you.'' Her eyes were very bright and she stared at him invitingly.

He knew what the euphemism stood for, and found himself backing away.

"Most people find police intrusive, ma'am; I am used to it. Thank you for your time, you have been most helpful." And he bowed very slightly and turned on his heel, leaving her standing beside her horse with her crop in one hand and the rein still over her arm. Before he had reached the edge of the grass she was speaking to a middle-aged gentleman who had just dismounted from a large gray and was flattering her shamelessly.

***

He found the idea of an amorous footman both unpleasant and unlikely, but it could not be dismissed. He had put off interviewing the servants himself for too long. He hailed a hansom along the Knightsbridge Road and directed it to take him to Queen Anne Street, where he paid the driver and went down the areaway steps to the back door.

Inside the kitchen was warm and busy and full of the odors of roasting meat, baking pastry and fresh apples. Coils of peel lay on the table, and Mrs. Boden, the cook, was up to her elbows in flour. Her face was red with exertion and heat, but she had an agreeable expression and was still a handsome woman, even though the veins were beginning to break on her skin and when she smiled her teeth were discolored and would not last much longer.

"If you're wanting your Mr. Evan, he's in the housekeeper's sitting room," she greeted Monk. "And if you're looking for a cup o' tea you're too soon. Come back in half an hour. And don't get under my feet. I 've dinner to think of; even in mourning they've still got to eat-and so have all of us."

"Us" were the servants, and he noted the distinction immediately.

"Yes ma'am. Thank you, I'd like to speak to your footmen, if you please, privately."

"Would you now." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Sal. Put those potatoes down and go and get Harold-then when 'e's done, tell Percival to come. Well don't stand there, you great pudding. Go an' do as you're told!" She sighed and began to mix the pastry with water to the right consistency. "Girls these days! Eats enough fora working navvy, she does, and look at her. Moves like treacle in winter. Shoo. Get on with you, girl."

With a flash of temper the red-haired kitchen maid swung out of the room and along the corridor, her heels clicking on the uncarpeted floor.

"And don't you sonse out of here like that!'' the cook called after her. "Cheeky piece. Eyes on the footman next door, that's 'er trouble. Lazy baggage." She turned back to Monk. "Now if you 'aven't anything more to ask me, you get out of my way too. You can talk to the footmen in Mr. Phillips's pantry. He's busy down in the cellar and won't be disturbing you."

Monk obeyed and was shown by Willie the bootboy into the pantry, the room where the butler kept all his keys, his accounts, and the silver that was used regularly, and also spent much of his time when not on duty. It was warm and extremely comfortably, if serviceably, furnished.

Harold, the junior footman, was a thickset, fair-haired

young man, in no way a pair to Percival, except in height. He must possess some other virtue, less visible to the first glance, or Monk guessed his days here would be numbered. He questioned him, probably just as Evan had already done, and Harold produced his now well-practiced replies. Monk could not imagine him the philanderer Fenella Sandeman had thought up.

Percival was a different matter, more assured, more belligerent, and quite ready to defend himself. When Monk pressed him he sensed a personal danger, and he answered with bold eyes and a ready tongue.

"Yes sir, I know it was someone in the house who killed Mrs. Haslett. That doesn't mean it was one of us servants. Why should we? Nothing to gain, and everything to lose. Anyway, she was a very pleasant lady, no occasion to wish her anything but good.''

"You liked her?"

Percival smiled. He had read Monk's implication long before he replied, but whether from uneasy conscience or astute sense it was impossible to say.

"I said she was pleasant enough, sir. I wasn't familiar, if that's what you mean!"

"You jumped to that very quickly,'' Monk retorted. "What made you think that was what I meant?"

"Because you are trying to accuse one of us below stairs so you don't have the embarrassment of accusing someone above," Percival said baldly. "Just because I wear livery and say 'yes sir, no ma'am' doesn't mean I'm stupid. You're a policeman, no better than I am-"

Monk winced.

"And you know what it'll cost you if you charge one of the family," Percival finished.

"I'll charge one of the family if I find any evidence against them," Monk replied tartly. "So far I haven't."

"Then maybe you're too careful where you look." Percival's contempt was plain. "You won't find it if you don't want to-and it surely wouldn't suit you, would it?"

"I'll look anywhere I think there's something to find," Monk said. "You're in the house all day and all night. You tell me where to look."

"Well, Mr. Thirsk steals from the cellar-taken half the

best port wine over the last few years. Don't know how he isn't drunk half the time.''

"Is that a reason to kill Mrs. Haslett?"

"Might be-if she knew and ratted on him to Sir Basil. Sir Basil would take it very hard. Might throw the old boy out into the street."

"Then why does he take it?"

Percival shrugged very slightly. It was not a servant's gesture.

"I don't know-but he does. Seen him sneaking down the steps many a time-and back up with a bottle under his coat.''

"I'm not very impressed."

"Then look at Mrs. Sandeman." Percival's face tightened, a shadow of viciousness about his mouth. "Look at some of the company she keeps. I've been out in the carriage sometimes and taken her to some very odd places. Parading up and down that Rotten Row like a sixpenny whore, and reads stuff Sir Basil would burn if he saw it-scandal sheets, sensational press. Mr. Phillips would dismiss any of the maids if he caught them with that kind of thing."

"It's hardly relevant. Mr. Phillips cannot dismiss Mrs. Sandeman, no matter what she reads," Monk pointed out.

"Sir Basil could."

"But would he? She is his sister, not a servant."

Percival smiled. "She might just as well be. She has to come and go when he says, wear what he approves of, speak to whoever he likes and entertain his friends. Can't have her own here, unless he approves them-or she doesn't get her allowance. None of them do."

He was a young man with a malicious tongue and a great deal of personal knowledge of the family, Monk thought, very possibly a frightened young man. Perhaps his fear was justified. The Moidores would not easily allow one of their own to be charged if suspicion could be diverted to a servant. Percival knew that; maybe he was only the first person downstairs to see just how sharp the danger was. In time no doubt others would also; the tales would get uglier as the fear closed in.

"Thank you, Percival," Monk said wearily. "You can go- for now."

Percival opened his mouth to add something, then changed his mind and went out. He moved gracefully-well trained.

Monk returned to the kitchen and had the cup of tea Mrs. Boden had previously offered, but even listening carefully he learned nothing of further use, and he left by the same way he had arrived and took a hansom from Harley Street down to the City. This time he was more fortunate in finding Myles Kellard in his office at the bank.

"I can't think what to tell you." Myles looked at Monk curiously, his long face lit with a faint humor as if he found the whole meeting a trifle ridiculous. He sat elegantly on one of the Chippendale armchairs in his exquisitely carpeted room, crossing his legs with ease. "There are all sorts of family tensions, of course. There are in any family. But none of them seems a motive for murder to anyone, except a lunatic."

Monk waited.

"I would find it a lot easier to understand if Basil had been the victim," Myles went on, an edge of sharpness in his voice. "Cyprian could follow his own political interests instead of his father's, and pay all his debts, which would make life a great deal easier for him-and for the fair Romola. She finds living in someone else's house very hard to take. Ideas of being mistress of Queen Anne Street shine in her eyes rather often. But she'll be a dutiful daughter-in-law until that day comes. It's worth waiting for."

"And then you will also presumably move elsewhere?" Monk said quickly.

"Ah." Myles pulled a face. "How uncivil of you, Inspector. Yes, no doubt we shall. But old Basil looks healthy enough for another twenty years. Anyway, it was poor Tavie who was killed, so that line of thought leads you nowhere."

"Did Mrs. Haslett know of her brother's debts?"

Myles's eyebrows shot up, giving his face a quizzical look. "I shouldn't think so-but it's a possibility. She certainly knew he was interested in the philosophies of the appalling Mr. Owen and his notions of dismantling the family." He smiled with a raw, twisted humor."I don't suppose you've read Owen, Inspector? No-very radical-believes the patriarchal system is responsible for all sorts of greed, oppression and abuse-an opinion which Basil is hardly likely to share."

"Hardly," Monk agreed. "Are these debts of Mr. Cyprian's generally known?"

"Certainly not!"

"But he confided in you?"

Myles lifted his shoulders a fraction.

"No-not exactly. I am a banker, Inspector. I learn various bits of information that are not public property." He colored faintly. "I told you that because you are investigating a murder in my family. It is not to be generally discussed. I hope you understand that."

He had breached a confidence. Monk perceived that readily enough. Fenella's words about him came back, and her arch look as she said them.

Myles hurried on. "I should think it was probably some stupid wrangle with a servant who got above himself." He was looking very directly at Monk. "Octavia was a widow, and young. She wouldn't get her excitement from scandal sheets like Aunt Fenella. I daresay one of the footmen admired her and she didn't put him in his place swiftly enough."

"Is that really what you think happened, Mr. Kellard?" Monk searched his face, the hazel eyes under their fair brows, the long, fluted nose and the mouth which could so easily be imaginative or slack, depending on his mood.

"It seems far more likely than Cyprian, whom she cared for, killing her because she might have told their father, of whom she was not fond, about his debts-or Fenella, in case Octavia told Basil about the company she keeps, which is pretty ragged."

"I gathered Mrs. Haslett was still missing her husband," Monk said slowly, hoping Myles would read the less delicate implication behind his words.

Myles laughed outright."Good God, no. What a prude you are." He leaned back in his chair. "She mourned Haslett- but she's a woman. She'd have gone on making a parade of sorrow, of course. It's expected. But she's a woman like any other. I daresay Percival, at any rate, knows that. He'd take a little protestation of reluctance, a few smiles through the eyelashes and modest glances for what they were worth."

Monk felt the muscles in his neck and scalp tightening in anger, but he tried to keep his emotion out of his voice.

"Which, if you are right, was apparently a great deal. She meant exactly what she said."

"Oh-" Myles sighed and shrugged. "I daresay she

changed her mind when she remembered he was a footman, by which time he had lost his head.''

"Have you any reason for suggesting this, Mr. Kellard, other than your belief that it seems likely to you?"

"Observation," he said with a shadow of irritation across his face. "Percival is something of a ladies' man, had considerable flirtations with one or two of the maids. It's to be expected, you know." A look of obscure satisfaction flickered across his face. "Can't keep people together in a house day in, day out and not have something happen now and again. He's an ambitious little beggar. Go and look there, Inspector. Now if you'll excuse me, there really is nothing I can tell you, except to use your common sense and whatever knowledge of women you have. Now I wish you good-day."

***

Monk returned to Queen Anne Street with a sense of darkness inside. He should have been encouraged by his interview with Myles Kellard. He had given an acceptable motive for one of the servants to have killed Octavia Haslett, and that would surely be the least unpleasant answer. Runcorn would be delighted. Sir Basil would be satisfied. Monk would arrest the footman and claim a victory. The press would praise him for his rapid and successful solution, which would annoy Run-corn, but he would be immensely relieved that the danger of scandal was removed and a prominent case had been closed satisfactorily.

But his interview with Myles had left him with a vague feeling of depression. Myles had a contempt for both Octavia and the footman Percival. His suggestions were born of a kind of malice. There was no gentleness in him.

Monk pulled his coat collar a little higher against the cold rain blowing down the pavement as he turned into Leadenhall Street and walked up towards Comhill. Was he anything like Myles Kellard? He had seen few signs of compassion in the records he had found of himself. His judgments were sharp. Were they equally cynical? It was a frightening thought. He would be an empty man inside if it were so. In the months since he had awoken in the hospital, he had found no one who cared for him deeply, no one who felt gratitude or love for him, except his sister, Beth, and her love was born of loyalty, memory rather than knowledge. Was there no one else? No

woman? Where were his relationships, the debts and the dependencies, the trusts, the memories?

He hailed a hansom and told the driver to take him back to Queen Anne Street, then sat back and tried to put his own life out of his mind and think of the footman Percival-and the possibility of a stupid physical flirtation that had ran out of control and ended in violence.

He arrived and entered by the kitchen door again, and asked to speak to Percival. He faced him in the housekeeper's sitting room this time. The footman was pale-faced now, feeling the net closing around him, cold and a great deal tighter. He stood stiffly, his muscles shaking a little under his livery, his hands knotted in front of him, a fine beading of sweat on his brow and lip. He stared at Monk with fixed eyes, waiting for the attack so he could parry it.

The moment Monk spoke, he knew he would find no way to frame a question that would be subtle. Percival had already guessed the line of his thought and leaped ahead.

"There's a great deal you don't know about this house," he said with a harsh, jittery voice. "Ask Mr. Kellard about his relationship with Mrs. Haslett."

"What was it, Percival?" Monk asked quietly. "All I have heard suggests they were not particularly agreeable."

"Not openly, no." There was a slight sneer in Percival's thin mouth. "She never did like him much, but he lusted after her-"

"Indeed?" Monk said with raised brows. "They seem to have hidden it remarkably well. Do you think Mr. Kellard tried to force his attentions on her, and when she refused, he became violent and killed her? There was no struggle."

Percival looked at him with withering disgust.

"No I don't. I think he lusted after her, and even if he never did anything about it at all, Mrs. Kellard still discovered it- and boiled with the kind of jealousy that only a spurned woman can. She hated her sister enough to kill her." He saw the widening of Monk's eyes and the tightening of his hands. He knew he had startled the policeman and at least for a time confused him.

A tiny smile touched the corner of Percival's mouth.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes-yes it will," Monk said after a hesitation. "For the moment."

"Thank you, sir." And Percival turned and walked out, a lift in his step now and a slight swing in his shoulders.