A Dangerous Mourning

chapter 7

Araminta was very composed as she stood in front of Monk in the boudoir, that room Of ease and comfort especially for the women of the house. It was ornately decorated with lush French Louis XVI furniture, all scrolls and curlicues, gilt and velvet. The curtains were brocade and the wallpaper pink embossed in gold. It was an almost oppressively feminine room, and Araminta looked out of place in it, not for her appearance, which was slender and delicately boned with a flame of hair, but for her stance. It was almost aggressive. There was nothing yielding in her, nothing soft to compliment all the sweetness of the pink room.

"I regret having to tell you this, Mr. Monk." She looked at him unflinchingly. "My sister's reputation is naturally dear to me, but in our present stress and tragedy I believe only the truth will serve. Those of us who are hurt by it will have to endure the best we may."

He opened his mouth to try to say something at once soothing and encouraging, but apparently she did not need any word from him. She continued, her face so controlled there was no apparent tension, no quiver to the lips or voice.

"My sister, Octavia, was a very charming person, and very affectionate." She was choosing her words with great care; this was a speech which had been rehearsed before he came. "Like most people who are pleasing to others, she enjoyed admiration, indeed she had a hunger for it. When her husband, Captain Haslett, was killed in the Crimea she was, of course, deeply grieved. But that was nearly two years ago, and that is a long time for a young woman of Octavia's nature to be alone."

This time he did not interrupt, but waited for her to continue, only showing his total attention by his unwavering gaze.

The only way her inner feelings showed was a curious stillness, as if something inside her dared not move.

"What I am endeavoring to say, Mr. Monk, much as it pains me, and all my family, is that Octavia from time to time would encourage from the footman an admiration that was personal, and of a more familiar nature than it should have been.''

"Which footman, ma'am?" He would not put Percival's name in her mouth.

A flash of irritation tweaked her mouth. "Percival of course. Do not affect to be a fool with me, Mr. Monk. Does Harold look like a man to have airs above his station? Besides which, you have been in this house quite long enough to have observed that Harold is taken with the parlormaid and not likely to see anyone else in that light-for all the good it will do him.'' She jerked her shoulders sharply, as if to shrug off the distasteful idea. "Still, she is very likely not the charming creature he imagines, and he may well be better served by dreams than he would be by the disillusion of reality." For the first time she looked away from him. "I daresay she is very bland and tedious once you are tired of looking at her pretty face."

Had Araminta been a plain woman Monk might have suspected her of envy, but since she was in her own way quite remarkably fine it could not be so.

"Impossible dreams always end in awakening," he agreed. "But he may grow out of his obsession before he meets with any reality. Let us hope so."

"It is hardly important," she said, swinging back to face him and recall him to the subject that mattered. "I have come to inform you of my sister's relationship with Percival, not Harold's moonings after the parlormaid. Since it seems inescapable that someone in this house murdered Octavia, it is relevant that you should know she was overfamiliar with the footman."

"Very relevant," he agreed quietly. "Why did you not mention it before, Mrs. Kellard?"

"Because I hoped it would not be necessary, of course,"

she replied immediately. "It is hardly a pleasant thing to have to admit-least of all to the police."

Whether that was because of the implication for crime, or the indignity of discussing it with someone of the social standing of the police, she did not say, but Monk thought from the lopsided suggestion of a sneer on her mouth that it was the latter.

"Thank you for mentioning it now." He ironed out the anger from his expression as well as he could, and was rewarded, and insulted, that she seemed to notice nothing at all. "I shall investigate the possibility," he concluded.

"Naturally.'' Her fine golden eyebrows rose."I did not put myself to the discomfort of telling you for you merely to acknowledge it and do nothing."

He bit back any further comment and contented himself with opening the door for her and bidding her good-day.

He had no alternative but to face Percival, because he had already drawn from everyone else the fragments of knowledge, speculation and judgment of character on the subject. Nothing added now would be proof of anything, only the words of fear, opportunism or malice. And undoubtedly Percival was disliked by some of his fellow servants, for greater or lesser reason. He was arrogant and abrasive and he had played with at least one woman's afFections, which produced volatile and unreliable testimony, at best.

When Percival appeared this time his attitude was different; the all-permeating fear was there, but far less powerfully. There was a return of the old confidence in the tilt of his head and the brash directness of his stare. Monk knew immediately there would be no point in even hoping to panic him into confession of anything.

"Sir?" Percival waited expectantly, bristlingly aware of tricks and verbal traps.

"Perhaps discretion kept you from saying so before.'' Monk did not bother to prevaricate. "But Mrs. Haslett was one of the ladies who had more than an employer's regard for you, was she not?" He smiled with bared teeth. "You need not permit modesty to direct your answer. It has come to me from another source."

Percival's mouth relaxed in something of a smirk, but he did not forget himself.

"Yes sir. Mrs. Haslett was... very appreciative."

Monk was suddenly infuriated by the man's complacence, his insufferable conceit. He thought of Octavia lying dead with the blood dark down her robe. She had seemed so vulnerable, so helpless to protect herself-which was ridiculous, since she was the one person in all of this tragedy who was now beyond pain or the petty fancies of dignity. But he bitterly resented this grubby little man's ease of reference to her, his self-satisfaction, even his thoughts.

"How gratifying for you," he said acidly. "If occasionally embarrassing."

"No sir," Percival said quickly, but there was a smugness to his face. "She was very discreet."

"But of course," Monk agreed, loathing Percival the more. "She was, after all, a lady, even if she occasionally forgot it."

Percival's narrow mouth twitched with irritation. Monk's contempt had reached him. He did not like being reminded that it was beneath a lady to admire a footman in that way.

"I don't expect you to understand," Percival said with a sneer. He looked Monk up and down and stood a little straighter himself, his opinion in his eyes.

Monk had no idea what ladies of whatever rank might similarly have admired him; his memory was blank but his temper burned.

"I can imagine," he replied viciously. "I've arrested a few whores from time to time."

Percival's cheeks flamed but he dared not say what came to his mind. He stared back with brilliant eyes.

"Indeed sir? I expect your job brings you into company of a great many people I have no experience of at all. Very regrettable." Now his eyes were perfectly level and hard. "But like cleaning the drains, someone has to do it."

"Precarious," Monk said with deliberate edge. "Being admired by a lady. Never know where you are. One minute you are the servant, dutiful and respectfully inferior, the next the lover, with hints of being stronger, masterful." He smiled with a sneer like Percival's own."Then before you know where you are, back to being the footman again, 'Yes ma'am,"No ma'am,' and dismissed to your own room whenever my lady is bored or has had enough. Very difficult not to make a mistake-" He was watching Percival's face and the succession

of emotions racing across it. "Very hard to keep your temper-"

There k was-the first shadow of real fear, the quick beading of sweat on the lip, the catching of breath.

"I didn't lose my temper,'' Percival said, his voice cracking and loathing in his eyes. "I don't know who killed her-but it wasn't me!"

"No?" Monk raised his eyebrows very high. "Who else had a reason? She didn't 'admire' anyone else, did she? She didn't leave any money. We cannot find anything to suggest she knew something shameful about anyone. We can't find anyone who hated her-"

"Because you aren't very clever, are you." Percival's dark eyes were narrow and bright. "I already told you Rose hated her, because she was jealous as a cat over me. And what about Mr. Kellard? Or are you too well trained to dare accuse one of the gentry if you can pin it on a servant?''

"No doubt you would like me to ask why Mr. Kellard should kill Mrs. Haslett." Monk was equally angry, but would not reply to the jibe because that would be to admit it hurt. He would as soon have charged one of the family as a servant, but he knew what Runcorn would feel, and try to drive him to do, and his frustration was equally with him as with Percival."And you will tell me whether I ask or not, to divert my attention from you."

That robbed Percival of a great deal of his satisfaction, which was what Monk had intended. Nevertheless he could not afford to remain silent.

"Because he had a fancy for Mrs. Haslett," Percival said in a hard, quiet voice. "And the more she declined him, the hotter it got-that's how it is."

"And so he killed her?" Monk said, baring his teeth in something less than a smile. "Seems an odd way of persuading her. Would put her out of his reach permanently, wouldn't it? Or are you supposing a touch of necrophilia?"

"What?"

"Gross relationship with the dead," Monk explained.

"Disgusting." Percival's lip curled.

"Or perhaps he was so infatuated he decided if he could not have her then no one should?" Monk suggested sarcastically.

It was not the sort of passion either of them thought Myles Kellard capable of, and he knew it.

"You're playing the fool on purpose," Percival said through thin lips. "You may not be very bright-and the way you've gone about this case surely shows it-but you're not that stupid. Mr. Kellard wanted to lie with her, nothing more. But he's one that won't accept a refusal." He lifted one shoulder. "And if he fancied her and she said she'd tell everyone he'd have to kill her. He couldn't cover that up the way he did with poor Martha. It's one thing to rape a maid, no one cares-but you can't rape your wife's sister and get away with it. Her father won't hide that up for you!''

Monk stared at him. Percival had won his attention without shadow this time, and he knew it; the victory was shining in his narrowed eyes.

"Who is Martha?" Resent it as he might, Monk had no option but to ask.

Percival smiled slowly. He had small, even teeth.

"Was," he corrected. "God knows where she is now- workhouse, if she's alive at all."

"All right, who was she?"

He looked at Monk with a level, jubilant stare.

"Parlormaid before Dinah. Pretty thing, neat and slender, walked like a princess. He took a fancy to her, and wouldn't be told no. Didn't believe she meant it. Raped her."

"How do you know this?" Monk was skeptical, but not totally disbelieving. Percival was too sure of himself for it to be simply a malicious invention, nor was there the sweat of desperation on his skin. He stood easily, his body relaxed, almost excited.

"Servants are invisible," Percival replied, eyes wide. "Don't you know that? Part of the furniture. I overheard Sir Basil when he made some of the arrangements. Poor little bitch was dismissed for being of loose tongue and even looser morals. He got her out of the house before she could tell anyone else. She made the mistake of going to him about it, because she was afraid she was with child-which she was. Funny thing is he didn't even doubt her-he knew she was telling the truth. But he said she must have encouraged him-it was her fault. Threw her out without a reference.'' He shrugged."God knows what happened to her.''

Monk thought Percival's anger was outrage for his own class rather than pity for the girl, and was ashamed of himself for his judgment. It was harsh and without proof, and yet he did not change it.

"And you don't know where she is now?"

Percival snorted. "A maid without a position or a character, alone in London, and with child? What do you think? Sweatshops wouldn't have her with a child, whorehouses wouldn't either for the same reason. Workhouse, I should think-or the grave."

"What was her full name?''

"Martha Rivett."

"How old was she?"

"Seventeen."

Monk was not surprised, but he felt an almost uncontrollable rage and a ridiculous desire to weep. He did not know why; it was surely more than pity for this one girl whom he had not even met. He must have seen hundreds of others, simple, abused, thrown out without a twinge of guilt. He must have seen their defeated faces, the hope and the death of hope, and he must have seen their bodies dead of hunger, violence and disease.

Why did it hurt? Why was there no skin of callousness grown over it? Was there something, someone who had touched him more closely? Pity-guilt? Perhaps he would never know again. It was gone, like almost everything else.

"Who else knew about it?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion which could have been taken for any of a dozen feelings.

"Only Lady Moidore, so far as I know." A quick spark flashed in Percival's eyes. "But maybe that was what Mrs. Haslett found out." He lifted his shoulders a fraction. "And she threatened to tell Mrs. Kellard? And for that matter maybe she did tell her, that night..."He left it hanging. He did not need to add that Araminta might have killed her sister in a fit of fury and shame to keep her from telling the whole household. The possibilities were many, and all ugly, and nothing to do with Percival or any of the other servants.

"And you told no one?" Monk said with grating unbelief. "You had this extraordinary piece of information, and you kept it the secret the family would wish? You were discreet

and obedient. Why, for heaven's sake?" He allowed into his voice an exact mockery of Percival's own contempt for him a few moments earlier. "Knowledge like that is power-you expect me to believe you didn't use it?"

Percival was not discomfited."I don't know what you mean, sir."

Monk knew he was lying.

"No reason to tell anyone," Percival went on. "Not in my interest." The sneer returned. "Sir Basil wouldn't like it, and then I might find myself in the workhouse. It's different now. This is a matter of duty that any other employer would understand. When it's a matter of concealing a crime-"

"So suddenly rape has become a crime?" Monk was disgusted. "When did that happen? When your own neck was in danger?"

If Percival was frightened or embarrassed there was no trace of it in his expression.

"Not rape, sir-murder. That has always been the crime." Again his shoulders lifted expressively. "If it's actually called murder, not justice, privilege, or some such thing."

"Like rape of a servant, for example." Monk for one instant agreed with him. He hated it. "All right, you can go."

"Shall I tell Sir Basil you want to see him?"

"If you want to keep your position, you'd better not put it like that."

Percival did not bother to reply, but went out, moving easily, even gracefully, his body relaxed.

Monk was too concerned, too angry at the appalling injustice and suffering, and apprehensive of his interview with Basil Moidore to spare any emotion for contempt of Percival.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour before Harold came back to tell him that Sir Basil would see him in the library.

"Good morning, Monk. You wanted to see me?" Basil stood near the window with the armchair and the table forcing a distance between them. He looked harassed and his face creased in lines of temper. Monk irritated him by his questions, his stance, the very shape of his face.

"Good morning, sir," Monk replied. "Yes, some new information has come to me this morning. I would like to ask you if it is true, and if it is, to tell me what you know of the matter.''

Basil did not seem concerned, and was only moderately interested. He was still dressed in black, but elegant, selfconsciously smart black. It was not the mourning of someone bowed down with grief.

"What matter is this, Inspector?''

"A maid that worked here two years ago, by the name of Martha Riven."

Basil's face tightened, and he moved from the window and stood straighter.

"What can she possibly have to do with my daughter's death?"

"Was she raped, Sir Basil?"

Basil's eyes widened. Distaste registered sharply in his face, then another, more thoughtful expression. "I have no idea!"

Monk controlled himself with great difficulty. "Did she come to you and say that she was?"

A slight smile moved Basil's mouth, and his hand at his side curled and uncurled.

"Inspector, if you had ever kept a house with a large staff, many of them young, imaginative and excitable women, you would hear a great many stories of all sorts of entanglements, charges and countercharges of wrongs. Certainly she came and said she had been molested-but I have no way of knowing whether she really had or whether she had got herself with child and was trying to lay the blame on someone else-and get us to look after her. Possibly one of the male servants forced his attentions-" His hands uncurled, and he shrugged very faintly.

Monk bit his tongue and stared at Basil with hard eyes.

"Is that what you believe, sir? You spoke with the girl. I believe she charged that it was Mr. Kellard who assaulted her. Presumably you also spoke with Mr. Kellard. Did he tell you he had never had anything to do with her?''

"Is that your business, Inspector?" Basil said coldly.

"If Mr. Kellard raped this girl, yes, Sir Basil, it is. It may well be the root of this present crime.''

"Indeed? I fail to see how." But there was no conciliation in his voice, and no outrage.

"Then I will explain it," Monk said between his teeth. "If Mr. Kellard raped this unfortunate girl, the fact was concealed and the girl dismissed to whatever fate she could find, then

that says a great deal about Mr. Keilard's nature and his belief that he is tree to force his attentions upon women, regardless of their feelings. It seems highly probable that he admired Mrs. Haslett, and may have tried to force his attentions upon her also."

"And murdered her?" Basil was considering it. There was caution in his voice, the beginning of a new thought, but still heavily tinged with doubt."Martha never suggested he threatened her with any weapon, and she perfectly obviously had not been injured-"

"You had her examined?" Monk asked baldly.

Temper flashed in Basil's face. "Of course I didn't. Whatever for? She made no claim of violence-I told you that."

"I daresay she considered it of no purpose-and she was right. She charged rape, and was dismissed without a character to live or die in the streets.'' As soon as he had said it he knew his words were the result of temper, not judgment.

Basil's cheeks darkened with anger. "Some chit of a maid gets with child and accuses my daughter's husband of raping her! For God's sake, man, do you expect me to keep her in the house? Or recommend her to the houses of my friends?" Still he remained at the far side of the room, glaring at Monk across the table and the chair. "I have a duty both to my family, especially my daughter and her happiness, and to my acquaintances. To give any recommendation to a young woman with a character that would charge such a thing of her employer would be completely irresponsible."

Monk wanted to ask him about his duty toward Martha Rivett, but knew that such an affront would very probably cause him just the sort of complaint that Runcorn would delight in, and would give Runcorn an excuse for censure, perhaps even removal from the case.

"You did not believe her, sir?" He was civil with difficulty. "Mr. Kellard denied having any relationship with her?"

"No he didn't," Basil said sharply. "He said she had led him on and was perfectly willing; it was only later when she discovered she was with child she made this charge to protect herself-and I daresay to try and force us to care for her, to stop her spreading about such a story. The giri was obviously of loose character and out to take a chance to profit from it if she could."

"So you put an end to it. I assume you believed Mr. Kel-lard's account?"

Basil looked at him coldly. "No, as a matter of fact I did not. I think it very probable he forced his attentions on the girl, but that is hardly important now. Men have natural appetites, always have had. I daresay she flirted with him and he mistook her. Are you suggesting he tried the same with my daughter Octavia?''

"It seems possible."

Basil frowned. "And if he did, why should that lead to murder, which is what you seem to be suggesting? If she had struck at him, that would be understandable, but why should he kill her?"

"If she intended telling people," Monk replied. "To rape a maid is apparently acceptable, but would you have viewed it with the same leniency had he raped your daughter? And would Mrs. Kellard, if she knew?"

Basil's face was scored with deep lines, now all dragged downward with distaste and anxiety.

"She does not know," he said slowly, meeting Monk's eyes. "I trust I make myself plain, Inspector? For her to be aware of Myles's indiscretion would distress her, and serve no purpose. He is her husband and will remain so. I don't know what women do in your walk of life, but in ours they bear their difficulties with dignity and silence. Do you understand me?"

"Of course I do," Monk said tartly. "If she does not know now, I shall not tell her unless it becomes necessary-by which time I imagine it will be common knowledge. Similarly may I ask you, sir, not to forewarn Mr. Kellard of my knowledge in the matter. I can hardly expect him to confess to anything, but I may learn quite a lot from his first reaction when I speak to him about it."

"You expect me to..." Basil began indignantly, then his voice faded away as he realized what he was saying.

"I do," Monk agreed with a downward turn of his mouth. "Apartfrom the ends of justice towards Mrs. Haslett, you and I both know that it was someone in this house. If you protect Mr. Kellard to save scandal-and Mrs. Kellard's feelings- you only prolong the investigation, the suspicion, Lady Moi-dore's distress-and it will still come down to someone in the house in the end."

For a moment their eyes met, and there was intense dislike-and complete understanding.

"If Mrs. Kellard needs to know, I will be the one to tell her," Basil stated.

"If you wish," Monk agreed. "Although I would not leave it too long. If I can learn of it, so may she-"

Basil jerked upward."Who told you? It damned well wasn't Myles! Was it Lady Moidore?"

"No, I have not spoken to Lady Moidore."

"Well, don't stand there, man! Who was it?"

"I prefer not to say, sir."

"I don't give a damn what you prefer! Who was it?"

"If you force me, sir-I decline to say."

"You-you what?" He tried to outstare Monk, and then realized he could not intimidate him without a specific threat and that he was not prepared at this point to make one. He looked down again; he was not used to being defied, and he had no ready reaction. "Well pursue your investigation for the moment, but I will know in the end, I promise you."

Monk did not force his victory; it was too tenuous and the temper between them too volatile.

"Yes sir, very possibly. Since she is the only other person you are aware of having known of this, may I speak with Lady Moidore, please?"

"I doubt she can tell you anything. I dealt with the affair."

"I'm sure you did, sir. But she knew of it, and may have observed emotions in people that you did not. She would have opportunities not afforded you, domestic occasions; and women are more sensitive to such things, on the whole."

Basil hesitated.

Monk thought of several arguments: the quick ending of the case, some justice for Octavia-and then caution argued that Octavia was dead and Basil might well think that saving the reputations of those alive was more important. He could do nothing for Octavia now, but he could still protect Araminta from deep shame and hurt. Monk ended by saying nothing.

"Very well," Basil agreed reluctantly. "But have the nurse present, and if Lady Moidore is distressed, you will cease immediately. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Monk said instantly. To have Hester's impressions also was an advantage he had not thought to look for. "Thank you."

Again he was required to wait while Beatrice dressed appropriately for receiving the police, and some half an hour later it was Hester herself who came to the morning room to collect him and take him to the withdrawing room.

"Shut the door," he ordered as soon as she was inside.

She obeyed, watching him curiously. "Do you know something?" she asked, her tone guarded, as though whatever it was she would find it only partly welcome.

He waited until the latch was fast and she had returned to the center of the floor.

"There was a maid here about two years ago who charged that Myles Kellard raped her, and she was promptly dismissed without a character."

"Oh-" She looked startled. Obviously she had heard nothing of it from the servants. Then, as amazement dissolved, she was furiously angry, the hot color in her cheeks. "You mean they threw her out? What happened to Myles?"

"Nothing," he said dryly. "What did you expect?"

She stood stiffly, shoulders back, chin high, and stared at him. Then gradually she realized the inevitability of what he had said and that her first thought of justice and open judgment was never a reality.

"Who knows about it?" she asked instead.

"Only Sir Basil and Lady Moidore, so far as I am aware," he replied. "That is what Sir Basil believes, anyway."

"Who told you? Not Sir Basil, surely?"

He smiled with a hard, twisted grimace."Percival, when he thought I was closing in on him. He certainly won't go docilely into the darkness for them, whatever poor Martha Rivett did. If Percival goes down, he'll do his best to take as many of the rest of them with him as he can.''

"I don't like him," she said quietly, looking down. "But I can't blame him for fighting. I think I would. I might suffer injustice for someone I loved-but not for these people, who are only too willing to see him take the blame to get it away from them. What are you going to ask Lady Moidore? You know it's true-"

"I don't," he contradicted. "Myles Kellard says she was a trollop who invited it-Basil doesn't care whether that is true or not. She couldn't stay here after she'd accused Kellard- apart from the fact she was with child. All Basil cared about was clearing up the mess here and protecting Araminta."

The surprise was evident in her face. "She doesn't know?"

"You think she does?" he said quickly.

"She hates him for something. It may not be that-"

"Could be anything,'' he agreed. "Even so, I can't see how knowing that would be a reason for anyone to murder Octa-via-even if the rape was what Octavia found out the day before she was killed."

"Neither do I," she admitted. "There's something very important we don't know yet.''

"And I don't suppose I'll learn it from Lady Moidore. Still, I had better go and see her now. I don't want them to suspect we discuss them or they will not speak so freely in front of you. Come."

Obediently she opened the door again and led him across the wide hallway and into the withdrawing room. It was cold and windy outside, and the first drops of heavy rain were beating against the long windows. There was a roaring fire in the hearth, and its glow spread across the red Aubusson carpet and even touched the velvet of the curtains that hung from huge swathed pelmets in swags and rich falls to the fringed sashes, spreading their skirts on the floor.

Beatrice Moidore was seated in the largest chair, dressed in unrelieved black, as if to remind them of her bereaved state. She looked very pale, in spite of her marvelous hair, or perhaps because of it, but her eyes were bright and her manner attentive.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk. Please be seated. Iunderstand you wish to ask me about something?''

"Good morning, Lady Moidore. Yes, if you please. Sir Basil asked that Miss Latterly should remain, in case you feel unwell and need any assistance.'' He sat down as he had been invited, opposite her in one of the other armchairs. Hester remained standing as suited her station.

A half smile touched Beatrice's lips, as though something he could not understand amused her.

"Most thoughtful," she said expressionlessly. "What is it you would like to ask? I know nothing that I did not know when we last spoke.''

"But I do, ma'am."

"Indeed?" This time there was a flicker of fear in her, a shadow across the eyes, a tightness in the white hands in her lap.

Who was it she was frightened for? Not herself. Who else did she care about so much that even without knowing what he had learned she feared for them? Who would she protect? Her children, surely-no one else.

"Are you going to tell me, Mr. Monk?" Her voice was brittle, her eyes very clear.

"Yes ma'am. I apologize for raising what must be a most painful subject, but Sir Basil confirmed that about two years ago one of your maids, a girl called Martha Rivett, claimed that Mr. Kellard raped her." He watched her expression and saw the muscles tighten in her neck and across the high, delicate brows. Her lips pulled crooked in distaste.

"I don't see what that can have to do with my daughter's death. It happened two years ago, and it concerned her in no way at all. She did not even know of it."

"Is it true, ma'am? Did Mr. Kellard rape the parlormaid?"

"I don't know. My husband dismissed her, so I assume she was at least in great part to blame for whatever happened. It is quite possible.'' She took a deep breath and swallowed. He saw the constricted movement of her throat. "It is quite possible she had another relationship and became with child, and then lied to save herself by blaming one of the family-hoping that we should feel responsible and look after her. Such things, unfortunately, do happen."

"I expect they do," he agreed, keeping his voice noncommittal with a great effort. He was sharply aware of Hester standing behind the chair, and knowing what she would feel. "But if that is what she hoped in this instance, then she was sorely disappointed, wasn't she?"

Beatrice's fece paled and her head moved fractionally backwards, as if she had been struck but elected to ignore the blow. "It is a terrible thing, Mr. Monk, to charge a person wrongfully with such a gross offense.''

"Is it?" he asked sardonically. "It does not appear to have done Mr. Kellard any damage whatever."

She ignored his manner. "Only because we did not believe her!"

"Really?" he pursued. "I rather thought that Sir Basil did believe her, from what he said to me."

She swallowed hard and seemed to sit a little lower in the chair.

"What is it you want of me, Mr. Monk? Even if she was right, and Myles did assault her-in that way-what has it to do with my daughter's death?''

Now he was sorry he had asked her with so little gentleness. Her loss was deep, and she had answered him without evasion or antagonism.

"It would prove that Mr. Kellard has an appetite which he is prepared to satisfy," he explained quietly, "regardless of the personal cost to someone else, and that his past experience has shown him he can do it with impunity.''

Now she was as pale as the cambric handkerchief between her clenched fingers.

"Are you suggesting that Myles tried to force himself upon Octavia?'' The idea appalled her. Now the horror touched her other daughter as well. Monk felt a stab of guilt for forcing her to think of it-and yet he had no alternative that was honest.

"Is it impossible, ma'am? I believe she was most attractive, and that he had previously been known to admire her.''

"But-but she was not-I mean..." Her voice died away; she was unable to bring herself to speak the words aloud.

"No. No, she was not molested in that way," he assured her. "But it is possible she had some forewarning he would come and was prepared to defend herself, and in the struggle it was she who was killed, and not he."

"That is-grotesque!" she protested, her eyes wide. "To assault a maid is one thing-to go deliberately and coldbloodedly to your sister-in-law's bedroom at night, intent upon the same thing, against her will-is-is quite different, and appalling. It is quite wicked!"

"Is it such a great step from one to the other?" He leaned a little closer to her, his voice quiet and urgent."Do you really believe that Martha Rivett was not equally unwilling? Just not as well prepared to defend herself-younger, more afraid, and more vulnerable since she was a servant in this house and could look for little protection.''

She was so ashen now that it was not only Hester who was afraid she might collapse; Monk himself was concerned that he had been too brutal. Hester took a step forward, but remained silent, staring at Beatrice.

"That is terrible!" Beatrice's voice was dry, difficult to force from her throat. "You are saying that we do not care for our servants properly-that we offer them no-no decency-that we are immoral!"

He could not apologize. That was exactly what he had said.

"Not all of you, ma'am-only Mr. Kellard, and that perhaps to spare your daughter the shame and the distress of knowing what her husband had done, you concealed the offense from her-which effectively meant getting rid of the girl and allowing no one else to know of it either."

She put the hands up to her face and pushed them over her cheeks and upward till her fingers ran through her hair, disarranging its neatness. After a moment's painful silence she lowered them and stared at him.

"What would you have us do, Mr. Monk? If Araminta knew it would ruin her life. She could not live with him, and she could not divorce him-he has not deserted her. Adultery is no grounds for separation, unless it is the woman who commits it. If it is the man that means nothing at all. You must know that. All a woman can do is conceal k, so she is not publicly ruined and becomes a creature of pity for the kindly- and of contempt for the others. She is not to blame for any of it, and she is my child. Would you not protect your own child, Mr. Monk?"

He had no answer. He did not know the fierce, consuming love for a child, the tenderness and the bond, and the responsibility. He had no child-he had only a sister, Beth, and he could recall very little about her, only how she had followed him, her wide eyes full of admiration, and the white pinafore she wore, frilled on the edges, and how often she fell over as she tried to run after him, to keep up. He could remember holding her soft, damp little hand in his as they walked down on the shore together, he half lifting her over the rocks till they reached the smooth sand. A wave of feeling came back to him, a mixture of impatient exasperation and fierce, consuming protectiveness.

"Perhaps I would, ma'am. But then if I had a daughter she would more likely be a parlormaid like Martha Rivett," he

said ruthlessly, leaving all that that meant hanging in the air between them, and watched the pain, and the guilt, in her face.

The door opened and Araminta came in, the evening's menu in her hand. She stopped, surprised to see Monk, then turned and looked at her mother's face. She ignored Hester as she would any other servant doing her duty.

"Mama, you look ill. What has happened?" She swung around to Monk, her eyes brilliant with accusation. "My mother is unwell, Inspector. Have you not the common courtesy to leave her alone? She can tell you nothing she has not already said. Miss Latterly will open the door for you and the footman will show you out." She turned to Hester, her voice tense with irritation. "Then, Miss Latterly, you had better fetch Mama a tisane and some smelling salts. I cannot think what possessed you to allow this. You should take your duties a great deal more seriously, or we shall be obliged to find someone else who will."

"I am here with Sir Basil's permission, Mrs. Kellard," Monk said tartly. "We are all quite aware the discussion is painful, but postponing it will only prolong the distress. There has been murder in this house, and Lady Moidore wishes to discover who was responsible as much as anyone."

"Mama?" Araminta challenged.

"Of course I do," Beatrice said very quietly. "I think-"

Araminta's eyes widened. "You think? Oh-" And suddenly some realization struck her with a force so obvious it was like a physical blow. She turned very slowly to Monk. "What were your questions about, Mr. Monk?"

Beatrice drew in her breath and held it, not daring to let it out until Monk should have spoken.

"Lady Moidore has already answered them," Monk replied. "Thank you for your offer, but it concerns a matter of which you have no knowledge."

"It was not an offer." Araminta did not look at her mother but kept her hard, straight gaze level at Monk's eyes. "I wished to be informed for my own sake.''

"I apologize," Monk said with a thin thread of sarcasm. "I thought you were trying to assist."

"Are you refusing to tell me?"

He could no longer evade. "If you wish to phrase it so, ma'am, then yes, I am."

Very slowly a curious expression of pain, acceptance, almost a subtle pleasure, came into her eyes.

"Because it is to do with my husband." She turned fractionally towards Beatrice. This time the fear was palpable between them. "Are you trying to protect me, Mama? You know something which implicates Myles." The rage of emotions inside her was thick in her voice. Beatrice half reached towards her, then dropped her hands.

"I don't think it does," she said almost under her breath. "I see no reason to think of Myles..." She trailed off, her disbelief heavy in the air.

Araminta swung back to Monk.

"And what do you think, Mr. Monk?" she said levelly. "That is what matters, isn't it?"

"I don't know yet, ma'am. It is impossible to say until I have learned more about it."

"But it does concern my husband?" she insisted.

"I am not going to discuss the matter until I know much more of the truth," he replied. "It would be unjust-and mischief making."

Her curious, asymmetrical smile was hard. She looked from him to her mother again. "Correct me if I am unjust, Mama.'' There was a cruel mimicry of Monk's tone in her voice. "But does this concern Myles's attraction towards Octavia, and the thought that he might have forced his attentions upon her, and as a result of her refusal killed her?"

"You are unjust," Beatrice said in little more than a whisper. "You have no reason to think such a thing of him."

"But you have," Araminta said without hesitation, the words hard and slow, as if she were cutting her own flesh. "Mama, I do not deserve to be lied to."

Beatrice gave up; she had no heart left to go on trying to deceive. Her fear was too great; it could be felt like an electric presage of storm in the room. She sat unnaturally motionless, her eyes unfocused, her hands knotted together in her lap.

"Martha Rivett charged that Myles forced himself upon her," she said in a level voice, drained of passion. "That is why she left. Your father dismissed her. She was-" She stopped. To have added the child was an unnecessary blow. Araminta had never borne a child. Monk knew what Beatrice had been going to say as surely as if she had said it. "She was

irresponsible," she finished lamely. "We could not keep her in the house saying things like that."

"I see." Araminta's face was ashen white with two high spots of color in her cheeks.

The door opened again and Romola came in, saw the frozen tableau in front of her, Beatrice sitting upright on the sofa, Araminta stiff as a twig, her face set and teeth clenched tight, Hester still standing behind the other large armchair, not knowing what to do, and Monk sitting uncomfortably leaning forward. She glanced at the menu in Araminta's hand, then ignored it. It was apparent even to her that she had interrupted something acutely painful, and dinner was of little importance.

"What is wrong?" she demanded, looking from one to another of them. "Do you know who killed Octavia?"

"No we don't!" Beatrice turned toward her and spoke surprisingly sharply. "We were discussing the parlormaid who was dismissed two years ago."

"Whatever for?" Romola's voice was heavy with disbelief. "Surely that can hardly matter now?"

"Probably not," Beatrice agreed.

"Then why are you wasting time discussing it?" Romola came over to the center of the room and sat down in one of the smaller chairs, arranging her skirts gracefully. "You all look as if it were fearful. Has something happened to her?"

"I have no idea," Beatrice snapped, her temper broken at last. "I should think it is not unlikely."

"Why should it?" Romola was confused and frightened; this was all too much for her. "Didn't you give her a character? Why did you dismiss her anyway?'' She twisted around to look at Araminta, her eyebrows raised.

"No, I did not give her a character,'' Beatrice said flatly.

"Well why not?" Romola looked at Araminta and away again. "Was she dishonest? Did she steal something? No one told me!"

"It was none of your concern," Araminta said brusquely.

"It was if she was a thief! She might have taken something of mine!"

"Hardly. She charged that she had been raped!" Araminta glared at her.

"Raped?" Romola was amazed, her expression changed

from fear to total incredulity. "You mean-raped) Good gracious! '' Relief flooded her, the color returning to her beautiful skin. "Well if she was of loose morals of course you had to dismiss her. No one would argue with that. I daresay she took to the streets; women of that sort do. Why on earth are we concerned about it now? There is nothing we can do about it, and probably there never was."

Hester could contain herself no longer.

"She was raped, Mrs. Moidore-taken by force by someone heavier and stronger than herself. That does not stem from immorality. It could happen to any woman."

Romola stared at her as if she had grown horns. "Of course it stems from immorality! Decent women don't get violated- they don't lay themselves open to it-they don't invite it-or frequent such places in such company. I don't know what kind of society you come from that you could suggest such a thing.'' She shook her head a little. "I daresay your experiences as a nurse have robbed you of any finer feelings-I beg your pardon for saying such a thing, but you force the issue. Nurses have a reputation for loose conduct which is well known-and scarcely to be envied. Respectable women who behave moderately and dress with decorum do not excite the sort of passions you are speaking of, nor do they find themselves in situations where such a thing could occur. The very idea is quite preposterous-and repulsive."

"It is not preposterous," Hester contradicted flatly. "It is frightening, certainly. It would be very comfortable to suppose that if you behave discreetly you are in no danger of ever being assaulted or having unwelcome attentions forced upon you." She drew in her breath. "It would also be completely untrue, and a quite false sense of safety-and of being morally superior and detached from the pain and the humiliation of it. We would all like to think it could not happen to us, or anyone we know-but it would be wrong.'' She stopped, seeing Romola's incredulity turning to outrage, Beatrice's surprise and a first spark of respect, and Araminta's extraordinary interest and something that looked almost like a momentary flicker of warmth.

"You forget yourself!" Romola said. "And you forget who we are. Or perhaps you never knew? I am not aware what manner of person you nursed before you came here, but I

assure you we do not associate with the sort of people who assault women."

"You are a fool," Araminta said witheringly. "Sometimes I wonder what world it is you live in."

"Minta," Beatrice warned, her voice on edge, her hands clenched together again."I think we have discussed the matter enough. Mr. Monk will pursue whatever course he deems appropriate. There is nothing more we can offer at the moment. Hester, will you please help me upstairs? I wish to retire. I will not be down for dinner, nor do I wish to see anyone until I feel better."

"How convenient," Araminta said coldly. "But I am sure we shall manage. There is nothing you are needed for. I shall see to everything, and inform Papa." She swung around to Monk. "Good day, Mr. Monk. You must have enough to keep you busy for some time-although whether it will serve any purpose other than to make you appear diligent, I doubt. I don't see how you can prove anything, whatever you suspect.''

"Suspect?'' Romola looked first at Monk, then at her sister-in-law, her voice rising with fear again. "Suspect of what? What has this to do with Octavia?"

But Araminta ignored her and walked past her out of the door.

Monk stood up and excused himself to Beatrice, inclined his head to Hester, then held the door open for them as they left, Romola behind them, agitated and annoyed, but helpless to do anything about it.

***

As soon as Monk stepped inside the police station the sergeant looked up from the desk, his face sober, his eyes gleaming.

"Mr. Runcorn wants to see you, sir. Immediate, like."

"Does he," Monk replied dourly. "Well I doubt he'll get much joy of it, but I'll give him what there is."

"He's in his room, sir."

"Thank you," Monk said. "Mr. Evan in?"

"No sir. He came in, and then he went out again. Didn't say where."

Monk acknowledged the reply and went up the stairs to Rnncorn's office. He knocked on the door and at the command went in. Runcorn was sitting behind his large, highly polished desk, two elegant envelopes and half a dozen sheets of fine notepaper written on and half folded lying next to them. The other surfaces were covered with four or five newspapers, some open, some folded.

He looked up, his face dark with anger and his eyes narrow and bright.

"Well. Have you seen the newspapers, eh? Have you seen what they are saying about us?" He held one up and Monk saw the black headlines halfway down the page: QUEEN ANNE STREET MURDERER STILL LOOSE. POLICE BAFFLED. And then the writer went on to question the usefulness of the new police force, and was it money well spent or now an unworkable idea.

"Well?" Runcorn demanded.

"I hadn't seen that one,'' Monk answered. "I haven't spent much time reading newspapers."

"I don't want you reading the newspapers, damn it," Run-corn exploded. "I want you doing something so they don't write rubbish like this. Or this." He snatched up the next one. "Or this." He threw them away, disregarding the mess as they slid on the polished surface and fell onto the floor in a rattling heap. He grasped one of the letters. "From the Home Office." His fingers closed on it, knuckles white. "I'm getting asked some very embarrassing questions, Monk, and I can't answer them. I'm not prepared to defend you indefinitely-I can't. What in hell's name are you doing, man? If someone in that house killed the wretched woman, then you haven't far to look, have you? Why can't you get this thing settled? For heaven's sake, how many suspects can you have? Four or five at the most. What's the matter with you that you can't finish it up?"

"Because four or five suspects is three or four too many-sir. Unless, of course, you can prove a conspiracy?" Monk said sarcastically.

Runcorn slammed his fist on the table. "Don't be impertinent, damn you! A smart tongue won't get you out of this. Who are your suspects? This footman, what's his name- Percival. Who else? As far as I can see, that's it. Why can't you settle it, Monk? You're beginning to look incompetent." His anger turned to a sneer. "You used to be the best detective we had, but you've certainly lost your touch lately. Why can't you arrest this damned footman?"

"Because I have no proof he did anything," Monk replied succinctly.

"Well who else could it be? Think clearly. You used to be the sharpest and most rational man we had." His lip cuiied. "Before that accident you were as logical as a piece of algebra-and about as charming-but you knew your job. Now l\n beginning to wonder."

Monk kept his temper with difficulty. "As well as Percival, sir," he said heavEy, "it could be one of the laundrymaids-"

"What?" Runcorn's mouth opened in disbelief close to derision. "Did you say one of the laundrymaids? Don't be absurd. Whatever for? If that's the best you can do, I'd better put someone else on the case. Laundrymaid. What in heaven's name would make a laundrymaid get out of her bed in the middle of the night and creep down to her mistress's bedroom and stab her to death? Unless the girl is raving mad. Is she raving mad, Monk? Don't say you couldn't recognize a lunatic if you saw one."

"No, she is not raving mad; she is extremely jealous," Monk answered him.

"Jealous? Of her mistress? That's ludicrous. How can a laundrymaid compare herself with her mistress? That needs some explaining, Monk. You are reaching for straws."

"The laundrymaid is in love with the footman-not a particularly difficult circumstance to understand,'' Monk said with elaborate, hard-edged patience. "The footman has airs above his station and imagines the mistress admired him-which may or may not be true. Certainly he had allowed the laundrymaid to suppose so."

Runcorn frowned. "Then it was the laundrymaid? Can't you arrest her?"

"For what?"

Runcorn glared at him. "All right, who are your other suspects? You said four or five. So far you have only mentioned two."

"Myles Kellard, the other daughter's husband-"

"What for?'' Runcorn was worried now."You haven't made any accusations, have you?'' The blood was pink in his narrow cheeks. "This is a very delicate situation. We can't go around charging people like Sir Basil Moidore and his family. For God's sake, where's your judgment?"

Monk looked at him with contempt.

"That is exactly why I am not charging anyone, sir," he said coldly. "Myles Kellard apparently was strongly attracted by his sister-in-law, which his wife knew about-"

"That's no reason for him to kill her," Runcorn protested. "If he'd killed his wife, maybe. For heaven's sake, think clearly, Monk!"

Monk refrained from telling him about Martha Rivett until he should find the girl, if he could, and hear her side of the story and make some judgment himself as to whom he could believe.

"If he forced his attentions on her," Monk said with continued patience, "and she defended herself, then there may have been a struggle, in which she was knifed-"

"With a carving knife?" Runcorn's eyebrows went up. "Which she just conveniently chanced to have in her bedroom?"

"I don't imagine it was chance," Monk bit back savagely. "If she had reason to think he was coming she probably took it there on purpose."

Runcorn grunted.

"Or it may have been Mrs. Kellard," Monk continued. "She would have good reason to hate her sister."

"Something of an immoral woman, this Mrs. Haslett." Runcorn's lips curled in distaste. "First the footman, now her sister's husband."

"There is no proof she encouraged the footman," Monk said crossly. "And she certainly did not encourage Kellard. Unless you think it's immoral to be beautiful, I don't see how you can find fault with her for either case.''

"You always did have some strange ideas of right." Runcorn was disgusted-and confused. The ugly headlines in the newspapers threatened public opinion. The letters from the Home Office lay stiff and white on his desk, polite but cold, warning that it would be little appreciated if he did not find a way to end this case soon, and satisfactorily.

"Well don't stand there," he said to Monk. "Get about finding out which of your suspects is guilty. For heaven's sake, you Ve only got five; you know it has to be one of them. It's a matter of exclusion. You can stop thinking about Mrs. Kellard, to begin with. She might have a quarrel, but I doubt she'd

knife her sister in the night. That's cold-blooded. She couldn't expect to get away with it."

"She couldn't know about Chinese Paddy in the street," Monk pointed out.

"What? Oh-well, neither could the footman. I'd look for a man in this-or the laundrymaid, I suppose. Either way, get on with it. Don't stand here in front of my fire talking."

"You sent for me.''

"Yes-well now I'm sending you out again. Close the door as you go-it's cold in the passage."

***

Monk spent the next two and a half days searching the workhouses, riding in endless cabs through narrow streets, pavements gleaming in the lamplight and the rain, amid the rattle of carts and the noise of street cries, carriage wheels, and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles. He began to the east of Queen Anne Street with the Clerkenwell Workhouse in Farringdon Road, then Holborn Workhouse on the Grey's Inn Road. The second day he moved westward and tried the St. George's Workhouse on Mount Street, then the St. Marylebone Workhouse on Northumberland Street. On the third morning he came to the Westminster Workhouse on Poland Street, and he was beginning to get discouraged. The atmosphere depressed him more than any other place he knew. There was some deeply ingrained fear that touched him at the very name, and when he saw the flat, drab sides of the building rearing up he felt its misery enter into him, and a coldness that had nothing to do with the sharp November wind that whined along the street and rattled an old newspaper in the gutter.

He knocked at the door, and when it was opened by a thin man with lank dark hair and a lugubrious expression, he stated immediately who he was and his profession, so there should be no mistaking his purpose in being here. He would not allow them even for an instant to suppose he was seeking shelter, or the poor relief such places were built and maintained to give.

"You'd better come in. I'll ask if the master'll see yer," the man said without interest. "But if yer want 'elp, yer'd best not lie,'' he added as an afterthought.

Monk was about to snap at him that he did not, when he caught sight of one of the "outdoor poor'' who did, who were reduced by circumstance to seeking charity to survive from

one of these grim institutions which robbed them of decision, dignity, individuality, even of dress or personal appearance; which fed them bread and potatoes, separated families, men from women, children from parents, housed them in dormitories, clothed them in uniforms and worked them from dawn until dusk. A man had to be reduced to despair before he begged to be admitted to such a place. But who would willingly let his wife or his children perish?

Monk found the hot denial sticking in his throat. It would humiliate the man further, to no purpose. He contented himself with thanking the doorkeeper and following him obediently.

The workhouse master took nearly a quarter of an hour to come to the small room overlooking the labor yard where rows of men sat on the ground with hammers, chisels and piles of rocks.

He was a pallid man, his gray hair clipped close to his head, his eyes startlingly dark and ringed around with hollow circles as if he never slept.

"What's wrong, Inspector?" he said wearily. "Surely you don't think we harbor criminals here? He'd have to be desperate indeed to seek this asylum-and a very unsuccessful scoundrel."

"I'm looking for a woman who may have been the victim of rape," Monk replied, a dark, savage edge to his voice. "I want to hear her side of the story.''

"You new to the job?" the workhouse master said doubtfully, looking him up and down, seeing the maturity in his face, the smooth lines and powerful nose, the confidence and the anger. "No." He answered his own question. "Then what good do you imagine that will do? You're not going to try and prosecute on the word of a pauper, are you?"

"No-it's just corroborative evidence.''

"What?"

"Just to confirm what we already know-or suspect."

"What's her name?"

"Martha Rivett. Probably came about two years ago-with child. I daresay the child would be born about seven months later, if she didn't lose it."

"Martha Rivett-Martha Rivett. Would she be a tall girl with fairish hair, about nineteen or twenty?"

"Seventeen-and I'm afraid I don't know what she looked like-except she was a parlormaid, so I expect she was handsome, and possibly tall."

"We've got a Martha about that age, with a baby. Can't remember her other name, but I'll send for her. You can ask her,'' the master offered.

"Couldn't you take me to her?" Monk suggested. "Don't want to make her feel-'' He stopped, uncertain what word to choose.

The workhouse master smiled wryly. "More likely she'll feel like talking away from the other women. But whatever you like."

Monk was happy to concede. He had no desire to see more of the workhouse than he had to. Already the smell of the place-overboiled cabbage, dust and blocked drains-was clinging in his nose, and the misery choked him.

"Yes-thank you. I don't doubt you're right."

The workhouse master disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with a thin girl with stooped shoulders and a pale, waxen face. Her brown hair was thick but dull, and her wide blue eyes had no life in them. It was not hard to imagine that two years ago she might have been beautiful, but now she was apathetic and she stared at Monk with neither intelligence nor interest, her arms folded under the bib of her uniform apron, her gray stuff dress ill fitting and harsh.

"Yes sir?" she said obediently.

"Martha." Monk spoke very gently. The pity he felt was like a pain in his stomach, churning and sick. "Martha, did you work for Sir Basil Moidore about two years ago?"

"I didn't take anything.'' There was no protest in her voice, simply a statement of fact.

"No, I know you didn't," he said quickly. "What I want to know is did Mr. Kellard pay you any attention that was more than you wished?" What a mealymouthed way of expressing himself, but he was afraid of being misunderstood, of having her think he was accusing her of lying, troublemak-ing, raking up old and useless accusations no one would believe, and perhaps being further punished for slander. He watched her face closely, but he saw no deep emotion in it, only a flicker, too slight for him to know what it meant. "Did he, Martha?"

She was undecided, staring at him mutely. Misfortune and workhouse life had robbed her of any will to fight.

"Martha," he said very softly. "He may have forced himself on someone else, not a maid this time, but a lady. I need to know if you were willing or not-and I need to know if it was him or if it was really someone else?"

She looked at him silently, but this time there was a spark in her eyes, a little life.

He waited.

"Does she say that?" she said at last. "Does she say she weren't willing?"

''She doesn't say anything-she's dead.''

Her eyes grew huge with horror-and dawning realization, as memory became sharp and focused again.

"He lolled her?"

"I don't know,'' he said frankly. "Was he rough with you?''

She nodded, the memory of pain sharp in her face and fear rekindling as she thought of it again. "Yes."

"Did you tell anyone that?"

"What's the point? They didn't even believe me I was unwilling. They said I was loose-tongued, a troublemaker and no better than I should be. They dismissed me without a character. I couldn't get another position. No one would take me on with no character. An' I was with child-" Her eyes hazed over with tears, and suddenly there was life there again, passion and tenderness.

"Your child?" he asked, although he was afraid to know. He felt himself cringe inside as if waiting for the blow.

"She's here, with the other babes," she said quietly. "I get to see her now and again, but she's not strong. How could she be, born and raised here?"

Monk determined to speak to Callandra Daviot. Surely she could use another servant for something? Martha Rivett was one among tens of thousands, but even one saved from this was better than nothing.

"He was violent with you?" he repeated. "And you made it quite plain you didn't want his attentions?"

"He didn't believe me-he didn't think any woman meant it when she said no," she replied with a faint, twisted smile.

"Even Miss Araminta. He said she liked to be took-but I don't believe that. I was there when she married him-an' she really loved him then. You should have seen her face, all shining and soft. Then after her wedding night she changed. She looked like a sparkling fire the night before, all dressed in cherry pink and bright as you like. The morning after she looked like cold ashes in the grate. I never saw that softness back in her as long as I was there."

"I see,'' Monk said very quietly. "Thank you, Martha. You have been a great help to me. I shall try to be as much help to you. Don't give up hope."

A fraction of her old dignity returned, but there was no life in her smile.

"There's nothing to hope for, sir. Nobody'd marry me. I never see anyone except people that haven't a farthing of their own, or they'd not be here. And nobody looks for servants in a workhouse, and I wouldn't leave Emmie anyway. And even if she doesn't live, no one takes on a maid without a character, and my looks have gone too."

"They'll come back. Just please-don't give up," he urged her.

"Thank you, sir, but you don't know what you're saying."

"Yes I do."

She smiled patiently at his ignorance and took her leave, going back to the labor yard to scrub and mend.

Monk thanked the workhouse master and left also, not to the police station to tell Runcorn he had a better suspect than Percival. That could wait. First he would go to Callandra Daviot.