Wiliam Monk 01 - The Face of a Stranger

the Crimea."
    There was a stunned silence all around, not even the clink of silver on porcelain.
    "My brother-in-law, Major Joscelin Grey, served in the Crimea,'' Rosamond said into the void. Her voice was soft and sad. "He died shortly after he returned home."
    "That is something of a euphemism," Lovel added, his face hardening. "He was murdered in his flat in London, as no doubt you will hear. The police have been inquiring into it, even out here! But they have not arrested anyone yet."
    "I am terribly sorry!" Hester meant it with genuine shock. She had nursed a Joscelin Grey in the hospital in Scutari, only briefly; his injury was serious enough, but not compared with the worst, and those who also suffered from disease. She recalled him: he had been young and fair-haired with a wide, easy smile and a natural grace. "I remember him—" Now Effie's words came back to her with clarity.
    Rosamond dropped her fork, the color rushing to her cheeks, then ebbing away again leaving her ash-white. Fa-bia closed her eyes and took in a very long, deep breath and let it go soundlessly.
    Lovel stared at his plate. Only Menard was looking at her, and rather than surprise or grief there was an expression in his face which appeared to be wariness, and a kind of closed, careful pain.
    "How remarkable," he said slowly. "Still, I suppose you saw hundreds of soldiers, if not thousands. Our losses were staggering, so I am told."
    "They were," she agreed grimly. "Far more than is generally understood, over eighteen thousand, and many of them needlessly—eight-ninths died not in battle but of wounds or disease afterwards."
    "Do you remember Joscelin?" Rosamond said eagerly, totally ignoring the horrific figures. "He was injured in
    the leg. Even afterwards he was compelled to walk with a limp—indeed he often used a stick to support himself."
    "He only used it when he was tired!" Fabia said sharply.
    "He used it when he wanted sympathy," Menard said half under his breath.
    "That is unworthy!" Fabia's voice was dangerously soft, laden with warning, and her blue eyes rested on her second son with chill disfavor. “I shall consider that you did not say it."
    "We observe the convention that we speak no ill of the dead," Menard said with irony unusual in him. "Which limits conversation considerably."
    Rosamond stared at her plate. "I never understand your humor, Menard," she complained.
    "That is because he is very seldom intentionally funny," Fabia snapped.
    "Whereas Joscelin was always amusing." Menard was angry and no longer made any pretense at hiding it. "It is marvelous what a little laughter can do—entertain you enough and you will turn a blind eye on anything!"
    "I loVed Joscelin." Fabia met his eyes with a stony glare. "I enjoyed his company. So did a great many others. I love you also, but you bore me to tears."
    "You are happy enough to enjoy the profits of my work!" His face was burning and his eyes bright with fury. "I preserve the estate's finances and see that it is properly managed, while Lovel keeps up the family name, sits in the House of Lords or does whatever else peers of the realm do—and Joscelin never did a damn thing but lounge around in clubs and drawing rooms gambling it away!"
    The blood drained from Fabia's skin leaving her grasping her knife and fork as if they were lifelines.
    "And you still resent that?" Her voice was little more than a whisper. "He fought in the war, risked his life serving his Queen and country in terrible conditions, saw
    blood and slaughter. And when he came home wounded, you grudged him a little entertainment with his friends?"
    Menard drew in his breath to retort, then saw the pain in his mother's face, deeper than her anger and underlying everything else, and held his tongue.
    "I was embarrassed by some of his losses," he said softly. "That is all."
    Hester glanced at Callandra, and saw a mixture of anger, pity and respect in her highly expressive features, although which emotion was for whom she; did not know. She thought perhaps the respect was for Menard.
    Lovel smiled very bleakly. "I am afraid you may find the police are still around here, Miss Latterly. They have sent a very ill-mannered fellow, something of an upstart, although I daresay he is better bred than most policemen. But he does not seem to have much idea of what he is doing, and asks some very impertinent questions. If he should return during your stay and give you the slightest trouble, tell him to be off, and let