William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

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, troublemaking, 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 killed 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’ shereally 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.

8
    M
ONK’S SENSE OF ELATION
was short-lived. When he returned to Queen Anne Street