William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

time, I remain yours sincerely,
    Oliver Rathbone
    It was brief and to the point. It would have been absurd to expect more, and yet its very efficiency reminded her that she would be paying for each minute she was there and she must not incur a charge she could not meet. There must be no wasted words, no time for pleasantries or euphemisms.
    She had no appealing clothes, no silk and velvet dresses like Araminta’s or Romola’s, no embroidered snoods or bonnets, and no lace gloves such as ladies habitually wore. They were not suitable for those in service, however skilled. Her only dresses, purchased since her family’s financial ruin, were gray or blue, and made on modest and serviceable lines and of stuff fabric. Her bonnet was of a pleasing deep pink, but that was about the best that could be said for it. It also was not new.
    Still, Rathbone would not be interested in her appearance; she was going to consult his legal ability, not enjoy a social occasion.
    She regarded herself in the mirror without pleasure. She was too thin, and taller than she would have liked. Her hair was thick, but almost straight, and required more time and skill than she possessed to form it into fashionable ringlets. And although her eyes were dark blue-gray, and extremely well set, they had too level and plain a stare, it made people uncomfortable; and her features generally were too bold.
    But there was nothing she, or anyone, could do about it, except make the best of a very indifferent job. She could atleast endeavor to be charming, and that she would do. Her mother had frequently told her she would never be beautiful, but if she smiled she might make up for a great deal.
    It was an overcast day with a hard, driving wind, and most unpleasant.
    She took a hansom from Queen Anne Street to Vere Street, and alighted a few minutes before three. At three o’clock precisely she was sitting in the spare, elegant room outside Oliver Rathbone’s office and becoming impatient to get the matter begun.
    She was about to stand and make some inquiry when the door opened and Rathbone came out. He was as immaculately dressed as she remembered from last time, and immediately she was conscious of being shabby and unfeminine.
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Rathbone.” Her resolve to be charming was already a little thinner. “It is good of you to see me at such short notice.”
    “It is a pleasure, Miss Latterly.” He smiled, a very sweet smile, showing excellent teeth, but his eyes were dark and she was aware only of their wit and intelligence. “Please come into my office and be comfortable.” He held the door open for her, and she accepted rapidly, aware that from the moment he had greeted her, no doubt her half hour was ticking away.
    The room was not large, but it was furnished very sparsely, in a fashion reminiscent more of William IV than of the present Queen, and the very leanness of it gave an impression of light and space. The colors were cool and the woodwork white. There was a picture on the farthest wall which reminded her of a Joshua Reynolds, a portrait of a gentleman in eighteenth-century dress against a romantic landscape.
    All of which was irrelevant; she must address the matter in hand.
    She sat down on one of the easy chairs and left him to sit on the other and cross his legs after neatly hitching his trousers so as not to lose their line.
    “Mr. Rathbone, I apologize for being so blunt, but to do otherwise would be dishonest. I can afford only half an hour’s worth of your time. Please do not permit me to detain you longer than that.” She saw the spark of humor in his eyes, but his reply was completely sober.
    “I shall not, Miss Latterly. You may trust me to attend theclock. You may concentrate your mind on informing me how I may be of assistance to you.”
    “Thank you,” she said. “It is concerning the murder in Queen Anne Street. Are you familiar with any of the circumstances?”
    “I have read of it in the newspapers. Are you acquainted with the Moidore family?”
    “No—at least not socially. Please do not interrupt me, Mr. Rathbone. If I digress, I shall not have sufficient time to tell you what is important.”
    “I apologize.” Again there was that flash of amusement.
    She suppressed her desire to be irritated and forgot to be charming.
    “Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter, Octavia Haslett, was found stabbed in her bedroom.” She had practiced what she intended to say, and now she concentrated earnestly on