William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

duties as if she desired his company, how she had dressed more alluringly recently, and often remarked on his own dignity and appearance.
    “Was this perhaps to make you jealous, Miss Watkins?” O’Hare asked innocently.
    She remembered her decorum, lowered her eyes and answered meekly, the venom disappearing from her and injury returning.
    “Jealous, sir? How could I be jealous of a lady like Miss Octavia?” she said demurely. “She was beautiful. She had all the manner and the learning, all the lovely gowns. What was there I could do against that?”
    She hesitated a moment, and then went on. “And she would never have married him, that would be stupid even to think of it. If I were going to be jealous it would be of another maid like myself, someone who could have given him real love, and a home, and maybe a family in time.” She looked down at her small, strong hands, and then up again suddenly. “No sir, she flattered him, and his head was turned. I thought that sort of thing only happened to parlormaids and the like, who got used by masters with no morals. I never thought of a footman being so daft. Or a lady—well …” She lowered her eyes.
    “Are you saying that that is what you believe happened, Miss Watkins?” O’Hare asked.
    Her eyes flew wide open again. “Oh no sir. I don’t suppose for a moment Miss Octavia ever did anything like that! I think Percival was a vain and silly man who imagined it might. And then when he realized what a fool he’d made of himself—well—his conceit couldn’t take it and he lost his temper.”
    “Did he have a temper, Miss Watkins?”
    “Oh yes sir—I’m afraid so.”
    The last witness to be called regarding Percival’s character, and its flaws, was Fenella Sandeman. She swept into the courtroom in a glory of black taffeta and lace, a large bonnet set well back, framing her face with its unnatural pallor, jet-black hair and rosy lips. At the distance from which most of the public saw her she was a startling and most effective sight, exuding glamour and the drama of grief—and extreme femininity sore pressed by dire circumstances.
    To Hester, when a man was being tried for his life, it was at once pathetic and grotesque.
    O’Hare rose and was almost exaggeratedly polite to her, as though she had been fragile and in need of all his tenderness.
    “Mrs. Sandeman, I believe you are a widow, living in the house of your brother, Sir Basil Moidore?”
    “I am,” she conceded, hovering for a moment on the edge of an air of suffering bravely, and opting instead for a gallant kind of gaiety, a dazzling smile and a lift of her pointed chin.
    “You have been there for”—he hesitated as if recalling with difficulty what to ask—“something like twelve years?”
    “I have,” she agreed.
    “Then you will doubtless know the members of the household fairly well, having seen them in all their moods, their happiness and their misfortune, for a considerable time,” he concluded. “You must have formed many opinions, based upon your observations.”
    “Indeed—one cannot help it.” She gazed at him and a wry, slight smile hovered about her lips. There was a huskiness in her voice. Hester wanted to slide down in her seat and become invisible, but she was beside Beatrice, who was not to be called to testify, so there was nothing she could do but endure it. She looked sideways at Beatrice’s face, but her veil was so heavy Hester could see nothing of her expression.
    “Women are very sensitive to people,” Fenella went on. “We have to be; people are our lives—”
    “Exactly so.” O’Hare smiled back at her. “In your own establishment you employed servants, before your husband … passed on?”
    “Of course.”
    “So you are quite accustomed to judging their character and their worth,” O’Hare concluded with a sidelong glance at Rathbone. “What did you observe of Percival Garrod, Mrs. Sandeman? What is your estimate of him?” He held up his pale hand as if to forestall any objection Rathbone might have. “Based, of course, upon what you saw of him during your time in Queen Anne Street?”
    She lowered her eyes and a greater hush settled over the room.
    “He was very competent at his work, Mr. O’Hare, but he was an arrogant man, and greedy. He liked his fine things in dress and food,” she said softly but very clearly. “He had ideas and aspirations far beyond his station, and there was something of an anger in him that he should