William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

what I wanted to, and hid from the rest. And Cyprian, my beloved Cyprian—doing the same: never standingup to his father, just living in a dream world, gambling and idling his time instead of doing what he really wanted.” She tugged even harder with the brush. “He’s bored with Romola, you know. It used not to matter, but now he’s suddenly realized how interesting companionship can be, and conversation that’s real, where people say what they think instead of playing polite games. And of course it’s far too late.”
    Without any forewarning Hester realized fully what she had woken in indulging her own vanity and pleasure in Cyprian’s attention. She was only partly guilty, because she had not intended hurt, but it was enough. Neither had she thought, or cared, and she had sufficient intelligence that she could have.
    “And poor Romola,” Beatrice went on, still brushing fiercely. “She has not the slightest idea what is wrong. She has done precisely what she was taught to do, and it has ceased to work.”
    “It may again,” Hester said feebly, and did not believe it.
    But Beatrice was not listening for inflections of a voice. Her own thoughts clamored too loudly.
    “And the police have arrested Percival and gone away, leaving us to wonder what really happened.” She began to brush with long, even strokes. “Why did they do that, Hester? Monk didn’t believe it was Percival, I’m sure of that.” She swiveled around on the dresser seat and looked at Hester, the brush still in her hand. “You spoke to him. Did you think he believed it was Percival?”
    Hester let out her breath slowly. “No—no, I thought not.”
    Beatrice turned back to the mirror again and regarded her hair critically. “Then why did the police arrest him? It wasn’t Monk, you know. Annie told me it was someone else, not even the young sergeant either. Was it simply expediency, do you suppose? The newspapers were making a terrible fuss about it and blaming the police for not solving it, so Cyprian told me. And Basil wrote to the Home Secretary, I know.” Her voice sank lower. “I imagine their superiors demanded they produce some result very quickly, but I did not think Monk would give in. I thought he was such a strong man—” She did not add that Percival was expendable when a senior officer’s career was threatened, but Hester knew she was thinking it; the anger in her mouth and the misery in her eyes were sufficient.
    “And of course they would never accuse one of us, unless they had absolute proof. But I can’t help wondering if Monk suspected one of us and simply could not find any mistake large enough, or tangible enough, to justify his action.”
    “Oh I don’t think so,” Hester said quickly, then wondered how on earth she would explain knowing such a thing. Beatrice was so very nearly right in her estimate of what had happened, Runcorn’s expediency over Monk’s judgment, the quarrels and the pressure.
    “Don’t you?” Beatrice said bleakly, putting down the brush at last. “I am afraid I do. Sometimes I think I would give anything at all to know which one of us, just so I could stop suspecting the others. Then I shrink back in horror from it, like a hideous sight—a severed head in a bucketful of maggots—only worse.” She swiveled around on the seat again and looked at Hester. “Someone in my own family murdered my daughter. You see, they all lied. Octavia wasn’t as they said, and the idea of Percival taking such a liberty, or even imagining he could, is ridiculous.”
    She shrugged, her slender shoulders pulling at the silk of her gown.
    “I know she drank a trifle too much sometimes—but nothing like as much as Fenella does. Now if it were Fenella that would make sense. She would encourage any man.” Her face darkened. “Except she picks out those who are rich because she used to accept presents from them and then pawn the gifts for money to buy clothes and perfumes and things. Then she stopped bothering with the pretenses and simply took the money outright. Basil doesn’t know, of course. He’d be horrified. He’d probably throw her out.”
    “Was that what Octavia discovered and told to Septimus?” Hester said eagerly. “Perhaps that was what happened?” Then she realized how insensitive such enthusiasm was. After all, Fenella was still one of the family, even if she was shallow and vicious, and now, after the trial, a public embarrassment. She composed her face into gravity