William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

opinions—which is not a criticism. I cannot bear wishy-washy people who agree with whoever spoke to them last—but she might make an error out of a previously held conviction, without the slightest mal intent!”
    “That it was Octavia’s peignoir?”
    “No of course not. Besides, she was not the only person to identify it. At the time you found it you asked Araminta as well, and she not only identified it but said that she remembered that Octavia had worn it the night of her death. And I think Lizzie the head laundrymaid identified it too. Besides,whether it was Octavia’s or not, she obviously wore it when she was stabbed—poor woman.”
    “Rose?”
    “Ah—there is someone much more likely. She had been wooed by Percival—after a manner of speaking—and then passed over when he grew bored with her. And rightly or not, she imagined he might marry her—and he obviously had no such intention at all. She had a very powerful motive to see him in trouble. I think she might even have the passion and the hatred to want him hanged.”
    “Enough to lie to bring about the end?” He found it hard to believe such a terrible malice, even from a sexual obsession rejected. Even the stabbing of Octavia had been done in hot blood, at the moment of refusal, not carried out deliberately step by step, over weeks, even months afterwards. It was chilling to think of such a mind in a laundrymaid, a trim, pretty creature one would scarcely look at except with an absent-minded appreciation. And yet she could desire a man, and when rejected, torture him to a judicial death.
    Hester saw his doubt.
    “Perhaps not with such a terrible end in mind,” she conceded. “One lie begets another. She may have intended only to frighten him—as Araminta did with Myles—and then events took over and she could not retreat without endangering herself.” She took another sip of chocolate; it was delicious, although she was becoming used to the best of foods. “Or of course, she may have believed him guilty,” she added. “Some people do not consider it as in the least to bend the truth a little in order to bring about what they see as justice.”
    “She lied about Octavia’s character?” He took up the thread. “If Lady Moidore is right. But she may also have done that from jealousy. Very well—let us assume Rose lied. What about the butler, Phillips? He bore out what everyone else said about Percival.”
    “He was probably largely right,” she conceded. “Percival was arrogant and ambitious. He clearly blackmailed the other servants over their little secrets—and perhaps the family as well; we shall probably never know that. He is not at all likable—but that is not the issue. If we were to hang everyone in London who is unlikable we could probably get rid of a quarter of the population.”
    “At least,” he agreed. “But Phillips may have embroidered his opinion a trifle out of obligation to his employer. This was obviously the conclusion Sir Basil wished, and he wished it speedily. Phillips is not a foolish man, and he is intensely aware of duty. He wouldn’t see it as any form of untruth, simply as loyalty to his superior, a military ideal he admires. And Mrs. Willis testified for us.”
    “The family?” she prompted.
    “Cyprian also testified for us, and so did Septimus. Romola—what is your opinion of her?”
    A brief feeling of irritation troubled Hester, and one of guilt. “She enjoys the status of being Sir Basil’s daughter-in-law, and of living in Queen Anne Street, but she frequently tries to persuade Cyprian to ask for more money. She is adept at making him feel guilty if she is not happy. She is confused, because he is bored by her and she does not know why. And sometimes I have been so frustrated that he does not tell her to behave like an adult and take responsibility for her own feelings. But I suppose I do not know enough about them to judge.”
    “But you do,” he said without condemnation. He loathed women who put such a burden of emotional blackmail upon their fathers or their husbands, but he had no idea why the thought touched such a raw nerve in him.
    “I suppose so,” she admitted. “But it hardly matters. I think Romola would testify according to whatever she thought Sir Basil wanted. Sir Basil is the power in that house; he has the purse strings, and they all know it. He does not need to make a demand, it is implicit; all he has to do is allow them to know his wishes.”
    Monk let