William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

out his breath in a sharp sigh. “And he wishes the murder of Octavia to be closed as rapidly and discreetly as possible—of course. Have you seen what the newspapers are saying?”
    Her eyebrows shot up. “Don’t be absurd. Where in heaven’s name would I see a newspaper? I am a servant—and a woman. Lady Moidore doesn’t see anything but the social pages, and she is not interested in them at the moment.”
    “Of course—I forgot.” He pulled a wry face. He had only remembered that she was a friend of a war correspondent in the Crimea, and when he had died in the hospital in Scutari,she had sent his last dispatches home and then, born out of the intensity of her feelings and observations, herself written the succeeding dispatches and sent them under his name. Since the casualty lists were unreliable, his editor had not been aware of the change.
    “What are they saying?” she asked. “Anything that affects us?”
    “Generally? They are bemoaning the state of the nation that a footman can murder his mistress, that servants are so above themselves that they entertain ideas of lust and depravity involving the well-born; that the social order is crumbling; that we must hang Percival and make an example of him, so that no such thing will ever happen again.” He pulled his face into an expression of disgust. “And of course they are full of sympathy for Sir Basil. All his past services to the Queen and the nation have been religiously rehearsed, all his virtues paraded, and positively fulsome condolences written.”
    She sighed and stared into the dregs of her cup.
    “All the vested interests are ranged against us,” he said grimly. “Everyone wants it over quickly, society’s vengeance taken as thoroughly as possible, and then the whole matter forgotten so we can pick up our lives and try to continue them as much like before as we can.”
    “Is there anything at all we can do?” she asked.
    “I can’t think of anything.” He stood up and held her chair. “I shall go and see him.”
    She met his eyes with a quick pain, and admiration. There was no need either for her to ask or for him to answer. It was a duty, a last rite which failure did not excuse.
       As soon as Monk stepped inside Newgate Prison and the doors clanged shut behind him he felt a sickening familiarity. It was the smell, the mixture of damp, mold, rank sewage and an all-pervading misery that hung in the stillness of the air. Too many men who entered here left only to go to the executioner’s rope, and the terror and despair of their last days had soaked into the walls till he could feel it skin-crawling like ice as he followed the warder along the stone corridors to the appointed place where he could see Percival for the last time.
    He had misrepresented himself only slightly. Apparently he had been here before, and as soon as the warder saw his facehe leaped to a false conclusion about his errand, and Monk did not explain.
    Percival was standing in a small stone cell with one high window to an overcast sky. He turned as the door opened and Monk was let in, the gaoler with his keys looming huge behind.
    For the first moment Percival looked surprised, then his face hardened into anger.
    “Come to gloat?” he said bitterly.
    “Nothing to gloat about,” Monk replied almost casually. “I’ve lost my career, and you will lose your life. I just haven’t worked out who’s won.”
    “Lost your career?” For a moment doubt flickered across Percival’s face, then suspicion. “Thought you’d have been made. Gone on to something better! You solved the case to everyone’s satisfaction—except mine. No ugly skeletons dragged out, no mention of Myles Kellard raping Martha, poor little bitch, no saying Aunt Fenella is a whore—just a jumped-up footman filled with lust for a drunken widow. Hang him and let’s get on with our lives. What more could they ask of a dutiful policeman?”
    Monk did not blame him for his rage or his hate. They were justified—only, at least in part, misdirected. It would have been fairer to blame him for incompetence.
    “I had the evidence,” he said slowly. “But I didn’t arrest you. I refused to do it, and they threw me out.”
    “What?” Percival was confused, disbelieving.
    Monk repeated it.
    “For God’s sake why?” There was no softness in Percival, no relenting. Again Monk did not blame him. He was beyond the last hope now, perhaps there was no room in him for gentleness of any