William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

“Yes,” he agreed again. “The least I can do is be there—poor Beatrice.”
    He had not yet fully understood.
    “But will you swear to her answer, if need be before a judge? Will you strengthen her when she realizes what it means?”
    He straightened up until he stood very erect, shoulders back, chest out.
    “Yes, yes I will.”
    Beatrice was startled to see Septimus behind Hester when they entered her room. She was sitting at the dressing table brushing her hair. This was something which would ordinarily have been done by her maid, but since it was not necessary to dress it, she was going nowhere, she had chosen to do it herself.
    “What is it?” she said quietly. “What has happened? Septimus, are you worse?”
    “No, my dear.” He moved closer to her. “I am perfectly well. But something has happened about which it is necessary that you make a decision, and I am here to lend you my support.”
    “A decision? What do you mean?” Already she was frightened. She looked from him to Hester. “Hester? What is it? You know something, don’t you?” She drew in her breath and made as if to ask, then her voice died and no sound came. Slowly she put the hairbrush down.
    “Lady Moidore,” Hester began gently. It was cruel to spin it out. “On the night she died, you said Octavia came to your room to wish you good-night.”
    “Yes—” It was barely even a whisper.
    “And that her peignoir was torn across the lace lilies on the shoulder?”
    “Yes-”
    “Are you absolutely sure?”
    Beatrice was puzzled, some small fraction of her fear abating.
    “Yes, of course I am. I offered to mend it for her.” The tears welled up in her eyes, beyond her control. “I did—” She gulped and fought to master her emotion. “I did—that night, before I went to sleep. I mended them perfectly.”
    Hester wanted to touch her, to take her hands and hold them, but she was about to deal another terrible blow, and it seemed such hypocrisy, a Judas kiss.
    “Would you swear to that, on your honor?”
    “Of course—but who can care—now?”
    “You are quite sure, Beatrice?” Septimus knelt down awkwardly in front of her, touching her with clumsy, tender hands. “You will not take that back, should it become painful in its meanings?”
    She stared at him. “It is the truth—why? What are its meanings, Septimus?”
    “That Octavia killed herself, my dear, and that Araminta and someone else conspired to conceal it, to protect the honor of the family.” It was so easily encapsulated, all in one sentence.
    “Killed herself? But why? Harry has been dead for—for two years.”
    “Because she learned that day how and why he died.” He spared her the last, ugly details, at least for now. “It was more than she could bear.”
    “But Septimus.” Now her mouth and throat were so dry she could scarcely force the words. “They hanged Percival for killing her!”
    “I know that, my dear. That is why we must speak.”
    “Someone in my house—in my family—murdered Percival!”
    “Yes.”
    “Septimus, I don’t know how I can bear it!”
    “There is nothing to do but bear it, Beatrice.” His voice was very gentle, but there was no wavering in it. “We cannot run away. There is no way of denying it without making it immeasurably worse.”
    She clutched his hand and looked at Hester.
    “Who was it?” she said, her voice barely trembling now, her eyes direct.
    “Araminta,” Hester replied.
    “Not alone.”
    “No. I don’t know who helped her.”
    Beatrice put her hands very slowly over her face. She knew—and Hester realized it when she saw her clenched knuckles and heard her gasp. But she did not ask. Instead she looked for a moment at Septimus, then turned and walked very slowly out of the room, down the main stairs, and out of the front door into the street to where Monk was standing in the rain.
    Gravely, with the rain soaking her hair and her dress, oblivious of it, she told him.
    Monk went straight to Evan, and Evan took it to Runcorn.
    “Balderdash!” Runcorn said furiously. “Absolute balderdash! Whatever put such a farrago of total nonsense in your head? The Queen Anne Street case is closed. Now get on with your present case, and if I hear any more about this you will be in serious trouble. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?” His long face was suffused with color. “You are a great deal too like Monk for your own good. The sooner you forget him and all his arrogance, the better chance you