William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

will have of making yourself a career in the police force.”
    “You won’t question Lady Moidore again?” Evan persisted.
    “Great guns, Evan. What is wrong with you? No I won’t. Now get out of here and go and do your job.”
    Evan stood to attention for a moment, the words of disgust boiling up inside him, then turned on his heel and went out. But instead of returning to his new inspector, or to any part of his present case, he found a hansom cab and directed it to take him to the offices of Oliver Rathbone.
    Rathbone received him as soon as he could decently dismiss his current, rather garrulous client.
    “Yes?” he said with great curiosity. “What is it?”
    Clearly and concisely Evan told him what Hester had done, and saw with a mixture of emotions the acute interest with which Rathbone listened, and the alternating fear and amusement in his face, the anger and the sudden gentleness. Young as Evan was, he recognized it as an involvement of more than intellectual or moral concern.
    Then he recounted what Monk had added, and his own still smoldering experience with Runcorn.
    “Indeed,” Rathbone said slowly and with deep thought. “Indeed. Very slender, but it does not take a thick rope to hang a man, only a strong one—and I think this may indeed be strong enough.”
    “What will you do?” Evan asked. “Runcorn won’t look at it.”
    Rathbone smiled, a neat, beautiful gesture. “Did you imagine he might?”
    “No—but—” Evan shrugged.
    “I shall take it to the Home Office.” Rathbone crossed his legs and placed his fingers tip to tip. “Now tell me again, every detail, and let me be sure.”
    Obediently Evan repeated every word.
    “Thank you.” Rathbone rose to his feet. “Now if you will accompany me I shall do what I can—and if we are successful, you may choose yourself a constable and we shall make an arrest. I think perhaps we had better be quick.” His face darkened. “From what you say, Lady Moidore at least is already aware of the tragedy to shatter her house.”
    Hester had told Monk all she knew. Against his wishes she had returned to the house, soaked and bedraggled and without an excuse. She met Araminta on the stairs.
    “Good heavens,” Araminta said with incredulity and amusement. “You look as if you have taken a bath with all your clothes on. Whatever possessed you to go out in this without your coat and bonnet?”
    Hester scrambled for an excuse and found none at all.
    “It was quite stupid of me,” she said as if it were an apology for half-wittedness.
    “Indeed it was idiotic!” Araminta agreed. “What were you thinking of?”
    “I—er—”
    Araminta’s eyes narrowed. “Have you a follower, Miss Latterly?”
    An excuse. A perfectly believable excuse. Hester breathed a prayer of gratitude and hung her head, blushing for her carelessness, not for being caught in forbidden behavior.
    “Yes ma’am.”
    “Then you are very lucky,” Araminta said tartly. “You are plain enough, and won’t see twenty-five again. I should take whatever he offers you.” And with that she swept past Hester and went on down the hall.
    Hester swore under her breath and raced up the stairs, brushing past an astonished Cyprian without a word, and then up the next flight to her own room, where she changed every item of clothing from the skin out, and spread her wet things the best she could to dry.
    Her mind raced. What would Monk do? Take it all to Evan, and thus to Runcorn. She could imagine Runcorn’s fury from what Monk had told her of him. But surely now he would have no choice but to reopen the case?
    She fiddled on with small duties. She dreaded returning to Beatrice after what she had done, but she had little else justification to be here, and now least of all could she afford to arouse suspicion. And she owed Beatrice something, for all the pain she was awakening, the destruction which could not now be avoided.
    Heart lurching and clammy-handed, she went and knocked on Beatrice’s door.
    They both pretended the morning’s conversation had not happened. Beatrice talked lightly of all sorts of things in the past, of her first meeting with Basil and how charmed she had been with him, and a little in awe. She spoke of her girlhood growing up in Buckinghamshire with her sisters, of her uncle’s tales of Waterloo and the great eve of battle ball in Brussels, and the victory afterwards, the defeat of the emperor Napoleon and all Europe free again, the dancing, the