William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

regret and the sense of having failed. It lay heavy in his voice and in the strain in his features.
    Before the elder Moidore replied there was a knock on the door.
    “Come in!” he said, raising his head sharply, irked by the intrusion.
    Monk wondered for a moment who the woman was, then as Cyprian’s expression changed, he remembered meeting her in the withdrawing room the first morning: Romola Moidore. This time she looked less drained with shock; her skin had a bloom to it and her complexion was flawless. Her features were regular, her eyes wide and her hair thick. The only thingwhich prevented her from being a beauty was a suggestion of sulkiness about the mouth, a feeling that her good temper was not to be relied on. She looked at Monk with surprise. Obviously she did not remember him.
    “Inspector Monk,” Cyprian supplied. Then, when her face did not clear: “Of the police.” He glanced at Monk, and for a moment there was a bright intelligence in his eyes. He was leaving Monk to make whatever impact he chose.
    Basil immediately spoiled it by explaining.
    “Whoever killed Octavia is someone who lives in this house. That means one of the servants.” His eyes were on her face, his voice careful. “The only reason that makes any sense is if one of them has a secret so shameful they would rather commit murder than have it revealed. Either Octavia knew this secret or they believed she did.”
    Romola sat down sharply, the color fading from her cheeks, and she put her hand to her mouth, but her eyes did not leave Basil’s face. Never once did she look to her husband.
    Cyprian glared at his father, who looked back at him boldly—and with something that Monk thought might well be dislike. He wished he could remember his own father, but rack his memory as he might, nothing came back but a faint blur, an impression of size and the smell of salt and tobacco, and the touch of beard, and skin softer than he expected. Nothing returned of the man, his voice, his words, a face. Monk had no real idea, only a few sentences from his sister, and a smile as if there were something familiar and precious.
    Romola was speaking, her voice scratchy with fear.
    “Here in the house?” She looked at Monk, although she was speaking to Cyprian. “One of the servants?”
    “There doesn’t seem to be any other explanation,” Cyprian replied. “Did Tavie say anything to you—think carefully—anything about any of the servants?”
    “No,” she said almost immediately. “This is terrible. The very thought of it makes me feel ill.”
    A shadow passed over Cyprian’s face, and for a moment it seemed as if he were about to speak, but he was aware of his father’s eyes on him.
    “Did Octavia speak to you alone that day?” Basil asked her without change of tone.
    “No—no,” she denied quickly. “I interviewed governessesall morning. None of them seemed suitable. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
    “See some more!” Basil snapped. “If you pay a requisite salary you will find someone who will do.”
    She shot him a look of repressed dislike, guarded enough that to a casual eye it could have been anxiety.
    “I was at home all day.” She turned back to Monk, her hands still clenched. “I received friends in the afternoon, but Tavie went out. I have no idea where; she said nothing when she came in. In fact she passed by me in the hall as if she had not seen me there at all.”
    “Was she distressed?” Cyprian asked quickly. “Did she seem frightened, or upset about anything?”
    Basil watched them, waiting.
    “Yes,” Romola said with a moment’s thought. “Yes she did. I assumed she had had an unpleasant afternoon, perhaps friends who were disagreeable, but maybe it was more than that?”
    “What did she say?” Cyprian pursued.
    “Nothing. I told you, she barely seemed aware she had passed me. If you remember, she said very little at dinner, and we presumed she was not well.”
    They all looked at Monk, waiting for him to resolve some answer from the facts.
    “Perhaps she confided in her sister?” he suggested.
    “Unlikely,” Basil said tersely. “But Minta is an observant woman.” He turned to Romola. “Thank you, my dear. You may return to your tasks. Do not forget what I have counseled you. Perhaps you would be good enough to ask Araminta to join us here.”
    “Yes, Papa-in-law,” she said obediently, and left without looking at Cyprian or Monk again.
    Araminta Kellard was not a woman