William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

assured.
    “Of course I was,” she retorted hotly. “If I knew anything, I should not defend her attacker for an instant. I simply do not know.”
    “I do not doubt your honesty—or your indignation, ma’am,” he said, although it was not entirely true. He trusted no one so far. “I was thinking that if you were fond of her, then you will have known her well. What kind of person was she?”
    Romola was taken by surprise; the question was not what she had been expecting.
    “I—well—it is very hard to say,” she protested. “Really, that is a most unfair question. Poor Octavia is dead. It is most indecent to speak of the dead in anything but the kindest of terms, especially when they have died so terribly.”
    “I commend your delicacy, Mrs. Moidore,” he replied with forced patience, measuring his step to hers. “But I believe at the moment truth, however tasteless, would serve her better. And since it seems an unavoidable conclusion that whoever murdered her is still in your house, you could be excused for placing your own safety, and that of your children, to the forefront of your thoughts.”
    That stopped her as if she had walked straight into one of the trees along the border. She drew in her breath sharply andalmost cried out, then remembered the other passersby just in time and bit her knuckles instead.
    “What kind of person was Mrs. Haslett?” Monk asked again.
    She resumed her slow pace along the path, her face very pale, her skirts brushing the gravel.
    “She was very emotional, very impulsive,” she replied after only the briefest thought. “When she fell in love with Harry Haslett her family disapproved, but she was absolutely determined. She refused to consider anyone else. I have always been surprised that Sir Basil permitted it, but I suppose it was a perfectly acceptable match, and Lady Moidore approved. His family was excellent, and he had reasonable prospects for the future—” She shrugged. “Somewhat distant, but Octavia was a younger daughter, who could reasonably expect to have to wait.”
    “Had he an unfortunate reputation?” Monk asked.
    “Not that I ever heard.”
    “Then why was Sir Basil so against the match? If he was of good family and had expectations, surely he would be agreeable?”
    “I think it was a matter of personality. I know Sir Basil had been at school with his father and did not care for him. He was a year or two older, and a most successful person.” She shrugged very slightly. “Sir Basil never said so, of course, but perhaps he cheated? Or in some other way that a gentleman would not mention, behaved dishonorably?” She looked straight ahead of her. A party of ladies and gentlemen was approaching and she nodded at them but did not make any sign of welcome. She was annoyed by the circumstance. Monk saw the color rise in her cheeks and guessed her dilemma. She did not wish them to speculate as to who he was that Romola walked alone with him in the park, and yet still less did she wish to introduce a policeman to her acquaintances.
    He smiled sourly, a touch of mockery at himself, because it stung him, as well as at her. He despised her that appearances mattered so much, and himself because it caught him with a raw smart too, and for the same reasons.
    “He was uncouth, brash?” he prompted with a trace of asperity.
    “Not at all,” she replied with satisfaction at contradictinghim. “He was charming, friendly, full of good humor, but like Octavia, determined to have his own way.”
    “Not easily governed,” he said wryly, liking Harry Haslett more with each discovery.
    “No—” There was a touch of envy in her now, and a real sadness that came through the polite, expected grief. “He was always kind for one’s comfort, but he never pretended to an opinion he did not have.”
    “He sounds a most excellent man.”
    “He was. Octavia was devastated when he was killed—in the Crimea, you know. I can remember the day the news came. I thought she would never recover—” She tightened her lips and blinked hard, as if tears threatened to rob her of composure. “I am not sure she ever did,” she added very quietly. “She loved him very much. I believe no one else in the family realized quite how much until then.”
    They had been gradually slowing their pace; now conscious again of the cold wind, they quickened.
    “I am very sorry,” he said, and meant it.
    They were passed by a nurserymaid wheeling a perambulator—a brand-new