William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

grieved acutely for his sister.
    Monk did not intrude.
    Another couple walked past them, the man in the uniform of the Hussars, the woman’s skirt fashionably fringed and fussy.
    Finally Cyprian regained his self-control.
    “It would have been something despicable,” he continued. “And probably still a danger to someone before Tavie would have told another person’s secret, Inspector.” He spoke with conviction. “If some servant had had an illegitimate child, or a passionate affair, Tavie was the last person who would have betrayed them to Papa—or anyone else. I don’t honestly think she would have reported a theft, unless it had been something of immense value.”
    “So the secret she discovered that afternoon was no trivial one, but something of profound ugliness,” Monk said in reply.
    Cyprian’s face closed. “It would seem so. I’m sorry I cannot help you any further, but I really have no idea what such a thing could be, or about whom.”
    “You have made the picture much clearer with your candor. Thank you, sir.” Monk bowed very slightly, and after Cyprian’s acknowledgment, took his leave. He walked back along the Serpentine to Hyde Park Corner, but this time going briskly up Constitution Hill towards Buckingham Palace and St. James’s.
    It was the middle of the afternoon when he met Sir Basil, who was coming across the Horse Guards Parade from Whitehall. He looked startled to see Monk.
    “Have you something to report?” he said rather abruptly. He was dressed in dark city trousers and a frock coat seamed at the waist as was the latest cut. His top hat was tall and straight sided, and worn elegantly a little to one side on his head.
    “Not yet, sir,” Monk answered, wondering what he had expected so soon. “I have a few questions to ask.”
    Basil frowned. “That could not have waited until I was at home? I do not appreciate being accosted in the street, Inspector.”
    Monk made no apology. “Some information about the servants which I cannot obtain from the butler.”
    “There is none,” Basil said frostily. “It is the butler’s job to employ the servants and to interview them and evaluate their references. If I did not believe he was competent to do it, I should replace him.”
    “Indeed.” Already Monk was stung by his tone of voice and the sharp, chilly look in his eyes, as if Monk’s ignorance were no more than he expected. “But were there any disciplining to do, would you not be made aware of it?”
    “I doubt it, unless it concerned a member of the family—which, I presume, is what you are suggesting?” Basil replied. “Mere impertinences or tardiness would be dealt with by Phillips, or in the female servants’ case, by the housekeeper, or the cook. Dishonesty or moral laxity would incur dismissal, and Phillips would engage a replacement. I would know about that. But surely you did not follow me to Westminster to ask me such paltry things, which you could have asked the butler—or anyone else in the house!”
    “I cannot expect the same degree of truth from anyone else in the house, sir,” Monk snapped back tartly. “Since one of them is responsible for Mrs. Haslett’s death, they may be somewhat partisan in the matter.”
    Basil glared at him, the wind catching at the tails of his jacket and sending them flapping. He took his high hat off to save the indignity of having it blown askew.
    “What do you imagine they would lie about to you and have the remotest chance of getting by with it?” he said with an edge of sarcasm.
    Monk ignored the question.
    “Any personal relationships between your staff, sir?” he asked instead. “Footmen and maids, for example? The butler and one of the ladies’ maids—bootboy and scullery maid?”
    Basil’s black eyes widened in disbelief.
    “Good God! Do you imagine I have the slightest idea—or any interest in the romantic daydreams of my servants, Inspector? You seem to live in a quite different world from the one I inhabit—or men like me.”
    Monk was furious and he did not even attempt to curb his tongue.
    “Do I take it, Sir Basil, that you would have no concern if your male and female servants have liaisons with each other,” he said sarcastically. “In twos—or threes—or whatever? Youare quite right—it
is
a different world. The middle classes are obsessed with preventing such a thing.”
    The insolence was palpable, and for a moment Sir Basil’s temper flashed close to violence, but he was