William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

came into the room and closed the door.
    Cyprian did not reply.
    “May I ask you, sir, is it correct that you occupy the bedroom next to Mrs. Haslett’s?”
    “Yes.” Cyprian met his eyes squarely; there was no belligerence in them, only shock.
    “What time did you retire, Mr. Moidore?”
    Cyprian frowned. “About eleven, or a few minutes after. I didn’t hear anything, if that is what you are going to ask.”
    “And were you in your room all night, sir?” Monk tried to phrase it without being offensive, but it was impossible.
    Cyprian smiled very faintly.
    “I was last night. My wife’s room is next to mine, the first as you leave the stair head.” He put his hands into his pockets. “My son has the room opposite, and my daughters the one next to that. But I thought we had established that whoever it was broke into Octavia’s room through the window.”
    “It looks most likely, sir,” Monk agreed. “But it may not be the only room they tried. And of course it is possible they came in elsewhere and went
out
through her window. We know only that the creeper was broken. Was Mrs. Haslett a light sleeper?”
    “No—” At first he was absolutely certain, then doubt flickered in his face. He took his hands out of his pockets. “At least I think not. But what difference does it make now? Isn’t this really rather a waste of time?” He moved a step closer to the fire. “It is indisputable someone broke in and she discovered him, and instead of simply running, the wretch stabbed her.” His face darkened. “You should be out there looking for him, not in here asking irrelevant questions! Perhaps she was awake anyway. People do sometimes waken in the night.”
    Monk bit back the reply that rose instinctively.
    “I was hoping to establish the time,” he continued levelly. “It would help when we come to question the closest constable on the beat, and any other people who might have been around at that hour. And of course it would help when we catch anyone, if he could prove he was elsewhere.”
    “If he was elsewhere, then you wouldn’t have the right person, would you!” Cyprian said acidly.
    “If we didn’t know the relevant time, sir, we might think we had!” Monk replied immediately. “I’m sure you don’t want the wrong man hanged!”
    Cyprian did not bother to answer.
       The three women of the immediate family were waiting together in the withdrawing room, all close to the fire: Lady Moidore stiff-backed, white-faced on the sofa; her surviving daughter, Araminta, in one of the large chairs to her right, hollow-eyed as if she had not slept in days; and her daughter-in-law, Romola, standing behind her, her face reflecting horror and confusion.
    “Good morning, ma’am.” Monk inclined his head to Lady Moidore, then acknowledged the others.
    None of them replied. Perhaps they did not consider it necessary to observe such niceties in the circumstances.
    “I am deeply sorry to have to disturb you at such a tragic time,” he said with difficulty. He hated having to express condolences to someone whose grief was so new and devastating. He was a stranger intruding into their home, and all he could offer were words, stilted and predictable. But to have said nothing would be grossly uncaring.
    “I offer you my deepest sympathy, ma’am.”
    Lady Moidore moved her head very slightly in indication that she had heard him, but she did not speak.
    He knew who the two younger women were because one of them shared the remarkable hair of her mother, a vivid shade of golden red which in the dark room seemed almost as alive as the flames of the fire. Cyprian’s wife, on the other hand, was much darker, her eyes brown and her hair almost black. He turned to address her.
    “Mrs. Moidore?”
    “Yes?” She stared at him in alarm.
    “Your bedroom window is between Mrs. Haslett’s and the main drainpipe, which it seems the intruder climbed. Did you hear any unaccustomed sounds during the night, any disturbances at all?”
    She looked very pale. Obviously the thought of the murderer passing her window had not occurred to her before. Her hands gripped the back of Araminta’s chair.
    “No—nothing. I do not customarily sleep well, but last night I did.” She closed her eyes. “How fearful!”
    Araminta was of a harder mettle. She sat rigid and slender, almost bony under the light fabric of her morning gown—no one had thought of changing into black yet. Her face was thin, wide-eyed, her mouth