William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

investigation—someone who has an acute sense of people’s behavior and could observe them without their giving any thought to it, and then recount to you what was said and done in private times, the nuances of tone and expression.”
    “A miracle,” he said dryly.
    “Not at all,” she replied with equally straight-faced aridity. “A woman would suffice.”
    “We do not have women officers in the police.” He picked up his cup again and looked at her over the rim. “And if we did, we could hardly place one in the house.”
    “Did you not say Lady Moidore had taken to her bed?”
    “That is of some help?” He looked wide-eyed.
    “Perhaps she would benefit from having a nurse in the house? She is quite naturally ill with distress at her daughter’s death by murder. It seems very possible she has some realization of who was responsible. No wonder she is unwell, poor creature. Any woman would be. I think a nurse would be an excellent thing for her.”
    He stopped drinking his chocolate and stared at her.
    With some difficulty she kept her face blank and perfectly innocent.
    “Hester Latterly is at present without employment, and she is an excellent nurse, one of Miss Nightingale’s young ladies. I can recommend her highly. And she would be perfectly prepared to undertake such an engagement, I believe. She is most observant, as you know, and not without personal courage. The fact that a murder has taken place in the house would not deter her.”
    “What about the infirmary?” he said slowly, a brilliant light coming into his eyes.
    “She is no longer there.” Her expression was blandly innocent.
    He looked startled.
    “A difference of opinion with the doctor,” she explained.
    “Oh!”
    “Who is a fool,” she added.
    “Of course.” His smile was very slight, but went all the way to his eyes.
    “I am sure if you were to approach her,” she went on, “with some tact she would be prepared to apply for a temporary position with Sir Basil Moidore, to care for Lady Moidore until such time as she is herself again. I will be most happy to supply a reference. I would not speak to the hospital, if I were you. And it might be desirable not to mention my name to Hester—unless it is necessary to avoid untruth.”
    Now his smile was quite open. “Quite so, Lady Callandra. An excellent idea, I am most obliged to you.”
    “Not at all,” she said innocently. “Not at all. I shall also speak to my cousin Valentina, who will be pleased to suggest such a thing to Beatrice and at the same time recommend Miss Latterly.”
    * * *
    Hester was so surprised to see Monk she did not even think to wonder how he knew her address.
    “Good morning,” she said in amazement. “Has something—” she stopped, not sure what it was she was asking.
    He knew how to be circumspect when it was in his own interest. He had learned it with some difficulty, but his ambition overrode his temper, even his pride, and it had come in time.
    “Good morning,” he replied agreeably. “No, nothing alarming has happened. I have a favor I wish of you, if you are willing.”
    “Of me?” She was still astonished and half disbelieving.
    “If you will? May I sit down?”
    “Oh—of course.” They were in Mrs. Home’s parlor, and she waved to the seat nearest the thin fire.
    He accepted, and began on the purpose of his visit before trivial conversation should lead him into betraying Callandra Daviot.
    “I am engaged in the Queen Anne Street case, the murder of Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter.”
    “I wondered if you would be,” she answered politely, her eyes bright with expectation. “The newspapers are still full of it. But I have never met any of the family, nor do I know anything about them. Have they any connection with the Crimea?”
    “Only peripheral.”
    “Then what can I—” She stopped, waiting for him to answer.
    “It was someone in the house who killed her,” he said. “Very probably one of the family—”
    “Oh—” Understanding began in her eyes, not of her own part in the case, but of the difficulties facing him. “How can you investigate that?”
    “Carefully.” He smiled with a downward turn of his lips. “Lady Moidore has taken to her bed. I am not sure how much of it is grief—she was very composed to begin with—and how much of it may be because she has learned something which points to one of the family and she cannot bear it.”
    “What can I do?” He had all her attention now.
    “Would