William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

then I might find myself in the workhouse. It’s different now. This is a matter of duty that any other employer would understand. When it’s a matter of concealing a crime—”
    “So suddenly rape has become a crime?” Monk was disgusted. “When did that happen? When your own neck was in danger?”
    If Percival was frightened or embarrassed there was no trace of it in his expression.
    “Not rape, sir—murder. That has always been the crime.” Again his shoulders lifted expressively. “If it’s actually called murder, not justice, privilege, or some such thing.”
    “Like rape of a servant, for example.” Monk for one instant agreed with him. He hated it. “All right, you can go.”
    “Shall I tell Sir Basil you want to see him?”
    “If you want to keep your position, you’d better not put it like that.”
    Percival did not bother to reply, but went out, moving easily, even gracefully, his body relaxed.
    Monk was too concerned, too angry at the appalling injustice and suffering, and apprehensive of his interview with Basil Moidore to spare any emotion for contempt of Percival.
    It was nearly a quarter of an hour before Harold came back to tell him that Sir Basil would see him in the library.
    “Good morning, Monk. You wanted to see me?” Basil stood near the window with the armchair and the table forcing a distance between them. He looked harassed and his face creased in lines of temper. Monk irritated him by his questions, his stance, the very shape of his face.
    “Good morning, sir,” Monk replied. “Yes, some new information has come to me this morning. I would like to ask you if it is true, and if it is, to tell me what you know of the matter.”
    Basil did not seem concerned, and was only moderately interested. He was still dressed in black, but elegant, selfconsciously smart black. It was not the mourning of someone bowed down with grief.
    “What matter is this, Inspector?”
    “A maid that worked here two years ago, by the name of Martha Rivett.”
    Basil’s face tightened, and he moved from the window and stood straighter.
    “What can she possibly have to do with my daughter’s death?”
    “Was she raped, Sir Basil?”
    Basil’s eyes widened. Distaste registered sharply in his face, then another, more thoughtful expression. “I have no idea!”
    Monk controlled himself with great difficulty. “Did she come to you and say that she was?”
    A slight smile moved Basil’s mouth, and his hand at his side curled and uncurled.
    “Inspector, if you had ever kept a house with a large staff, many of them young, imaginative and excitable women, you would hear a great many stories of all sorts of entanglements, charges and countercharges of wrongs. Certainly she came and said she had been molested—but I have no way of knowing whether she really had or whether she had got herself with child and was trying to lay the blame on someone else—and get us to look after her. Possibly one of the male servants forced his attentions—” His hands uncurled, and he shrugged very faintly.
    Monk bit his tongue and stared at Basil with hard eyes.
    “Is that what you believe, sir? You spoke with the girl. I believe she charged that it was Mr. Kellard who assaulted her. Presumably you also spoke with Mr. Kellard. Did he tell you he had never had anything to do with her?”
    “Is that your business, Inspector?” Basil said coldly.
    “If Mr. Kellard raped this girl, yes, Sir Basil, it is. It may well be the root of this present crime.”
    “Indeed? I fail to see how.” But there was no conciliation in his voice, and no outrage.
    “Then I will explain it,” Monk said between his teeth. “If Mr. Kellard raped this unfortunate girl, the fact was concealed and the girl dismissed to whatever fate she could find, thenthat says a great deal about Mr. Kellard’s nature and his belief that he is free to force his attentions upon women, regardless of their feelings. It seems highly probable that he admired Mrs. Haslett, and may have tried to force his attentions upon her also.”
    “And murdered her?” Basil was considering it. There was caution in his voice, the beginning of a new thought, but still heavily tinged with doubt. “Martha never suggested he threatened her with any weapon, and she perfectly obviously had not been injured—”
    “You had her examined?” Monk asked baldly.
    Temper flashed in Basil’s face. “Of course I didn’t. Whatever for? She made no claim of violence—I told