William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

more seriously, or we shall be obliged to find someone else who will.”
    “I am here with Sir Basil’s permission, Mrs. Kellard,” Monk said tartly. “We are all quite aware the discussion is painful, but postponing it will only prolong the distress. There has been murder in this house, and Lady Moidore wishes to discover who was responsible as much as anyone.”
    “Mama?” Araminta challenged.
    “Of course I do,” Beatrice said very quietly. “I think—”
    Araminta’s eyes widened. “You think? Oh—” And suddenly some realization struck her with a force so obvious it was like a physical blow. She turned very slowly to Monk. “What were your questions about, Mr. Monk?”
    Beatrice drew in her breath and held it, not daring to let it out until Monk should have spoken.
    “Lady Moidore has already answered them,” Monk replied. “Thank you for your offer, but it concerns a matter of which you have no knowledge.”
    “It was not an offer.” Araminta did not look at her mother but kept her hard, straight gaze level at Monk’s eyes. “I wished to be informed for my own sake.”
    “I apologize,” Monk said with a thin thread of sarcasm. “I thought you were trying to assist.”
    “Are you refusing to tell me?”
    He could no longer evade. “If you wish to phrase it so, ma’am, then yes, I am.”
    Very slowly a curious expression of pain, acceptance, almost a subtle pleasure, came into her eyes.
    “Because it is to do with my husband.” She turned fractionally towards Beatrice. This time the fear was palpable between them. “Are you trying to protect me, Mama? You know something which implicates Myles.” The rage of emotions inside her was thick in her voice. Beatrice half reached towards her, then dropped her hands.
    “I don’t think it does,” she said almost under her breath. “I see no reason to think of Myles.… ” She trailed off, her disbelief heavy in the air.
    Araminta swung back to Monk.
    “And what do you think, Mr. Monk?” she said levelly. “That is what matters, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t know yet, ma’am. It is impossible to say until I have learned more about it.”
    “But it does concern my husband?” she insisted.
    “I am not going to discuss the matter until I know much more of the truth,” he replied. “It would be unjust—and mischief making.”
    Her curious, asymmetrical smile was hard. She looked from him to her mother again. “Correct me if I am unjust, Mama.” There was a cruel mimicry of Monk’s tone in her voice. “But does this concern Myles’s attraction towards Octavia, and the thought that he might have forced his attentions upon her, and as a result of her refusal killed her?”
    “You are unjust,” Beatrice said in little more than a whisper. “You have no reason to think such a thing of him.”
    “But you have,” Araminta said without hesitation, the words hard and slow, as if she were cutting her own flesh. “Mama, I do not deserve to be lied to.”
    Beatrice gave up; she had no heart left to go on trying to deceive. Her fear was too great; it could be felt like an electric presage of storm in the room. She sat unnaturally motionless, her eyes unfocused, her hands knotted together in her lap.
    “Martha Rivett charged that Myles forced himself upon her,” she said in a level voice, drained of passion. “That is why she left. Your father dismissed her. She was—” She stopped. To have added the child was an unnecessary blow. Araminta had never borne a child. Monk knew what Beatrice had been going to say as surely as if she had said it. “She wasirresponsible,” she finished lamely. “We could not keep her in the house saying things like that.”
    “I see.” Araminta’s face was ashen white with two high spots of color in her cheeks.
    The door opened again and Romola came in, saw the frozen tableau in front of her, Beatrice sitting upright on the sofa, Araminta stiff as a twig, her face set and teeth clenched tight, Hester still standing behind the other large armchair, not knowing what to do, and Monk sitting uncomfortably leaning forward. She glanced at the menu in Araminta’s hand, then ignored it. It was apparent even to her that she had interrupted something acutely painful, and dinner was of little importance.
    “What is wrong?” she demanded, looking from one to another of them. “Do you know who killed Octavia?”
    “No we don’t!” Beatrice turned toward her and spoke surprisingly sharply. “We were