William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

face-to-face with him in the Furnivals’ house on the night of the murder, and fled in—what? Terror, panic, shame? Or just clumsiness?
    No—he had been a soldier, although then little more than a child. He would not have dropped his laundry and fled simply because he bumped into a guest.
    Should Monk have pursued it? To what end? So Rathbone could get him on the stand and strip his shame bare before the court? What would it prove? Only that Carlyon was indeed an abuser of children. Could they not do that anyway, without destroying this child and making him relive the abuse in words—and in public? It was something Alexandra knew nothing of anyway, and could not have affected her actions.
    It was the other abuser they needed to find, and to prove. Was it Maxim Furnival? Or Peverell Erskine? Both thoughts were repulsive to him.
    He increased his pace, walking along Albany Street, and within moments was at Carlyon House. He had no excitement in the chase, only an empty, sick feeling in his stomach.
    All the family were at the trial, either waiting to give evidenceor in the gallery watching the proceedings. He went to the back door and asked if he might speak to Miss Buchan. It stuck in his throat to say it, but he sent a message that he was a friend of Miss Hester Latterly’s and had come on an errand for her.
    After only ten minutes kicking his heels in the laundry room he was finally admitted to the main house and conducted up three flights of stairs to Miss Buchan’s small sitting room with its dormer windows over the roofs.
    “Yes, Mr. Monk?” she said dubiously.
    He looked at her with interest. She was nearer seventy than sixty, very thin, with a sharp, intelligent face, long nose, quick faded eyes, and the fine fresh complexion that goes with auburn hair, although it was now gray, almost white. She was a hot-tempered woman of great courage, and it showed in her face. He found it easy to believe she had acted as Hester had told him.
    “I am a friend of Miss Latterly’s,” he said again, establishing himself before he launched into his difficult mission.
    “So you told Agnes,” she said skeptically, looking him up and down, from his polished leather boots and his long straight legs to his beautifully cut jacket and his smooth, hard-boned face with its gray eyes and sarcastic mouth. She did not try to impress him. She knew from his look, something in his bearing, that he had not had a governess himself. There was no nursery respect in him, no memories of another woman like her who had ruled his childhood.
    He found himself coloring, knowing his ordinary roots were as visible to her as if he had never lost his provincial accent and his working-class manners. Ironically, his very lack of fear had betrayed him. His invulnerability had made him vulnerable. All his careful self-improvement hid nothing.
    “Well?” she said impatiently. “What do you want? You haven’t come this far just to stand here staring at me!”
    “No.” He collected himself rapidly. “No, Miss Buchan. I’m a detective. I’m trying to help Mrs. Alexandra Carlyon.” He watched her face to see how she reacted.
    “You’re wasting your time,” she said bleakly, sudden pain obliterating both her curiosity and her humor. “There’s nothing anyone can do for her, poor soul.”
    “Or for Cassian?” he asked.
    Her eyes narrowed; she looked at him in silence for several seconds. He did not turn away but met her gaze squarely.
    “What would you be trying to do for him?” she said at last.
    “See it doesn’t happen to him anymore.”
    She stood still, her shoulders stiff, her eyes on his.
    “You can’t,” she said at last. “He’ll remain in this house, with his grandfather. He has no one else now.”
    “He has his sisters.”
    She pursed her lips slowly, a new thought turning over in her mind.
    “He could go to Sabella,” he suggested tentatively.
    “You’d never prove it,” she said almost under her breath, her eyes wide. They both knew what she was referring to; there was no need to speak the words. The old colonel was in their vision as powerfully as if some aura of him were there, like a pungent smoke after a man and his cigar or pipe have passed by.
    “I might,” he said slowly. “Can I speak to Cassian?”
    “I don’t know. Depends what you want to say. I’ll not let you upset him—God knows the poor child has enough to bear, and worse to come.”
    “I won’t do more than I have to,” Monk pressed.