William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

question. He did not think her hopelessness was due to a feeling that her confession condemned her so much as to some facts he as yet did not fully understand. But this was a place to begin.
    She smiled briefly, without light or happiness. “The best of reasons, Mr. Monk. I am guilty. I killed my husband.” Her voice was remarkably pleasing, low-pitched and a trifle husky, her diction very clear.
    Without any warning he had an overwhelming sense of having done this before. Violent emotions overwhelmed him: fear, anger, love. And then as quickly it was gone again, leaving him breathless and confused. He was staring at Alexandra Carlyon as if he had only just seen her, the details of her face sharp and surprising, not what he expected.
    “I beg your pardon?” He had missed whatever she had said.
    “I killed my husband, Mr. Monk,” she repeated.
    “Yes—yes, I heard that. What did you say next?” He shook his head as if to clear it.
    “Nothing.” She frowned very slightly, puzzled now.
    With a great effort he brought his mind back to the murder of General Carlyon.
    “I have been to see Mr. and Mrs. Furnival.”
    This time her smile was quite different; there was sharp bitterness in it, and self-mockery.
    “I wish I thought you could discover Louisa Furnival was guilty, but you cannot.” There was a catch in her voice which at any other time he could have taken for laughter. “If Thaddeus had rejected her she might have been angry, even violently so, but I doubt she ever loved anyone enough to care greatly if he loved her or not. The only person I could imagine her killing would be another woman—a really beautiful woman, perhaps, who rivaled her or threatened her well-being.” Her eyes widened as thoughts raced through her imagination. “Maybe if Maxim fell so deeply in love with someone he could not hide it—then people would know Louisa had been bested. Then she might kill.”
    “And Maxim was not fond of you?” he asked.
    There was very faint color in her cheeks, so slight he noticed it only because she was facing the small high window and the light fell directly on her.
    “Yes—yes, he was, in the past—but never to the degree where he could have left Louisa. Maxim is a very moral man. And anyway, I am alive. It is Thaddeus who is dead.” She said the last words without feeling, certainly without any shred of regret. At least there was no playacting, no hypocrisy in her, and no attempt to gain sympathy. For that he liked her.
    “I saw the balcony, and the banister where he went over.”
    She winced.
    “I assume he fell backwards?”
    “Yes.” Her voice was unsteady, little more than a whisper.
    “Onto the suit of armor?”
    “Yes.”
    “That must have made a considerable noise.”
    “Of course. I expected people to come and see what had happened—but no one did.”
    “The withdrawing room is at the back of the house. You knew that.”
    “Of course I did. I thought one of the servants might hear.”
    “Then what? You followed him down and saw he was struck senseless with the fall—and no one had come. So you picked up the halberd and drove it into his body?”
    She was white-faced, her eyes like dark holes. This time her voice would hardly come at all.
    “Yes.”
    “His chest? He was lying on his back. You did say he went over backwards?”
    “Yes.” She gulped. “Do we have to go over this? It cannot serve any purpose.”
    “You must have hated him very much.”
    “I didn’t—” She stopped, drew in her breath and went on, her eyes down, away from his. “I already told Mr. Rathbone. He was having an affair with Louisa Furnival. I was … jealous.”
    He did not believe her.
    “I also saw your daughter.”
    She froze, sitting totally immobile.
    “She was very concerned for you.” He knew he was being cruel, but he saw no alternative. He had to find the truth. With lies and defenses Rathbone might only make matters worse in court. “I am afraid my presence seemed to precipitate a quarrel between her and her husband.”
    She glared at him fiercely. For the first time there was real, violent emotion in her.
    “You had no right to go to her! She is ill—and she has just lost her father. Whatever he was to me, he was her father. You …” She stopped, perhaps aware of the absurdity of her position, if indeed it was she who had killed the general.
    “She did not seem greatly distressed by his death,” he said deliberately, watching not only her face but also the