William Monk 04 - A Sudden Fearful Death

him as if the very walls were as soaked with pain as the linens and the table were with blood. Even the Whitechapel Road with its grime and poverty would be better than this. It choked him and felt thick in his nostrils and he could taste it at the back of his throat. “Thank you.” It was a ridiculous thing to say to her; it was merely a way of closing the encounter. He turned on his heel and flung the door open, strode through the butcher’s shop and outside into the street, taking in long gasps of air. Leaden with the smells of smoke and drains as it was, it was still infinitely better than that abominable kitchen.
    He would go on looking, but first he must get out of Whitechapel altogether. There was no point in looking to the back-street abortionists, thank God. Stanhope would never have trusted his business to them: they would betray him as quickly as thought—he took some of their best paying customers. He would be a fool to lay his life in their hands. The opportunities to blackmail for half his profit were too rich to pass up—half or more! He would have to look higher in society, if he could think of a way.
    There was no time for subtlety. Maybe there was only a day, two at the most.
    Callandra! She might know something, and there was no better person to ask. It would mean telling her that Sir Herbert was guilty, and how they knew, but there was no time or opportunity to ask Rathbone’s permission. He had told Monk because Monk was his employee in this case, andbound by the same rules of confidentiality. Callandra was not. But that was a nicety Monk did not give a damn about. Sir Herbert could complain from the gallows steps!
    It was late when Monk delivered his news, after six in the evening.
    Callandra was horrified when the full impact struck her of what he had said. He had left with what little advice she could give, his face pale and set in an expression which frightened her. Now she was alone in her comfortable room lit by the fading sun, with a dark weight of knowledge. A week ago it would have made her heart sing, simply with the sheer certainty that Kristian was not guilty of Prudence’s death. Now all she could think of was that Sir Herbert would almost certainly walk free—and more oppressive yet, of the pain that hung over Lady Stanhope, a new grief which she must face. Whether she would ever know that Sir Herbert was guilty of murder, Callandra could only guess, probably not. But she must be told that her eldest son had been the father of Victoria’s aborted child. The act of incest was not often a sole event. Her other daughters stood in danger of the same crippling tragedy.
    There was no way to ease the telling, nothing Callandra could think of or imagine which would make it bearable. And there was no point in sitting here in her soft chair amid the bowls of flowers and the books and cushions, the cats asleep in the sun and the dog looking at her hopefully with one eye, in case she should decide to walk.
    She rose and went to the hall, calling for the butler and the footman. She would take the carriage to Lady Stanhope’s house now. It was an uncivil time for calling, and it was unlikely Lady Stanhope was receiving visitors in the circumstances anyway, but she was prepared to force the issue if that was necessary. She was wearing a very simple afternoon dress, fashionable two years ago, and it did not occur to her to change.
    She rode in the carriage deep in thought, and was startled to be told she had arrived. She instructed the coachman towait, alighted without assistance, and went straight to the front door. It was handsome, discreet, speaking of a great deal of money. She noted it absently, aware with bitterness that Sir Herbert would keep all this, probably even with his reputation little damaged. It gave her no satisfaction that his personal life would be scarred forever. All her thoughts were filled with the pain she was about to inflict upon his wife.
    She rang the bell, and it was answered by a footman. Perhaps in these anguished times the women were being kept in the rear of the house. It might be deemed better for a man to deal with the curious and tasteless who might call.
    “Yes ma’am?” he said guardedly.
    “Lady Callandra Daviot,” Callandra said briskly, passing him her card. “I have a matter of extreme urgency to discuss with Lady Stanhope, and I regret it cannot wait until a more fortunate time. Will you inform her that I am here.” It was an order, not a