William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

than we heard it from Athol.” She flinched minutely as she spoke his name, more of remembered pain than dislike. She had known him too long not to understand at least part of the prejudices which drove him. “What will happen to Mr. Wolff?” she asked very quietly. “They can’t hurt him, can they?”
    Gabriel was watching Monk as well, a shadow of concern in his eyes. Odd how beautiful and clear they were above his disfigured face. Monk found himself no longer surprised or horrified by it. Of course, he had never known him before, and that must make a shattering difference. If he had loved a beautiful woman, how would he feel if she were scarred like that? Would he still be in love with her, or only care as a friend?
    Hester was not beautiful … except for her eyes, and her mouth when she was thinking, and when she smiled, and her hands. She had the loveliest hands he had ever seen, not soft and white as fashion admired, but slender, delicate and very strong, perfectly balanced.
    Perdita was waiting.
    “No …” he said abruptly. “No, it’s not a crime to allowsomeone to masquerade as a man while being a woman. Unless it is for the purpose of fraud, of course.”
    “But this wasn’t!” Perdita said quickly. “She was selling her designs to Mr. Lambert, and it shouldn’t matter whether she was a man or a woman for that!”
    “Mr. Lambert won’t take the matter any further,” Monk said with a smile. “Unless he can blame someone for her death—then he will.”
    Gabriel was surprised. “Can he?”
    Monk shrugged. “I doubt it. I thought for a little while it might somehow be murder, but that doesn’t make sense, either for motive or opportunity.”
    “I suppose we should be pleased … I think.” Hester came farther into the room at last. She met Monk’s eyes, searching, behind her words, to see what he felt. “I don’t know if I am. I hate to think of her … so …” She did not finish the sentence.
    Gabriel shot a glance at her over Perdita’s head, but Perdita turned also.
    “I know what you mean,” she agreed. “But we cannot help. If you wish to see Mr. Monk alone for a little while, I shall stay and keep Gabriel company.” She smiled self-consciously. “For once we were not talking about India. I have plans to alter the garden a little and I was telling him about it. I shall draw it out, once he agrees. Perhaps I shall even paint it.”
    Monk bade them good-bye, and Hester took him to the withdrawing room, where the parlormaid served them with tea and hot buttered crumpets. Monk was surprised how much he enjoyed them. He had been too angry and disturbed to think of luncheon.
    “So there’s really nothing more you can do for Keelin Melville, is there?” Hester asked, biting into her crumpet and trying very carefully not to drop butter down herself.
    “No, it seems to be finished,” he agreed. “Gabriel is correct: there are some things we’ll never know, and we don’t have any right to.” He took a second crumpet.
    “What are you going to tell Mr. Lambert?”
    He looked at her across the tea tray. What did she expect of him? There was nothing to follow, nothing else to pursue.
    She was waiting, as though his answer mattered.
    “Nothing!” he said a little sharply.
    “What other cases have you?” She looked interested, holding the crumpet up regardless of the butter dripping onto the plate.
    “Nothing of any interest,” he said ruefully. “Trivial things which won’t mean anything, people looking for fault when there is only error or inarticulateness.” The prospect was tedious but unavoidable. It was part of the daily routine between the larger cases, and it paid his way so well that he relied very little on Callandra Daviot’s kindness now. Their original agreement—that he would include her in all the cases of complexity or unusual interest as reciprocation for her assistance in times of hardship—had worked extremely well, to both their advantage.
    “Oh, good.” Hester smiled and put the rest of the crumpet into her mouth before it lost all its butter. “Then you will have time to look a little further for Martha’s nieces.”
    He should have known she was leading to that. He should have foreseen it and avoided it. How naive of him.
    The smile was still on her face, but less certain, and her eyes were very direct.
    “Please?” She did not use his name or stretch out her hand to touch him. It would have been easier to refuse if she had.