William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

but she could hardly ask Hester to leave, unless she was prepared to be inexplicably rude. “It is something of which I have no knowledge.”
    “I hope you never have to,” Hester said warmly. “I learned when I was caring for injured soldiers, and those facing death on the battlefield.” She saw Jenny’s face pinch with momentary pity. “When one is facing decisions that are almost unbearable,” Hester went on, as if now there was some kind of bond between them, “some of us do not easily find the courage to do what is right, if it might cost us all we hold dear. I am sure you have the sensitivity to understand that, Mrs. Argyll.”
    “I…er…” Jenny appeared to know that the conversation was leading somewhere she did not wish to go. There was a purpose in Hester’s bearing she could not have mistaken. This was no idle call.
    Hester forced open the crack of opportunity. “I am sure you are looking for the kindest way to enquire how poor Rose is this morning,” she lied. “I have been to see her; she is in great discomfort, but it will pass. I don’t believe any physical damage has been done to her, but the injury to her reputation will never heal.”
    “I imagine not,” Jenny agreed. At last she was on more familiar ground. “Society could hardly forget or overlook what she did. I…I hope you are not considering asking my help.” Jenny swallowed. “I have no influence in such matters.”
    “I wouldn’t think of it!” Hester said quickly. “I have no idea what anyone could do that would help, or the faintest reason why you should compromise your own standing by attempting it.”
    Jenny relaxed visibly, something of the natural color returning to her cheeks. She unbent far enough to invite Hester to sit down, and did so herself. “I think her best course would be to retire from society,” she added.
    “I agree entirely,” Hester concurred. “I knew you would have the compassion and the delicacy to understand.”
    Jenny looked pleased but confused.
    “I am so sorry,” Hester added.
    “Sorry?”
    “Rose did not drink alcohol intentionally,” Hester explained. “Or even knowingly. It was given to her by someone who wished to discredit her to a degree where she would not be able to appear in public in the foreseeable future.” She had already decided that to blame Argyll immediately would be very bad strategy. She must adopt the line taken by the prosecution, the newspapers, and public opinion in general.
    Jenny paled. “Why on earth do you think that? Surely…surely if she has such a…weakness…” She left the rest unsaid.
    Hester frowned, as if concentrating. “She must have been aware of her trouble,” she replied. “It can hardly have happened in public recently, or we would all know of it; therefore it took her by surprise also. Someone else caused it. She drank only lemonade.”
    Jenny stared at her. She took several long breaths, steadying herself. “There is always the pastries,” she suggested, her voice a little husky. “Some cooks mix the dried fruits with brandy, or the creams with liqueur.”
    Hester had not eaten them, but she should have thought of that. So should have Rose! “Would…would it be enough?” she said, to fill the growing silence. She was playing a game of wits, and she had no time to spin it out. The trial was drawing closer to its verdict, which would be issued any day. Rathbone’s time was short, and once the defense started he might not be able to introduce new evidence. She hated having to be so brutal.
    Jenny shook her head. “I have no idea. It would seem so. What we saw was…irrefutable. I’m afraid the poor woman was very intoxicated indeed.” She thought for a moment. “I’m so sorry.”
    Hester’s mind raced. She must be able to use Jenny’s pity, turn it into a feeling of guilt. She had no doubt it was Alan Argyll who had killed Havilland, morally if not physically, and with great skill caused Sixsmith to be blamed.
    “Of course,” she agreed aloud. “Sometimes the results of our actions are not even remotely as we have imagined they would be.” She was moving towards the subject of Jenny’s letter to her father, approaching it softly.
    Jenny paled. Her hands moved on the black fabric of her skirt, not quite clutching it, then deliberately relaxing again. There was effort in it, control. “I am sure she can have no idea that a few pastries would do such a thing.”
    “It was after her lemonade, before the