The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [155]
The silence was like a slow pain, growing with each second.
Menard looked at his mother and she saw the movement of his head, and turned her face away, slowly and deliberately.
“Yes,” Menard said at last. “Yes I did. He was despicable. It wasn’t only what he had done to Edward Dawlish, or me, but what he was going to go on doing. He had to be stopped—before it became public, and the name of Grey was a byword for a man who cheats the families of his dead comrades-in-arms, a more subtle and painful version of those who crawl over the battlefield the morning after and rob the corpses of the fallen.”
Callandra walked over to him and put her hand on his arm.
“We will get the best legal defense available,” she said very quietly. “You had a great deal of provocation. I think they will not find murder.”
“We will not.” Fabia’s voice was a mere crackle, almost a sob, and she looked at Menard with terrible hatred.
“I will,” Callandra corrected. “I have quite sufficient means.” She turned back to Menard again. “I will not leave you alone, my dear. I imagine you will have to go with Mr. Monk now—but I will do all that is necessary, I promise you.”
Menard held her hand for a moment; something crossed his lips that was almost a smile. Then he turned to Monk.
“I am ready.”
Evan was standing by the door with the manacles in his pocket. Monk shook his head, and Menard walked out slowly between them. The last thing Monk heard was Hester’s voice as she stood next to Callandra.
“I will testify for him. When the jury hears what Joscelin did to my family, they may understand—”
Monk caught Evan’s eye and felt a lift of hope. If Hester Latterly fought for Menard, the battle could not easily be lost. His hand held Menard’s arm—but gently.
A DANGEROUS MOURNING
To John and Mary MacKenzie,
and my friends in Alness,
for making me welcome
1
“GOOD MORNING, Monk,” Runcorn said with satisfaction spreading over his strong, narrow features. His wing collar was a trifle askew and apparently pinched him now and again. “Go over to Queen Anne Street. Sir Basil Moidore.” He said the name as though it were long familiar to him, and watched Monk’s face to see if he registered ignorance. He saw nothing, and continued rather more waspishly. “Sir Basil’s widowed daughter, Octavia Haslett, was found stabbed to death. Looks like a burglar was rifling her jewelry and she woke and caught him.” His smile tightened. “You’re supposed to be the best detective we’ve got—go and see if you can do better with this than you did with the Grey case!”
Monk knew precisely what he meant. Don’t upset the family; they are quality, and we are very definitely not. Be properly respectful, not only in what you say, how you stand, or whether you meet their eyes, but more importantly in what you discover.
Since he had no choice, Monk accepted with a look of bland unconcern, as if he had not understood the implications.
“Yes sir. What number in Queen Anne Street?”
“Number Ten. Take Evan with you. I daresay by the time you get there, there’ll be some medical opinion as to the time of her death and kind of weapon used. Well, don’t stand there, man! Get on with it!”
Monk turned on his heel without allowing time for Runcorn to add any more, and strode out, saying “Yes sir” almost under his breath. He closed the door with a sharpness very close to a slam.
Evan was coming up the stairs towards him, his sensitive, mobile face expectant.
“Murder in Queen Anne Street.” Monk’s irritation eased away. He liked Evan more than anyone else he could remember, and since his memory extended only as far back as the morning he had woken in the hospital four months ago, mistaking it at first for the poorhouse, that friendship was unusually precious to him. He also trusted Evan, one of only two people who knew the utter blank of his life. The other person, Hester