• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“You think Octavia was killed because she knew someone’s secret about—” He shrugged. “What? What could one of our servants have done that—” He stopped. It was apparent from his eyes that his question was answered in his imagination and he preferred not to speak it. “Tavie said nothing to me. But then I was out most of the day. I wrote a few letters in the morning, then about eleven I went to my club in Piccadilly for luncheon and spent the afternoon with Lord Ainslie, talking about cattle, mostly. He has some stock, and I considered buying some. We keep a large estate in Hertfordshire.”

Monk had a rapid impression that Cyprian was lying, not about the meeting but about the subject of it.

“Damned Owenite politician!” Basil said with a flash of temper. “Have us all living in communities like farm animals.”

“Not at all!” Cyprian retorted. “His thoughts are—”

“You were here at dinner,” Basil overrode him curtly before he could form his argument. “Didn’t you see Octavia then?”

“Only at table,” Cyprian said with an edge to his voice. “And if you recall, Tavie barely spoke—to me, or to anyone else.”

Basil turned from the fireplace and looked at Monk.

“My daughter was not always in the best of health. I think on that occasion she was feeling unwell. She certainly was extremely quiet and seemed in some distress.” He put his hands back in his pockets. “I assumed at the time she had a headache, but looking back now, perhaps she was aware of some ugly secret and it consumed her thoughts. Although she can hardly have realized the danger it represented.”

“I wish to God she had told someone,” Cyprian said with sudden passion. There was no need to add all the tumult of feelings that lay behind it, the regret and the sense of having failed. It lay heavy in his voice and in the strain in his features.

Before the elder Moidore replied there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” he said, raising his head sharply, irked by the intrusion.

Monk wondered for a moment who the woman was, then as Cyprian’s expression changed, he remembered meeting her in the withdrawing room the first morning: Romola Moidore. This time she looked less drained with shock; her skin had a bloom to it and her complexion was flawless. Her features were regular, her eyes wide and her hair thick. The only thing which prevented her from being a beauty was a suggestion of sulkiness about the mouth, a feeling that her good temper was not to be relied on. She looked at Monk with surprise. Obviously she did not remember him.

“Inspector Monk,” Cyprian supplied. Then, when her face did not clear: “Of the police.” He glanced at Monk, and for a moment there was a bright intelligence in his eyes. He was leaving Monk to make whatever impact he chose.

Basil immediately spoiled it by explaining.

“Whoever killed Octavia is someone who lives in this house. That means one of the servants.” His eyes were on her face, his voice careful. “The only reason that makes any sense is if one of them has a secret so shameful they would rather commit murder than have it revealed. Either Octavia knew this secret or they believed she did.”

Romola sat down sharply, the color fading from her cheeks, and she put her hand to her mouth, but her eyes did not leave Basil’s face. Never once did she look to her husband.

Cyprian glared at his father, who looked back at him boldly—and with something that Monk thought might well be dislike. He wished he could remember his own father, but rack his memory as he might, nothing came back but a faint blur, an impression of size and the smell of salt and tobacco, and the touch of beard, and skin softer than he expected. Nothing returned of the man, his voice, his words, a face. Monk had no real idea, only a few sentences from his sister, and a smile as if there were something familiar and precious.

Romola was speaking, her voice scratchy with fear.

“Here in the house?” She looked at Monk, although she was speaking to Cyprian. “One of the servants?”

“There doesn’t seem to be any other explanation,