The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [198]
She was startled to see him, and not at all pleased. However there was nowhere for her to go to avoid him without being obvious, and perhaps she bore in mind her father-in-law’s strictures that they were all to be helpful. He had not said so in so many words in Monk’s hearing, but his implication was obvious.
“Good morning, Mr. Monk,” she said coolly, standing quite still and facing him as if he were a stray dog that had approached too close and should be warded off with the fringed umbrella which she held firmly in her right hand, its point a little above the ground, ready to jab at him.
“Good morning, Mrs. Moidore,” he replied, inclining his head a little in politeness.
“I really don’t know anything of use to you.” She tried to avoid the issue even now, as if he might go away. “I have no idea at all what can have happened. I still think you must have made a mistake—or been misled—”
“Were you fond of your sister-in-law, Mrs. Moidore?” he asked conversationally.
She tried to remain facing him, then decided she might as well walk, since it seemed he was determined to. She resented promenading with a policeman, as though he were a social acquaintance, and it showed in her face; although no one else would have known his station, certainly his clothes were almost as well cut and as fashionable as hers, and his bearing every bit as assured.
“Of course I was,” she retorted hotly. “If I knew anything, I should not defend her attacker for an instant. I simply do not know.”
“I do not doubt your honesty—or your indignation, ma’am,” he said, although it was not entirely true. He trusted no one so far. “I was thinking that if you were fond of her, then you will have known her well. What kind of person was she?”
Romola was taken by surprise; the question was not what she had been expecting.
“I—well—it is very hard to say,” she protested. “Really, that is a most unfair question. Poor Octavia is dead. It is most indecent to speak of the dead in anything but the kindest of terms, especially when they have died so terribly.”
“I commend your delicacy, Mrs. Moidore,” he replied with forced patience, measuring his step to hers. “But I believe at the moment truth, however tasteless, would serve her better. And since it seems an unavoidable conclusion that whoever murdered her is still in your house, you could be excused for placing your own safety, and that of your children, to the forefront of your thoughts.”
That stopped her as if she had walked straight into one of the trees along the border. She drew in her breath sharply and almost cried out, then remembered the other passersby just in time and bit her knuckles instead.
“What kind of person was Mrs. Haslett?” Monk asked again.
She resumed her slow pace along the path, her face very pale, her skirts brushing the gravel.
“She was very emotional, very impulsive,” she replied after only the briefest thought. “When she fell in love with Harry Haslett her family disapproved, but she was absolutely determined. She refused to consider anyone else. I have always been surprised that Sir Basil permitted it, but I suppose it was a perfectly acceptable match, and Lady Moidore approved. His family was excellent, and he had reasonable prospects for the future—” She shrugged. “Somewhat distant, but Octavia was a younger daughter, who could reasonably expect to have to wait.”
“Had he an unfortunate reputation?” Monk asked.
“Not that I ever heard.”
“Then why was Sir Basil so against the match? If he was of good family and had expectations, surely he would be agreeable?”
“I think it was a matter of personality. I know Sir Basil had been at school with his father and did not care for him. He was a year or two older, and a most successful person.” She shrugged very slightly. “Sir Basil never said so, of course, but perhaps he cheated? Or in some other way that a gentleman would not mention, behaved dishonorably?” She looked straight ahead of her. A party