The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [203]
Monk was startled. There was no sense in it. Officers were permitted to marry, and many did.
Cyprian’s face was full of pity—and wry, deprecating humor.
“I see you don’t understand. You will. She was the colonel’s wife.”
“Oh—” There was nothing more to add. It was an offense that would be inexcusable. Honor was touched, and even more, vanity. A colonel so mortified would have no retaliation except to use his office. “I see.”
“Yes. Poor Septimus. He never loved anyone else. He was well in his forties at that time, a major with an excellent record.” He stopped speaking and they passed a man and a woman, apparently acquaintances from their polite nods. He tipped his hat and resumed only when they were out of earshot. “He could have been a colonel himself, if his family could have afforded it—but commissions aren’t cheap these days. And the higher you go—” He shrugged. “Anyway, that was the end of it. Septimus found himself middle-aged, despised and penniless. Naturally he appealed to Mama, and then came to live with us. If he gambles now and then, who’s to blame him? There’s little enough pleasure in his life.”
“But your father would not approve?”
“No he would not.” Cyprian’s face took on a sudden anger. “Especially since Uncle Septimus usually wins!”
Monk took a blind guess. “Whereas you more usually lose?”
“Not always, and nothing I can’t afford. Sometimes I win.”
“Did Mrs. Haslett know this—of either of you?”
“I never discussed it with her—but I think she probably knew, or guessed about Uncle Septimus. He used to bring her presents when he won.” His face looked suddenly bleak again. “He was very fond of her. She was easy to like, very—” He looked for the word and could not find it. “She had weaknesses that made her comfortable to talk to. She was hurt easily, but for other people, not a matter of her taking offense—Tavie never took offense.”
The pain deepened in his face and he looked intensely vulnerable. He stared straight ahead into the cold wind. “She laughed when things were funny. Nobody could tell her who to like and who not to; she made up her own mind. She cried when she was upset, but she never sulked. Lately she drank a little more than was becoming to a lady—” His mouth twisted as he self-consciously used such a euphemism. “And she was disastrously honest.” He fell silent, staring across at the wind ripples whipping the water of the Serpentine. Had it not been totally impossible that a gentleman should weep in a public place, Monk thought at that moment Cyprian might have. Whatever Cyprian knew or guessed about her death, he grieved acutely for his sister.
Monk did not intrude.
Another couple walked past them, the man in the uniform of the Hussars, the woman’s skirt fashionably fringed and fussy.
Finally Cyprian regained his self-control.
“It would have been something despicable,” he continued. “And probably still a danger to someone before Tavie would have told another person’s secret, Inspector.” He spoke with conviction. “If some servant had had an illegitimate child, or a passionate affair, Tavie was the last person who would have betrayed them to Papa—or anyone else. I don’t honestly think she would have reported a theft, unless it had been something of immense value.”
“So the secret she discovered that afternoon was no trivial one, but something of profound ugliness,” Monk said in reply.
Cyprian’s face closed. “It would seem so. I’m sorry I cannot help you any further, but I really have no idea what such a thing could be, or about whom.”
“You have made the picture much clearer with your candor. Thank you, sir.” Monk bowed very slightly, and after Cyprian’s acknowledgment, took his leave. He walked back along the Serpentine to Hyde Park Corner, but this time going briskly up Constitution Hill towards Buckingham Palace and St. James’s.
It was the middle of the afternoon when he met Sir Basil, who was coming across