The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [231]
The last suggestion was the only one Hester thought suitable to report to Monk when he called and insisted on interviewing all the staff again, including the new nurse, even though it was pointed out to him that she had not been present at the time of the crime.
“Forget the kitchen gossip. What is your own opinion?” he asked her, his voice low so no servants passing beyond the housekeeper’s sitting room door might overhear them. She frowned and hesitated, trying to find words to convey the extraordinary feeling of embarrassment and unease she had experienced in the library as Araminta swept out.
“Hester?”
“I am not sure,” she said slowly. “Mr. Kellard was frightened, that I have no doubt of, but I could not even guess whether it was guilt over having murdered Octavia or simply having made some improper advance towards her—or even just fear because it was quite apparent that his wife took a certain pleasure in the whole possibility that he might be suspected quite gravely—even accused. She was—” She thought again before using the word, it was too melodramatic, then could find none more appropriate. “She was torturing him. Of course,” she hurried on, “I do not know how she would react if you were to charge him. She might simply be doing this as some punishment for a private quarrel, and she may defend him to the death from outsiders.”
“Do you think she believes him guilty?” He stood against the mantel shelf, hands in his pockets, face puckered with concentration.
She had thought hard about this ever since the incident, and her reply was ready on her lips.
“She is not afraid of him, of that I am certain. But there is a deep emotion there which has a bitterness to it, and I think he is more afraid of her—but I don’t know if that has anything to do with Octavia’s death or is simply that she has the power to hurt him.”
She took a deep breath. “It must be extremely difficult for him, living in his father-in-law’s house and in a very real way being under his jurisdiction and constantly obliged to please him or face very considerable unpleasantness. And Sir Basil does seem to rule with a heavy hand, from what I have seen.” She sat sideways on the arm of one of the chairs, an attitude which would have sent Mrs. Willis into a rage, both for its unladylike pose and for the harm she was sure it would do to the chair.
“I have not seen much of Mr. Thirsk or Mrs. Sandeman yet. She leads quite a busy life, and perhaps I am maligning her, but I am sure she drinks. I have seen enough of it in the war to recognize the signs, even in highly unlikely people. I saw her yesterday morning with a fearful headache which, from the pattern of her recovery, was not any ordinary illness. But I may be hasty; I only met her on the landing as I was going in to Lady Moidore.”
He smiled very slightly. “And what do you think of Lady Moidore?”
Every vestige of humor vanished from her face. “I think she is very frightened. She knows or believes something which is so appalling that she dare not confront it, yet neither can she put it from her mind—”
“That it was Myles Kellard who killed Octavia?” he asked, stepping forward a pace. “Hester—be careful!” He took her arm and held it hard, the pressure of his fingers so strong as to be almost painful. “Watch and listen as your opportunities allow, but do not ask anything! Do you hear me?”
She backed away, rubbing her arm. “Of course I hear you. You requested me to help—I am doing so. I have no intention of asking any questions—they would not answer them anyway but would dismiss me for being impertinent and intrusive. I am a servant here.”
“What about the servants?” He did not move away but remained close to her. “Be careful of the menservants, Hester, particularly the footmen. It is quite likely one of them had amorous ideas about Octavia, and misunderstood”—he shrugged—“or even understood correctly, and she got tired of the affair—”
“Good heavens. You are no better than Myles Kellard,” she snapped