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“It is only a possibility!” he hissed sharply. “Keep your voice down. For all we know there may be a row of eavesdroppers at the door. Does your bedroom have a lock?”

“No.”

“Then put a chair behind the handle.”

“I hardly think—” Then she remembered that Octavia Haslett had been murdered in her bedroom in the middle of the night, and she found she was shaking in spite of herself.

“It is someone in this house!” Monk repeated, watching her closely.

“Yes,” she said obediently. “Yes, I know that. We all know that—that is what is so terrible.”

6

HESTER LEFT her interview with Monk considerably chastened. Seeing him again had reminded her that this was not an ordinary household, and the difference of opinion, the quarrels, which seemed a trivial nastiness, in one case had been so deep they had led to violent and treacherous death. One of those people she looked at across the meal table, or passed on the stairs, had stabbed Octavia in the night and left her to bleed.

It made her a little sick as she returned to Beatrice’s bedroom and knocked on the door before entering. Beatrice was standing by the window staring out into the remains of the autumn garden and watching the gardener’s boy sweeping up the fallen leaves and pulling a few last weeds from around the Michaelmas daisies. Arthur, his hair blowing in the wind, was helping with the solemnity of a ten-year-old. Beatrice turned as Hester came in, her face pale, her eyes wide and anxious.

“You look distressed,” she said, staring at Hester. She walked over to the dressing chair but did not sit, as if the chair would imprison her and she desired the freedom to move suddenly. “Why did the police want to see you? You weren’t here when—when Tavie was killed.”

“No, Lady Moidore.” Hester’s mind raced for a reason which would be believed, and perhaps which might even prompt Beatrice to yield something of the fear Hester was sure so troubled her. “I am not entirely certain, but I believe he thought I might have observed something since I came. And I have no cause for prevaricating, insofar as I could not fear he might accuse me.”

“Who do you think is lying?” Beatrice asked.

Hester hesitated very slightly and moved to tidy the bed, plump up the pillows and generally appear to be working. “I don’t know, but it is quite certain that someone must be.”

Beatrice looked startled, as though it were not an answer she had foreseen.

“You mean someone is protecting the murderer? Why? Who would do such a thing and why? What reason could they have?”

Hester tried to excuse herself. “I meant merely that since it is someone in the house, that person is lying to protect himself.” Then she realized the opportunity she had very nearly lost. “Although when you mention it, you are quite right, it seems most unlikely that no one else has any idea who it is, or why. I daresay several people are evading the truth, one way or another.” She glanced up from the bed at Beatrice. “Wouldn’t you, Lady Moidore?”

Beatrice hesitated. “I fear so,” she said very quietly.

“If you ask me who,” Hester went on, disregarding the fact that no one had asked her, “I have formed very few opinions. I can easily imagine why some people would hide a truth they knew, or suspected, in order to protect someone they cared for—” She watched Beatrice’s face and saw the muscles tighten as if pain had caught her unaware. “I would hesitate to say something,” Hester continued, “which might cause an unjustified suspicion—and therefore a great deal of distress. For example, an affection that might have been misunderstood—”

Beatrice stared back at her, wide-eyed. “Did you say that to Mr. Monk?”

“Oh no,” Hester replied demurely. “He might have thought I had someone in particular in mind.”

Beatrice smiled very slightly. She walked back towards the bed and lay on it, weary not in body but in mind, and Hester gently pulled the covers over her, trying to hide her own impatience. She was convinced Beatrice knew something, and every day that passed in silence was adding to the