The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [234]
Now Beatrice sat propped up against her pillows and ate the cold mutton with pleasure.
Basil looked at it disapprovingly. “Is that not rather heavy for an invalid? Let me send for something better, my dear—” He reached for the bell without waiting for her answer.
“I like it,” she said with a flash of anger. “There is nothing wrong with my digestion. Hester got it for me and it is not Mrs. Boden’s fault. She’d have sent me more rice pudding if I had let her.”
“Hester?” He frowned. “Oh—the nurse.” He spoke as if she were not there, or could not hear him. “Well—I suppose if you wish it.”
“I do.” She ate a few more mouthfuls before speaking again. “I assume Mr. Monk is still coming?”
“Of course. But he seems to be accomplishing singularly little—indeed I have seen no signs that he has achieved anything at all. He keeps questioning the servants. We shall be fortunate if they do not all give notice when this is over.” He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and put his fingertips together. “I have no idea how he hopes to come to any resolution. I think, my dear, you may have to prepare yourself for facing the fact that we may never know who it was.” He was watching her and saw the sudden tightening, the hunch of her shoulders and the knuckles white where she held the knife. “Of course I have certain ideas,” he went on. “I cannot imagine it was any of the female staff—”
“Why not?” she asked. “Why not, Basil? It is perfectly possible for a woman to stab someone with a knife. It doesn’t take a great deal of strength; And Octavia would be far less likely to fear a woman in her room in the middle of the night than a man.”
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “Really, Beatrice, don’t you think it is time to accept a few truths about Octavia? She had been widowed nearly two years. She was a young woman in the prime of her life—”
“So she had an affair with the footman!” Beatrice said furiously, her eyes wide, her voice cutting in its scorn. “Is that what you think of your daughter, Basil? If anyone in this house is reduced to finding their pleasure with a servant, it is far more likely to be Fenella! Except that I doubt she would ever have inspired a passion which drove anyone to murder—unless it was to murder her. Nor would she have changed her mind and resisted at the last moment. I doubt Fenella ever declined anyone—” Her face twisted in distaste and incomprehension.
His expression mirrored an equal disgust, mixed with an anger that was no sudden flash but came from deep within him.
“Vulgarity is most unbecoming, Beatrice, and even this tragedy is no excuse for it. I shall admonish Fenella if I think the occasion warrants it. I take it you are not suggesting Fenella killed Octavia in a fit of jealousy over the attentions of the footman?”
It was obviously intended as sarcasm, but she took it literally.
“I was not suggesting it,” she agreed. “But now that you raise the thought, it does not seem impossible. Percival is a good-looking young man, and I have observed Fenella regarding him with appreciation.” Her face puckered and she shuddered very slightly. “I know it is revolting—” She stared beyond him to the dressing table with its cut glass containers and silver-topped bottles neatly arranged. “But there is a streak of viciousness in Fenella—”
He stood up and turned his back to her, looking out of the window, still apparently oblivious of Hester standing in the dressing room doorway with a peignoir over her arm and a clothes brush in her hand.
“You are a great deal more fastidious than most women, Beatrice,” he said flatly. “I think sometimes you do not know the difference between restraint and abstemiousness.