The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [264]
“Seventeen—and I’m afraid I don’t know what she looked like—except she was a parlormaid, so I expect she was handsome, and possibly tall.”
“We’ve got a Martha about that age, with a baby. Can’t remember her other name, but I’ll send for her. You can ask her,” the master offered.
“Couldn’t you take me to her?” Monk suggested. “Don’t want to make her feel—” He stopped, uncertain what word to choose.
The workhouse master smiled wryly. “More likely she’ll feel like talking away from the other women. But whatever you like.”
Monk was happy to concede. He had no desire to see more of the workhouse than he had to. Already the smell of the place—overboiled cabbage, dust and blocked drains—was clinging in his nose, and the misery choked him.
“Yes—thank you. I don’t doubt you’re right.”
The workhouse master disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with a thin girl with stooped shoulders and a pale, waxen face. Her brown hair was thick but dull, and her wide blue eyes had no life in them. It was not hard to imagine that two years ago she might have been beautiful, but now she was apathetic and she stared at Monk with neither intelligence nor interest, her arms folded under the bib of her uniform apron, her gray stuff dress ill fitting and harsh.
“Yes sir?” she said obediently.
“Martha.” Monk spoke very gently. The pity he felt was like a pain in his stomach, churning and sick. “Martha, did you work for Sir Basil Moidore about two years ago?”
“I didn’t take anything.” There was no protest in her voice, simply a statement of fact.
“No, I know you didn’t,” he said quickly. “What I want to know is did Mr. Kellard pay you any attention that was more than you wished?” What a mealymouthed way of expressing himself, but he was afraid of being misunderstood, of having her think he was accusing her of lying, troublemaking, raking up old and useless accusations no one would believe, and perhaps being further punished for slander. He watched her face closely, but he saw no deep emotion in it, only a flicker, too slight for him to know what it meant. “Did he, Martha?”
She was undecided, staring at him mutely. Misfortune and workhouse life had robbed her of any will to fight.
“Martha,” he said very softly. “He may have forced himself on someone else, not a maid this time, but a lady. I need to know if you were willing or not—and I need to know if it was him or if it was really someone else?”
She looked at him silently, but this time there was a spark in her eyes, a little life.
He waited.
“Does she say that?” she said at last. “Does she say she weren’t willing?”
“She doesn’t say anything—she’s dead.”
Her eyes grew huge with horror—and dawning realization, as memory became sharp and focused again.
“He killed her?”
“I don’t know,” he said frankly. “Was he rough with you?” She nodded, the memory of pain sharp in her face and fear rekindling as she thought of it again. “Yes.”
“Did you tell anyone that?”
“What’s the point? They didn’t even believe me I was unwilling. They said I was loose-tongued, a troublemaker and no better than I should be. They dismissed me without a character. I couldn’t get another position. No one would take me on with no character. An’ I was with child—” Her eyes hazed over with tears, and suddenly there was life there again, passion and tenderness.
“Your child?” he asked, although he was afraid to know. He felt himself cringe inside as if waiting for the blow.
“She’s here, with the other babes,” she said quietly. “I get to see her now and again, but she’s not strong. How could she be, born and raised here?”
Monk determined to speak to Callandra Daviot. Surely she could use another servant for something? Martha Rivett was one among tens of thousands, but even one saved from this was better than nothing.
“He was violent with you?” he repeated. “And you made it quite plain you didn’t want his attentions?”
“He didn’t believe me—he didn’t think any woman meant it when she said no,” she replied with a faint, twisted smile. “Even Miss Araminta. He said she liked to be took—but I don’t believe