The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [281]
Beatrice was fully dressed for the first time in several days, but she had not yet ventured into the main rooms of the house, nor had she joined in the life of the household, except to spend a little time with her grandchildren, Julia and Arthur. She looked very pale and her features were drawn. If she felt any relief at Percival’s arrest it did not show in her expression. Her body was tense and she stood awkwardly, ill at ease. She forced a smile, bright and unnatural.
“I am so sorry. I hope you will be able to help, even if it is only with comfort and good advice. Sometimes that is all we have for each other—don’t you think?” She swung around and stared at Hester as if the answer were of intense importance to her. Then before Hester could reply she walked away and started fishing in one of her dressing table drawers searching for something.
“Of course you know the police arrested Percival and took him away last night. Mary said it wasn’t Mr. Monk. I wonder why. Do you know, Hester?”
There was no possible way Hester could have known the truth except by being privy to police affairs that she could not share.
“I have no idea, your ladyship. Perhaps he has become involved in another matter, and someone else was delegated to do this. After all, the detection has been completed—I suppose.”
Beatrice’s fingers froze and she stood perfectly still.
“You suppose? You mean it might not? What else could they want? Percival is guilty, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know.” Hester kept her voice quite light. “I assume they must believe so, or they would not have arrested him; though we cannot say beyond any possible doubt until he has been tried.”
Beatrice drew more tightly into herself. “They’ll hang him, won’t they?”
Hester felt a trifle sick. “Yes,” she agreed very quietly. Then she felt compelled to persist. “Does that distress you?”
“It shouldn’t—should it?” Beatrice sounded surprised at herself. “He murdered my daughter.”
“But it does?” Hester allowed nothing to slip by. “It is very final, isn’t it? I mean—it allows for no mistakes, no time for second thoughts on anything.”
Still Beatrice stood motionless on the spot, her hands plunged in the silks, chiffons and laces in the drawer.
“Second thoughts? What do you mean?”
Now Hester retreated. “I’m not sure. I suppose another way of looking at the evidence—perhaps if someone were lying—or remembered inaccurately—”
“You are saying that the murderer is still here—among us, Hester.” There was no panic in Beatrice’s voice, just cold pain. “And whoever it is, is calmly watching Percival go to his death on—on false evidence.”
Hester swallowed hard and found her voice difficult to force into her throat.
“I suppose whoever it is must be very frightened. Perhaps it was an accident at first—I mean it was a struggle that was not meant to end in death. Don’t you think?”
At last Beatrice turned around, her hands empty.
“You mean Myles?” she said slowly and distinctly. “You think it was Myles who went to her room and she fought with him and he took the knife from her and stabbed her, because by then he had too much to lose if she should speak against him and told everyone what had happened?” She leaned a little against the chest. “That is what they are saying happened with Percival, you know. Yes, of course you know. You are in the servants’ hall more than I am. That’s what Mary says.”
She looked down at her hands. “And it is what Romola believes. She is terribly relieved, you know. She thinks it is all over now. We can stop suspecting one another. She thought it was Septimus, you know, that Tavie discovered something about him! Which is ridiculous—she always knew his story!” She tried to laugh at the idea, and failed. “Now she imagines we will forget it all and go on just as before. We’ll forget everything we’ve learned about each other—and ourselves: the shallowness, the self-deception, how quick we are to blame someone else when