The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [284]
Now the people at all the tables in the immediate vicinity had stopped eating or drinking and were staring at them.
“I refuse your condescending interference,” he said. “You should marry some poor devil and concentrate your managerial skills on one man and leave the rest of us in peace.”
She knew precisely what was hurting him, the fear of the future when he had not even the experience of the past to draw on, the specter of hunger and homelessness ahead, the sense of failure. She struck where it would wound the most surely, and perhaps eventually do the most good.
“Self-pity does not become you, nor does it serve any purpose,” she said quietly, aware now of the people around them. “And please lower your voice. If you expect me to be sorry for you, you are wasting your time. Your situation is of your own making, and not markedly worse than mine—which was also of my own making, I am aware.” She stopped, seeing the overwhelming fury in his face. She was afraid for a moment she had really gone too far.
“You—” he began. Then very slowly the rage died away and was replaced by a sharp humor, so hard as to be almost sweet, like a clean wind off the sea. “You have a genius for saying the worst possible thing in any given situation,” he finished. “I should imagine a good many patients have taken up their beds and walked, simply to be free of your ministrations and go where they could suffer in peace.”
“That is very cruel,” she said a little huffily. “I have never been harsh to someone I believed to be genuinely in distress—”
“Oh.” His eyebrows rose dramatically. “You think my predicament is not real?”
“Of course your predicament is real,” she said. “But your anguish over it is unhelpful. You have talents, in spite of the Queen Anne Street case. You must find a way to use them for remuneration.” She warmed to the subject. “Surely there are cases the police cannot solve—either they are too difficult or they do not fall within their scope to handle? Are there not miscarriages of justice—” That thought brought her back to Percival again, and without waiting for his reply she hurried on. “What are we going to do about Percival? I am even more sure after speaking to Lady Moidore this morning that there is grave doubt as to whether he had anything to do with Octavia’s death.”
At last the waiter managed to intrude, and Monk ordered chocolate for her, insisting on paying for it, overriding her protest with more haste than courtesy.
“Continue to look for proof, I suppose,” he said when the matter was settled and she began to sip at the steaming liquid. “Although if I knew where or what I should have looked already.”
“I suppose it must be Myles,” she said thoughtfully. “Or Araminta—if Octavia were not as reluctant as we have been led to suppose. She might have known they had an assignation and taken the kitchen knife along, deliberately meaning to kill her.”
“Then presumably Myles Kellard would know it,” Monk argued. “Or have a very strong suspicion. And from what you said he is more afraid of her than she of him.”
She smiled. “If my wife had just killed my mistress with a carving knife I would be more than a trifle nervous, wouldn’t you?” But she did not mean it, and she saw from his face that he knew it as well as she. “Or perhaps it was Fenella?” she went on. “I think she has the stomach for such a thing, if she had the motive.”
“Well, not out of lust for the footman,” Monk replied. “And I doubt Octavia knew anything about her so shocking that Basil would have thrown her out for it. Unless there is a whole avenue we have not explored.”
Hester drank the last of her