The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [285]
“No,” he said sharply. Then he looked down at his own glass on the table in front of him. “It is possible that Percival is guilty; it is simply that I do not feel that what we have is proof. We should respect not only the facts but the law. If we do not, then we lay ourselves open to every man’s judgment of what may be true or false; and a belief of guilt will become the same thing as proof. There must be something above individual judgment, however passionately felt, or we become barbarous again.”
“Of course he may be guilty,” she said very quietly. “I have always known that. But I shall not let it go by default as long as I can remain in Queen Anne Street and learn anything at all. If I do find anything, I shall have to write to you, because neither you nor Sergeant Evan will be there. Where may I send a letter, so that the rest of the household will not know it is to you?”
He looked puzzled for a moment.
“I do not post my own mail,” she said with a flicker of impatience. “I seldom leave the house. I shall merely put it on the hall table and the footman or the bootboy will take it.”
“Oh—of course. Send it to Mr.—” He hesitated, a shadow of a smile crossing his face. “Send it to Mr. Buder—let us move up a rung on the social ladder. At my address in Grafton Street. I shall be there for a few weeks yet.”
She met his eyes for a moment of clear and total understanding, then rose and took her leave. She did not tell him she was going to make use of the rest of the afternoon to see Callandra Daviot. He might have thought she was going to ask for help for him, which was exactly what she intended to do, but not with his knowledge. He would refuse beforehand, out of pride; when it was a fait accompli he would be obliged to accept.
“He what?” Callandra was appalled, then she began to laugh in spite of her anger. “Not very practical—but I admire his sentiment, if not his judgment.”
They were in her withdrawing room by the fire, the sharp winter sun streaming in through the windows. The new parlormaid, replacing the newly married Daisy, a thin waif of a girl with an amazing smile and apparently named Martha, had brought their tea and hot crumpets with butter. These were less ladylike than cucumber sandwiches, but far nicer on a cold day.
“What could he have accomplished if he had obeyed and arrested Percival?” Hester defended Monk quickly. “Mr. Runcorn would still consider the case closed, and Sir Basil would not permit him to ask any further questions or pursue any investigation. He could hardly even look for more evidence of Percival’s guilt. Everyone else seems to consider the knife and the peignoir sufficient.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Callandra admitted. “But he is a hot-headed creature. First the Grey case, and now this. He seems to have little more sense than you have.” She took another crumpet. “You have both taken matters into your own hands and lost your livelihoods. What does he propose to do next?”
“I don’t know!” Hester threw her hands wide. “I don’t know what I am to do myself when Lady Moidore is sufficiently well not to need me. I have no desire whatever to spend my time as a paid companion, fetching and carrying and pandering to imaginary illnesses and fits of the vapors.” Suddenly she was overtaken by a profound sense of failure. “Callandra, what happened to me? I came home from the Crimea with such a zeal to work hard, to throw myself into reform and accomplish so much. I was going to see our hospitals cleaner—and of so much greater comfort for the sick.” Those dreams seemed utterly out of reach now, part of a golden and lost realm. “I was going to teach people that nursing is a noble profession, fit for fine and dedicated women to serve in, women of sobriety and good character who wished to minister to the sick with skill—not just to keep