The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [453]
“Yes,” Edith agreed slowly, her face very white. “Yes, she would. It would be her sense of honor. But what could it be? I can’t think of anything so—so terrible, so dark that…” She tailed off, unable to find words for the thought.
“Neither can I,” Hester agreed. “But it exists—it must—or why will Alexandra not tell us why she killed the general?”
“I don’t know.” Edith bent her head to her knees. There was a knock on the door, nervous and urgent. Edith looked up, surprised. Servants did not knock. “Yes?” She unwound herself and put her feet down. “Come in.”
The door opened and Cassian stood there, his face pale, his eyes frightened.
“Aunt Edith, Miss Buchan and Cook are fighting again!” His voice was ragged and a little high. “Cook has a carving knife!”
“Oh—” Edith stifled an unladylike word and rose. Cassian took a step towards her and she put an arm around him. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. You stay here. Hester …”
Hester was on her feet.
“Come with me, if you don’t mind,” Edith said urgently. “It may take two of us, if it’s as bad as Cass says. Stay here, Cass! It will be all right, I promise!” And without waiting any further she led the way out of the sitting room, along towards the back landing. Before they had reached the servants’ stairs it was only too apparent that Cassian was right.
“You’ve no place ’ere, yer miserable old biddy! You should a’ bin put out ter grass like the dried-up old mare yer are!”
“And you should have been left in the sty in the first place, you fat sow,” came back the stinging reply.
“Fat indeed, is it? And what man’d look at you, yer withered old bag o’ bones? No wonder yer spend yer life looking after other folks’ children! Nobody’d ever get any on you!”
“And where are yours, then? Litters of them. One every season—running around on all fours in the byre, I shouldn’t wonder. With snouts for noses and trotters for feet.”
“I’ll cut yer gizzard out, yer sour old fool! Ah!”
There was a shriek, then laughter.
“Oh damnation!” Edith said exasperatedly. “This sounds worse than usual.”
“Missed!” came the crow of delight. “You drunken sot! Couldn’t hit a barn door if it was in front of you—you crosseyed pig!”
“Ah!”
Then a shriek from the kitchen maid and a shout from the footman.
Edith scrambled down the last of the stairs, Hester behind her. Almost immediately they saw them, the upright figure of Miss Buchan coming towards them, half sideways, half backwards, and a couple of yards away the rotund, red-faced cook, brandishing a carving knife in her hand.
“Vinegar bitch!” the cook shouted furiously, brandishing the knife at considerable risk to the footman, who was trying to get close enough to restrain her.
“Wine belly,” Miss Buchan retorted, leaning forward.
“Stop it!” Edith shouted sternly. “Stop it at once!”
“Yer want to get rid of ’er.” The cook stared at Edith but waved the knife at Miss Buchan. “She’s no good for that poor boy. Poor little child.”
Behind them the kitchen maid wailed again and stuffed the comers of her apron into her mouth.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you fat fool,” Miss Buchan shouted back at her, her thin, sharp face full of fury. “All you do is stuff him full of cakes—as if that solved anything.”
“Be quiet,” Edith said loudly. “Both of you, be quiet at once!”
“And all you do is follow him around, you dried-up old witch!” The cook ignored Edith completely and went on shouting at Miss Buchan. “Never leave the poor little mite alone. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”
“Don’t know,” Miss Buchan yelled back at her. “Don’t know. Of course you don’t know, you stupid old glutton. You don’t know anything. You never did.”
“Neither do you, you miserable old baggage!” She waved the knife again, and the