Her voice was remarkably pleasing, low-pitched and a trifle husky, her diction very clear.
Without any warning he had an overwhelming sense of having done this before. Violent emotions overwhelmed him: fear, anger, love. And then as quickly it was gone again, leaving him breathless and confused. He was staring at Alexandra Carlyon as if he had only just seen her, the details of her face sharp and surprising, not what he expected.
“I beg your pardon?” He had missed whatever she had said.
“I killed my husband, Mr. Monk,” she repeated.
“Yes-yes, I heard that. What did you say next?” He shook his head as if to clear it.
“Nothing.” She frowned very slightly, puzzled now.
With a great effort he brought his mind back to the murder of General Carlyon.
“I have been to see Mr. and Mrs. Furnival.”
This time her smile was quite different; there was sharp bitterness in it, and self-mockery.
“I wish I thought you could discover Louisa Furnival was guilty, but you cannot.” There was a catch in her voice which at any other time he could have taken for laughter.”If Thad-deus had rejected her she might have been angry, even violently so, but I doubt she ever loved anyone enough to care greatly if he loved her or not. The only person I could imagine her killing would be another woman-a really beautiful woman, perhaps, who rivaled her or threatened her well-being.” Her eyes widened as thoughts raced through her imagination. “Maybe if Maxim fell so deeply in love with someone he could not hide it-then people would know Louisa had been bested. Then she might kill.”
“And Maxim was not fond of you?” he asked.
There was very faint color in her cheeks, so slight he noticed it only because she was feeing the small high window and the light fell directly on her.
“Yes-yes, he was, in the past-but never to the degree where he could have left Louisa. Maxim is a very moral man. And anyway, I am alive. It is Thaddeus who is dead.” She said the last words without feeling, certainly without any shred of regret. At least there was no playacting, no hypocrisy in her, and no attempt to gain sympathy. For that he liked her.
“I saw the balcony, and the banister where he went over.”
She winced.
“I assume he fell backwards?”
“Yes.” Her voice was unsteady, little more than a whisper.
“Onto the suit of armor?”
“Yes.”
“That must have made a considerable noise.”
“Of course. I expected people to come and see what had happened-but no one did.”
“The withdrawing room is at the back of the house. You knew that.”
“Of course I did. I thought one of the servants might hear.”
“Then what? You followed him down and saw he was struck senseless with the fell-and no one had come. So you picked up the halberd and drove it into his body?”
She was white-faced, her eyes like dark holes. This time her voice would hardly come at all.
“Yes.”
“His chest? He was lying on his back. You did say he went over backwards?”
“Yes.” She gulped. “Do we have to go over this? It cannot serve any purpose.”
“You must have hated him very much.”
“I didn't-” She stopped, drew in her breath and went on, her eyes down, away from his. “I already told Mr. Rathbone. He was having an affair with Louisa Furnival. I was…jealous.”
He did not believe her.
“I also saw your daughter.”
She froze, sitting totally immobile.
“She was very concerned for you.” He knew he was being cruel, but he saw no alternative. He had to find the truth. With lies and defenses Rathbone might only make matters worse in court. “I am afraid my presence seemed to precipitate a quarrel between her and her husband.”
She glared at him fiercely. For the first time there was real, violent emotion in her.
“You had no right to go to her! She is ill-and she has just lost her father. Whatever he was to me, he was her father. You…” She stopped, perhaps aware of the absurdity of her position, if indeed it was she who had killed the general.
“She did not seem greatly distressed by his death,” he said deliberately, watching not only her face but also the tension in her body, the tight shoulders under the cotton blouse, and her hands clenched on her knees. “In fact, she made no secret that she had quarreled bitterly with him, and would do all she could to aid you-even at the cost of her husband's anger.”
Alexandra said nothing, but he could feel her emotion as if it were an electric charge in the room.
“She said he was arbitrary and dictatorial-that he had forced her into a marriage against her will,” he went on.
She stood up and turned away from him.
Then again he had a sudden jolt of memory so sharp it was like a physical blow. He had been here before, stood in a cell with a small fanlight like this, and watched another slender woman with fair hair that curled at her neck. She too had been charged with killing her husband, and he had cared about it desperately.
Who was she?
The image was gone and all he could recapture was a shaft of dim light on hair, the angle of a shoulder, and a gray dress, skirts too long, sweeping the floor. He could recall no more, no voice, certainly no faintest echo of a face, nothing- eyes, lips-nothing at all.
But the emotion was there. It had mattered to him so fiercely he had thrown all his mind and will into defending her.
But why? Who was she?
Had he succeeded? Or had she been hanged?
Was she innocent-or guilty?
Alexandra was talking, answering him at last.
“What?”
She swung around, her eyes bright and hard.
“You come in here with a cruel tongue and no-no gentleness, no-no sensibility at all. You ask the harshest questions.” Her voice caught in her throat, gasping for breath. “You remind me of my daughter whom I shall probably never see again, except across the rail of a courtroom dock-and then you haven't even the honor to listen to my answers! What manner of man are you? What do you really want here?”
“I am sorry!” he said with genuine shame. “My thoughts were absent for only a moment-a memory… a-a painful one-of another time like this.”
The anger drained out of her. She shrugged her shoulders, turning away again.
“It doesn't matter. None of it makes any difference.”
He pulled his thoughts together with an effort.
“Your daughter quarreled with her father that evening…”
Instantly she was on guard again, her body rigid, her eyes wary.
“She has a very fierce temper, Mrs. Carlyon-she seemed to be on the edge of hysteria when I was there. In fact I gathered that her husband was anxious for her.”
“I already told you.” Her voice was low and hard. “She has not been well since the birth of her child. It happens sometimes. It is one of the perils of bearing children. Ask anyone who is familiar with childbirth-and…”
“I know that,” he agreed. “Women quite often become temporarily deranged-”
“No! Sabella was ill-that's all.” She came forward, so close he thought she was going to grasp his arm, then she stood still with her hands by her sides. “If you are trying to say that it was Sabella who killed Thaddeus, and not I, then you are wrong! I will confess it in court, and will certainly hang”-she said the word plainly and deliberately, like pushing her hand into a wound-”rather than allow my daughter to take the blame for my act. Do you understand me, Mr. Monk?”
