Defend and Betray

“Mr. Monk, my mother's life is in jeopardy,” she replied with a very direct gaze. “I do not think a little distress is beyond my bearing.”

He smiled at her for the first time, a quick, generous gesture that came quite spontaneously.

“Thank you. Did you ever hear your parents quarreling, say, in the last two or three years?”

She smiled back at him, only a ghost, and then was gone.

“I have tried to think of that myself,” she said seriously. “And I am afraid I have not. Papa was not the sort of man to quarrel. He was a general, you know. Generals don't quarrel.” She pulled a little face. “I suppose that is because the only person who would dare to quarrel with a general would be another general, and you so seldom get two in any one place. There is presumably a whole army between one general and the next.”

She was watching his face. “Except in the Crimea, so I hear. And then of course they did quarrel-and the results were catastrophic. At least that is what Maxim Furnival says, although everybody else denies it and says our men were fearfully brave and the generals were all very clever. But I believe Maxim…”

“So do I,” he agreed. “I believe some were clever, most were brave enough, but far too many were disastrously ignorant and inexcusably stupid!”

“Oh do you think so?” The fleeting smile crossed her face again. “Not many people will dare to say that generals are stupid, especially so close to a war. But my father was a general, and so I know how they can be. They know some things, but others they have no idea of at all, the most ordinary things about people. Half the people in the world are women, you know?” She said it as if the fact surprised even herself.

He found himself liking her.”Was your father like that?” he asked, not only because it mattered, but because he was interested.

“Very much.” She lifted her head and pushed back a stray strand of hair. The gesture was startlingly familiar to him, bringing back not a sight or a sound, but an emotion of tenderness rare and startling to him, and a longing to protect her as if she were a vulnerable child; and yet he knew beyond question that the urgency he felt was not that which he might have towards any child, but only towards a woman.

But which woman? What had happened between them, and why did he not know her now? Was she dead? Had he failed to protect her, as he had failed with the Walbrooks? Or had they quarreled over something; had he been too precipitate with his feelings? Did she love someone else?

If only he knew more of himself, he might know the answer to that. All he had learned up until now showed him that he was not a gentle man, not used to bridling his tongue to protect other people's feelings, or to stifling his own wants, needs, or opinions. He could be cruel with words. Too many cautious and bruised inferiors had borne witness to that. He recalled with increasing discomfort the wariness with which they had greeted him when he returned from the hospital after the accident. They admired him, certainly, respected his professional ability and judgment, his honesty, skill, dedication and courage. But they were also afraid of him-and not only if they were lax in duty or less than honest, but even if they were in the right. Which meant that a number of times he must have been unjust, his sarcastic wit directed against the weak as well as the strong. It was not a pleasant knowledge to live with.

“Tell me about him.” He looked at Sabella. “Tell me about his nature, his interests, what you liked best about him, and what you disliked.”

“Liked best about him?” She concentrated hard. “I think Hiked…”

He was not listening to her. The woman he had loved- yes, loved was the word-why had he not married her? Had she refused him? But if he had cared so much, why could he not now even recall her face, her name, anything about her beyond these sharp and confusing flashes?

Or had she been guilty of the crime after all? Was that why he had tried to expunge her from his mind? And she returned now only because he had forgotten the circumstances, the guilt, the dreadful end of the aflair? Could he have been so mistaken in his judgment? Surely not. It was his profession to detect truth from lies-he could not have been such a fool!

“… and I liked the way he always spoke gently,” Sabella was saying. “I can't recall that I ever heard him shout, or use language unbecoming for us to hear. He had a lovely voice.” She was looking up at the ceiling, her face softer, the anger gone from it, which he had only dimly registered when she must have been speaking of some of the things she disliked in her father.”He used to read to us from the Bible- the Book of Isaiah especially,” she went on. “I don't remember what he said, but I loved listening to him because his voice wrapped all 'round us and made it all seem important and good.”

“And your greatest dislike?” he prompted, hoping she had not already specified it when he was not listening.

“I think the way he would withdraw into himself and not even seem to notice that I was there-sometimes for days,” she replied without hesitation. Then a look of sorrow came into her eyes, and a self-conscious pain. “And he never laughed with me, as if-as if he were not altogether comfortable in my company.” Her fair brows puckered as she concentrated on Monk. “Do you know what I mean?”

Then as quickly she looked away. “I'm sorry, that is a foolish question, and embarrassing. I fear I am being no help at all-and I wish I could.” This last was said with such intense feeling that Monk ached to be able to reach across the bright space between them and touch her slender wrist, to assure her with some more immediate warmth than words, that he did understand. But to do so would be intrusive, and open to all manner of misconstruction. All he could think of was to continue with questions that might lead to some fragment of useful knowledge. He did not often feel so awkward.

“I believe he had been friends with Mr. and Mrs. Furoival for a long time?”

She looked up, recalling herself to the matter in hand and putting away memory and thought of her own wounds.

“Yes-about sixteen or seventeen years, I think, something like that. They had been much closer over the last seven or eight years. I believe he used to visit them once or twice a week when he was at home.” She looked at him with a slight frown. “But he was friends with both of them, you know. It would be easy to believe he was having an affair with Louisa-I mean easy as far as his death is concerned, but I really do not think he was. Maxim was very fond of Mama, you know? Sometimes I used to think-but that is another thing, and of no use to us now.

“Maxim is in the business of dealing in foodstuffs, you know, and Papa put a very great deal of army contracts his way. A cavalry regiment can use a marvelous amount of corn, hay, oats and so on. I think he also was an agent Car saddlery and other things of that sort. I don't know the details, but I know Maxim profited greatly because of it, and has become a very respected power in the trade, among his fellows. I think he must be very good at it.”

“Indeed.” Monk turned it over in his mind; it was an interesting piece of information, but he could not see how it was of any use to Alexandra Carlyon. It did not sound in any way corrupt; presumably a general might suggest to his quartermaster that he obtain his stores from one merchant rather than another, if the price were feir. But even had it not been, why should that cause Alexandra any anger or distress-still less drive her to murder?

But it was another thread leading back to the Furnivals.

“Do you remember the incident where your father was stabbed with the ornamental knife? It happened at the Furnivals' house. It was quite a deep injury.”

“He wasn't stabbed,” she said with a tiny smile. “He slipped and did it himself. He was cleaning the knife, or something. I can't imagine why. It wasn't even used.”

“But you remember it? “

“Yes of course. Poor Valentine was terribly upset. I think he saw it happen. He was only about eleven or twelve, poor child.”

“Was your mother there?”

“At the Furnivals'? Yes, I think so. I really don't remember. Louisa was there. She sent for Dr. Hargrave to come immediately because it was bleeding pretty badly. They had to put a lot of bandages on it, and he could barely get his trousers back on, even with Maxim's valet to help him. When he came down the stairs, assisted by the valet and the footman, I could see the great bulges under the cloth of his trousers. He looked awfully pale and he went straight home in the carriage.”

Monk tried to visualize it. A clumsy accident. But was it relevant? Could it conceivably have been an earner attempt to kill him? Surely not-not in the Furnivals' house and so long ago. But why not in the Furnivals' house? She had finally killed him there. But why no attempt between men and now?

Sabella had said she saw the swell of the bandages under his trousers. Not the bloodstained tear where the