The workhouse master disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with a thin girl with stooped shoulders and a pale, waxen face. Her brown hair was thick but dull, and her wide blue eyes had no life in them. It was not hard to imagine that two years ago she might have been beautiful, but now she was apathetic and she stared at Monk with neither intelligence nor interest, her arms folded under the bib of her uniform apron, her gray stuff dress ill fitting and harsh.
'Yes sir?' she said obediently.
'Martha.' Monk spoke very gently. The pity he felt was like a pain in his stomach, churning and sick. 'Martha, did you work for Sir Basil Moidore about two years ago?'
'I didn't take anything.'' There was no protest in her voice, simply a statement of fact.
'No, I know you didn't,' he said quickly. 'What I want to know is did Mr. Kellard pay you any attention that was more than you wished?' What a mealymouthed way of expressing himself, but he was afraid of being misunderstood, of having her think he was accusing her of lying, troublemak-ing, raking up old and useless accusations no one would believe, and perhaps being further punished for slander. He watched her face closely, but he saw no deep emotion in it, only a flicker, too slight for him to know what it meant. 'Did he, Martha?'
She was undecided, staring at him mutely. Misfortune and workhouse life had robbed her of any will to fight.
'Martha,' he said very softly. 'He may have forced himself on someone else, not a maid this time, but a lady. I need to know if you were willing or not-and I need to know if it was him or if it was really someone else?'
She looked at him silently, but this time there was a spark in her eyes, a little life.
He waited.
'Does she say that?' she said at last. 'Does she say she weren't willing?'
''She doesn't say anything-she's dead.''
Her eyes grew huge with horror-and dawning realization, as memory became sharp and focused again.
'He lolled her?'
“I don't know,'' he said frankly. 'Was he rough with you?''
She nodded, the memory of pain sharp in her face and fear rekindling as she thought of it again. 'Yes.'
'Did you tell anyone that?'
'What's the point? They didn't even believe me I was unwilling. They said I was loose-tongued, a troublemaker and no better than I should be. They dismissed me without a character. I couldn't get another position. No one would take me on with no character. An' I was with child-' Her eyes hazed over with tears, and suddenly there was life there again, passion and tenderness.
'Your child?' he asked, although he was afraid to know. He felt himself cringe inside as if waiting for the blow.
'She's here, with the other babes,' she said quietly. 'I get to see her now and again, but she's not strong. How could she be, born and raised here?'
Monk determined to speak to Callandra Daviot. Surely she could use another servant for something? Martha Rivett was one among tens of thousands, but even one saved from this was better than nothing.
'He was violent with you?' he repeated. 'And you made it quite plain you didn't want his attentions?'
'He didn't believe me-he didn't think any woman meant it when she said no,' she replied with a faint, twisted smile.
'Even Miss Araminta. He said she liked to be took-but I don't believe that. I was there when she married him- an' she really loved him then. You should have seen her face, all shining and soft. Then after her wedding night she changed. She looked like a sparkling fire the night before, all dressed in cherry pink and bright as you like. The morning after she looked like cold ashes in the grate. I never saw that softness back in her as long as I was there.'
“I see,'' Monk said very quietly. 'Thank you, Martha. You have been a great help to me. I shall try to be as much help to you. Don't give up hope.'
A fraction of her old dignity returned, but there was no life in her smile.
'There's nothing to hope for, sir. Nobody'd marry me. I never see anyone except people that haven't a farthing of their own, or they'd not be here. And nobody looks for servants in a workhouse, and I wouldn't leave Emmie anyway. And even if she doesn't live, no one takes on a maid without a character, and my looks have gone too.'
'They'll come back. Just please-don't give up,' he urged her.
'Thank you, sir, but you don't know what you're saying.'
'Yes I do.'
She smiled patiently at his ignorance and took her leave, going back to the labor yard to scrub and mend.
Monk thanked the workhouse master and left also, not to the police station to tell Runcorn he had a better suspect than Percival. That could wait. First he would go to Callandra Daviot.
Chapter 8
Monk’s sense of elation was short-lived. When he returned to Queen Anne Street the next day he was greeted in the kitchen by Mrs. Boden, looking grim and anxious, her fece very pink and her hair poking in wild angles out of her white cap.
'Good morning, Mr. Monk. I am glad you've come!'
'What is it, Mrs. Boden?' His heart sank, although he could think of nothing specific he feared. 'What has happened?'
'One of my big kitchen carving knives is missing, Mr. Monk.' She wiped her hands on her apron. 'I could have sworn I had it last time we had a roast o' beef, but Sal says she thinks as it was the other one I used, the old one, an' now I reckon she must be right.' She poked her hair back under her cap and wiped her fece agitatedly. 'No one else can remember, and May gets sick at the thought. I admit it fair turns my stomach when I think it could've been the one that stabbed poor Miss Octavia.'
Monk was cautious. 'When did this thought come to you, Mrs. Boden?' he asked guardedly.
'Yesterday, in the evening.' She sniffed. 'Miss Araminta sent down for a little thin-cut beef for Sir Basil. He'd come in late and wanted a bite to eat.' Her voice was rising and there was a note of hysteria in it. 'I went to get my best knife, an' it weren't there. That's when I started to look for it, thinking as it had been misplaced. And it in't here-not anywhere.'
'And you haven't seen it since Mrs. Haslett's death?'
“I don't know, Mr. Monk!'' Her hands jerked up in the air. 'I thought I 'ad, but Sal and May tell me as they 'aven't, and when I last cut beef I did it with the old one. I was so upset I can't recall what I did, and that's the truth.'
'Then I suppose we'd better see if we can find it,' Monk agreed. 'I'll get Sergeant Evan to organize a search. Who else knows about this?'
Her face was blank; she understood no implication.
'Who else, Mrs. Boden?' he repeated calmly.
'Well I don't know, Mr. Monk. I don't know who I might have asked. I looked for it, naturally, and asked everyone if they'd seen it.'
'Who do you mean by 'everyone,' Mrs. Boden? Who else apart from the kitchen staff?'
“Well-I 'm sure I can't think.'' She was beginning to panic because she could see the urgency in him and she did not understand. 'Dinah. I asked Dinah because sometimes things get moved through to the pantry. And I may have mentioned it to 'Arold. Why? They don't know where it is, or they'd 'ave said.'
'Someone wouldn't have,' he pointed out.
It was several seconds before she grasped what he meant, then her hand flew to her mouth and she let out a stifled shriek.
'I had better inform Sir Basil.' That was a euphemism for asking Sir Basil's permission for the search. Without a warrant he could not proceed, and it would probably cost him his job if he were to try against Sir Basil's wishes. He left Mrs. Boden in the kitchen sitting in the chair and May running for smelling salts-and almost certainly a strong
