two, and now Octavia. I've watched them grow up, and themselves marry. IVe watched their happiness and their misery. It is all as familiar as bread and butter, or the sound of carriage wheels. And yet perhaps I know only the skin of it all, and the flesh beneath is as strange to me as Japan.''
She moved to the dressing table and began to take the pins from her hair and let it down in a shining stream like bright copper.
'The police came here and were full of sympathy and respectfully polite. Then they proved that no one could have broken in from outside, so whoever killed Octavia was one of us. For weeks they asked questions and forced us to find the answers-ugly answers, most of them, things about ourselves that were shabby, or selfish, or cowardly.' She put the pins in a neat little pile in one of the cut glass trays and picked up the silver-backed brush.
“I had forgotten about Myles and that poor maid. That may seem incredible, but I had. I suppose I never thought about it much at the time, because Araminta didn't know.' She pulled at her hair with the brush in long, hard strokes. 'I am a coward, aren't I,' she said very quietly. It was a statement, not a question. 'I saw what I wanted to, and hid from the rest. And Cyprian, my beloved Cyprian-doing the same: never standing up to his father, just living in a dream world, gambling and idling his time instead of doing what he really wanted.'' She tugged even harder with the brush. 'He's bored with Romola, you know. It used not to matter, but now he's suddenly realized how interesting companionship can be, and conversation that's real, where people say what they think instead of playing polite games. And of course it's far too late.'
Without any forewarning Hester realized fully what she had woken in indulging her own vanity and pleasure in Cyprian's attention. She was only partly guilty, because she had not intended hurt, but it was enough. Neither had she thought, or cared, and she had sufficient intelligence that she could have.
'And poor Romola,' Beatrice went on, still brushing fiercely. 'She has not the slightest idea what is wrong. She has done precisely what she was taught to do, and it has ceased to work.''
'It may again,' Hester said feebly, and did not believe it.
But Beatrice was not listening for inflections of a voice. Her own thoughts clamored too loudly.
'And the police have arrested Percival and gone away, leaving us to wonder what really happened.' She began to brush with long, even strokes. “Why did they do that, Hester? Monk didn't believe it was Percival, I'm sure of that.' She swiveled around on the dresser seat and looked at Hester, the brush still in her hand. 'You spoke to him. Did you think he believed it was Percival?'
Hester let out her breath slowly. 'No-no, I thought not.'
Beatrice turned back to the mirror again and regarded her hair critically. 'Then why did the police arrest him? It wasn't Monk, you know. Annie told me it was someone else, not even the young sergeant either. Was it simply expediency, do you suppose? The newspapers were making a terrible fuss about it and blaming the police for not solving it, so Cyprian told me. And Basil wrote to the Home Secretary, I know.' Her voice sank lower. 'I imagine their superiors demanded they produce some result very quickly, but I did not think Monk would give in. I thought he was such a strong man-' She did not add that Percival was expendable when a senior officer's career was threatened, but Hester knew she was thinking it; the anger in her mouth and the misery in her eyes were sufficient.
'And of course they would never accuse one of us, unless they had absolute proof. But I can't help wondering if Monk suspected one of us and simply could not find any mistake large enough, or tangible enough, to justify his action.'
'Oh I don't think so,' Hester said quickly, then wondered how on earth she would explain knowing such a thing. Beatrice was so very nearly right in her estimate of what had happened, Runcorn's expediency over Monk's judgment, the quarrels and the pressure.
“Don't you?'' Beatrice said bleakly, putting down the brush at last. 'I am afraid I do. Sometimes I think I would give anything at all to know which one of us, just so I could stop suspecting the others. Then I shrink back in horror from it, like a hideous sight-a severed head in a bucketful of maggots-only worse.'' She swiveled around on the seat again and looked at Hester. 'Someone in my own family murdered my daughter. You see, they all lied. Octavia wasn't as they said, and the idea of Percival taking such a liberty, or even imagining he could, is ridiculous.'
She shrugged, her slender shoulders pulling at the silk of her gown.
'I know she drank a trifle too much sometimes-but nothing like as much as Fenella does. Now if it were Fenella that would make sense. She would encourage any man.' Her face darkened. 'Except she picks out those who are rich because she used to accept presents from them and then pawn the gifts for money to buy clothes and perfumes and things. Then she stopped bothering with the pretenses and simply took the money outright. Basil doesn't know, of course. He'd be horrified. He'd probably throw her out.'
“Was that what Octavia discovered and told to Septimus?'' Hester said eagerly.”Perhaps that was what happened?'' Then she realized how insensitive such enthusiasm was. After all, Fenella was still one of the family, even if she was shallow and vicious, and now, after the trial, a public embarrassment. She composed her face into gravity again.
'No,' Beatrice said flatly. 'Octavia knew about it ages ago. So did Minta. We didn't tell Basil because we despised it but understood. It is surprising what one will do when one has no money. We devise little ways, and usually they are not attractive, sometimes not even honorable.' She started to fiddle with a perfume bottle, pulling the stopper out. 'We are such cowards at times. I wish I couldn't see that, but I can. But Fenella would not encourage a footman beyond silly flattery. She's vain and cruel, and terrified of growing old, but she is not a whore. At least-I mean, she does not take men simply because she enjoys it-' She gave a convulsive little shudder and jammed the perfume stopper in so hard she could not remove it again. She swore under her breath and pushed the bottle to the back of the dressing table.
'I used to think Minta didn't know about Myles having forced himself on the maid, but perhaps she did? And perhaps she knew that Myles was more than properly attracted to Oc-tavia. He is very vain too, you know? He imagines all women find him pleasing.' She smiled with a downward curl of her mouth, a curiously expressive gesture. 'Of course a great many do. He is handsome and charming. But Octavia didn't like him. He found that very hard to take. Perhaps he was determined to make her change her mind. Some men find force quite justifiable, you know?'
She looked at Hester, then shook her head. 'No, of course you don't know-you are not married. Forgive me for being so coarse. I hope I have not offended you. I think it is all a matter of degree. And Myles and Tavie thought very differently about it.'
She was silent for a moment, then pulled her gown closer around her and stood up.
'Hester-I am so afraid. One of my family may be guilty. And Monk has gone off and left us, and I shall probably never know. I don't know which is worse-not knowing, and imagining everything-or knowing, and never again being able to forget, but being helpless to do anything about it. And what if they know I know? Would they murder me? How can we live together day after day?''
Hester had no answer. There was no possible comfort to give, and she did not belittle the pain by trying to find something to say.
It was another three days before the servants' revenge really began to bite and Fenella was sufficiently aware of it to complain to Basil. Quite by chance Hester overheard much of the conversation. She had become as invisible as the rest of the
servants, and neither Basil nor Penella was aware of her through the arch of the conservatory from the withdrawing room. She had gone there because it was the nearest she could come to a walk alone outside. She was permitted to use the ladies' maids' sitting room, which she did to read, but there was always the chance of being joined by Mary or Gladys and having to make conversation, or explain her very intellectual choice of reading.
'Basil.' Fenella swept in, bristling with anger. 'I really must complain to you about the servants in this house. You seem to be quite unaware of it, but ever since the trial of that wretched footman, the standards have declined appallingly. This is three days in a row my morning tea has been almost cold. That fool of a maid has lost my best lace peignoir. My bedroom fee has been allowed to go out. And now the room is like a morgue. I don't know how I am supposed to dress in it. I should catch my death.'
