'I don't know-and if you've any sense at all, and any desire to keep your life, let alone your job, you'll say nothing to anyone.'
“But how do you know?'' Rose persisted.
'You are better not understanding-believe me!'
“What are you going to do?'' Her voice was very quiet, but there was anxiety in it, and fear.
'Prove it-if I can.'
At that moment Lizzie came over, her lips tight with irritation.
'If you need something laundered, Miss Latterly, please ask me and I will see it is done, but don't stand here gossiping with Rose-she has work to do.'
'I'm sorry,' Hester apologized, forcing a sweet smile, and fled.
She was back in the main house and halfway up the stairs to Beatrice's room before her thoughts cleared. If the peignoir was whole when Rose sent it up, and whole when it was found in Percival's room, but torn when Octavia went to say goodnight to her mother, then she must have torn it some time during that day, and no one but Beatrice had noticed. She had not been wearing it when she died; it had been in Beatrice's
room. Some time between Octavia leaving it there and its being discovered, someone had taken it, and a knife from the kitchen, covered the knife in blood and wrapped the peignoir around it, then hidden them in Percival's room.
But who?
When had Beatrice mended it? Surely that night? Why would she bother after she knew Octavia was dead?
Then where had it been? Presumably lying in the workbas-ket in Beatrice's room. No one would care about it greatly after that. Or was it returned to Octavia's room? Yes, surely returned, since otherwise whoever had taken it would realize their mistake and know Octavia had not been wearing it when she went to bed.
She was on the top stair on the landing now. It had stopped raining and the sharp, pale winter sun shone in through the windows, making patterns on the carpet. She had passed no one else. The maids were all busy about their duties, the ladies' maids attending to wardrobe, the housekeeper in her linen room, the upstairs maids making beds, turning mattresses and dusting everything, the tweeny somewhere in the passageway. Dinah and the footmen were somewhere in the front of the house, the family about their morning pleasures, Romola in the schoolroom with the children, Araminta writing letters in the boudoir, the men out, Beatrice still in her bedroom.
Beatrice was the only one who knew about the torn lily, so she would not make the mistake of staining that peignoir-not that Hester had ever suspected her in the first place, or certainly not alone. She might have done it with Sir Basil, but then she was also frightened that someone had murdered Octavia, and she did not know who. Indeed she feared it might have been Myles. Hester considered for only an instant that Beatrice might have been a superb actress, then she abandoned it. To begin with, why should she? She had no idea Hester would repeat anything she said, let alone everything.
Who knew which peignoir Octavia wore that evening? She had left the withdrawing room fully dressed in a dinner gown, as did all the women. Whom had she seen after changing for the night but before retiring?
Only Araminta-and her mother.
Proud, difficult, cold Araminta. It was she who had hidden
her sister's suicide, and when it was inevitable that someone should be blamed for murder, contrived that it should be Per-cival.
But she could not have done it alone. She was thin, almost gaunt. She could never have carried Octavia's body upstairs. Who had helped her? Myles? Cyprian? Or Basil?
And how to prove it?
The only proof was Beatrice's word about the torn lace lilies. But would she swear to that when she knew what it meant?
Hester needed an ally in the house. She knew Monk was outside; she had seen his dark figure every time she had passed the window, but he could not help in this.
Septimus. He was the one person she was sure was not involved, and who might have the courage to fight. And it would take courage. Percival was dead and to everyone else the matter was closed. It would be so much easier to let it all lie.
She changed her direction and instead of going to Beatrice's room went on along the passage to Septimus's.
He was propped up on the bed reading with the book held far in front of him for his longsighted eyes. He looked up with surprise when she came in. He was so much better her attentions were more in the nature of friendship than any medical need. He saw instantly that there was something gravely concerning her.
“What has happened?'' he asked anxiously. He set the book down without marking the page.
There was nothing to be served by prevarication. She closed the door and came over and sat on the bed.
'I have made a discovery about Octavia's death-in fact two.'
'And they are very grave,' he said earnestly. 'I see that they trouble you. What are they?'
She took a deep breath. If she was mistaken, and he was implicated, or more loyal to the family, less brave than she believed, then she might be endangering herself more than she could cope with. But she would not retreat now.
'She did not die in her bedroom. I have found where she died.' She watched his face. There was nothing but interest. No start of guilt. 'In Sir Basil's study,' she finished.
He was confused. 'In Basil's study? But, my dear, that
doesn't make any sense! Why would Percival have gone to her there? And what was she doing there in the middle of the night anyway?' Then slowly the light faded from his face. 'Oh- you mean that she did learn something that day, and you know what it was? Something to do with Basil?'
She told him what she had learned at the War Office, and that Octavia had been there the day of her death and learned the same.
'Oh dear God!' he said quietly. 'The poor child-poor, poor child.'' For several seconds he stared at the coverlet, then at last he looked up at her, his face pinched, his eyes grim and frightened. 'Are you saying that Basil killed her?'
'No. I believe she killed herself-with the paper knife there in the study.'
'Then how did she get up to the bedroom?'
'Someone found her, cleaned the knife and returned it to its stand, then carried her upstairs and broke the creeper outside the window, took a few items of jewelry and a silver vase, and left her there for Annie to discover in the morning.''
'So that it should not be seen as suicide, with all the shame and scandal-' He drew a deep breath and his eyes widened in appalled horror. 'But dear God! They let Percival hang for it!'
'I know.'
'But that's monstrous. It's murder.'
'I know that.'
'Oh-dear heaven,' he said very quietly. 'What have we sunk to? Do you know who it was?'
She told him about the peignoir.
'Araminta,' he said very quietly. 'But not alone. Who helped her? Who carried poor Octavia up the stairs?'
'I don't know. It must have been a man-but I don't know who.'
'And what are you going to do about this?'
' 'The only person who can prove any of it is Lady Moidore. I think she would want to. She knows it was not Percival, and I believe she might find any alternative better than the uncertainty and the fear eating away at all her relationships forever.''
'Do you?' He thought about it for some time, his hand curling and uncurling on the bedspread. 'Perhaps you are
right. But whether you are or not, we cannot let it pass like this-whatever its cost.''
'Then will you come with me to Lady Moidore and see if she will swear to the peignoir's being torn the night of Octa-via's death and in her room all night, and then returned some time later?'
