'I-er-'
Araminta's eyes narrowed. 'Have you a follower, Miss Latterly?'
An excuse. A perfectly believable excuse. Hester breathed a prayer of gratitude and hung her head, blushing for her carelessness, not for being caught in forbidden behavior.
'Yes ma'am.'
'Then you are very lucky,' Araminta said tartly. 'You are plain enough, and won't see twenty-five again. I should take whatever he offers you.' And with that she swept past Hester and went on down the hall.
Hester swore under her breath and raced up the stairs, brushing past an astonished Cyprian without a word, and then up the next flight to her own room, where she changed every item of clothing from the skin out, and spread her wet things the best she could to dry.
Her mind raced. What would Monk do? Take it all to Evan, and thus to Runcom. She could imagine Ruricorn's fury from what Monk had told her of him. But surely now he would have no choice but to reopen the case?
She fiddled on with small duties. She dreaded returning to Beatrice after what she had done, but she had little else justification to be here, and now least of all could she afford to arouse suspicion. And she owed Beatrice something, for all the pain she was awakening, the destruction which could not now be avoided.
Heart lurching and clammy-handed, she went and knocked on Beatrice's door.
They both pretended the morning's conversation had not happened. Beatrice talked lightly of all sorts of things in the past, of her first meeting with Basil and how charmed she had been with him, and a little in awe. She spoke of her girlhood growing up in Buckinghamshire with her sisters, of her uncle's tales of Waterloo and the great eve of battle ball in Brussels, and the victory afterwards, the defeat of the emperor Napoleon and all Europe free again, the dancing, the fireworks, the laughter, the great gowns and the music and fine horses. Once as a child she had been presented to the Iron Duke himself. She recalled it with a smile and a faraway look of almost forgotten pleasure.
Then she spoke of the death of the old king, William IV, and the accession of the young Victoria. The coronation had been splendid beyond imagination. Beatrice had been in the prime of her beauty then, and without conceit she told of the celebrations she and Basil had attended, and how she had been admired.
Luncheon came and went, and tea also, and still she fought
off reality with increasing fierceness, the color heightening in her cheeks, her eyes more feverish.
If anyone missed them, they made no sign of it, nor came to seek them.
It was half past four, and already dark, when there was a knock on the door.
Beatrice was ashen white. She looked at Hester once, then with a massive effort said quite levelly, 'Come in.'
Cyprian came in, his face furrowed with anxiety and puzzlement, not yet fear.
'Mama, the police are here again, not that fellow Monk, but Sergeant Evan and a constable-and that wretched lawyer who defended Percival.'
Beatrice rose to her feet; only for a moment did she sway.
'I will come down.'
'I am afraid they do wish to speak to all of us, and they refuse to say why. I suppose we had better oblige them, although I cannot mink what it can be about now.'
'I am afraid, my dear, that it is going to be extremely unpleasant.'
'Why? What can there be left to say?'
'A great deal,' she replied, and took his arm so that he might support her along the corridor and down the stairs to the withdrawing room, where everyone else was assembled, including Septimus and Fenella. Standing in the doorway were Evan and a uniformed constable. In the middle of the floor was Oliver Rathbone.
'Good afternoon, Lady Moidore,' he said gravely. In the circumstances it was a ridiculous form of greeting.
'Good afternoon, Mr. Rathbone,' she answered with a slight quiver in her voice. 'I imagine you have come to ask me about the peignoir?'
'I have,' he said quietly. 'I regret that I must do this, but there is no alternative. The footman Harold has permitted me to examine the carpet in the study-' He stopped, and his eyes wandered around the assembled faces. No one moved or spoke.
'I have discovered the bloodstains on the carpet and on the handle of the paper knife.' Elegantly he slid the knife out of his pocket and held it, turning it very slowly so its blade caught the light.
Myles Kellard stood motionless, his brows drawn down in disbelief.
Cyprian looked profoundly unhappy.
Basil stared without blinking.
Araminta clenched her hands so hard the knuckles showed, and her skin was as white as paper.
'I suppose there is some purpose to this?' Romola said irritably. 'I hate melodrama. Please explain yourself and stop play-acting.'
'Oh be quiet!' Fenella snapped. 'You hate anything that isn't comfortable and decently domestic. If you can't say something useful, hold your tongue.'
'Octavia Haslett died in the study,' Rathbone said with a level, careful voice that carried above every other rustle or murmur in the room.
'Good God!'' Fenella was incredulous and almost amused. “You don't mean Octavia had an assignation with the footman on the study carpet. How totally absurd-and uncomfortable, when she has a perfectly good bed.'
Beatrice swung around and slapped her so hard Fenella fell over sideways and collapsed into one of the armchairs.
'IVe wanted to do that for years,' Beatrice said with intense satisfaction. 'That is probably the only thing that will give me any pleasure at all today. No-you fool. There was no assignation. Octavia discovered how Basil had Harry set at the head of the charge of Balaclava, where so many died, and she felt as trapped and defeated as we all do. She took her own life.'
There was an appalled silence until Basil stepped forward, his face gray, his hand shaking. He made a supreme effort.
'That is quite untrue. You are unhinged with grief. Please go to your room, and I shall send for the doctor. For heaven's sake, Miss Latterly, don't stand there, do something!'
'It is true, Sir Basil.'' She stared at him levelly, for the first time not as a nurse to her employer but as an equal. 'I went to the War Office myself, and learned what happened to Harry Haslett, and how you brought it about, and that Octavia had been there the afternoon of her death and heard the same.'
Cyprian looked at his father, then at Evan, then at Rath-bone.
'But then what was the knife and the peignoir in Percival's
room?' he asked. 'Papa is right. Whatever Octavia learned about Harry, it doesn't make any sense. The evidence was still there. That was Octavia's peignoir, with her blood on it, wrapped around the knife.'
'It was Octavia's peignoir with blood on it,' Rathbone agreed.”Wrapped around a knife from the kitchen-but it was not Octavia's blood. She was killed with the paper knife in the study, and when someone found her, they carried her upstairs and put her in her own room to make it seem as if she had been murdered.' His fastidious face showed distress and contempt. 'No doubt to save the shame of a suicide and the disgrace to the family and all it would cost socially and politically. Then they cleaned the knife and returned it to its place.'
'But the kitchen knife,' Cyprian repeated. 'And the peignoir. It was hers. Rose identified it, and so did Mary, and more important, Minta saw her in it on the landing that night. And there is blood on it.'
“The kitchen knife could have been taken any time,'' Rath-bone said patiendy. 'The blood could have come from any piece of meat purchased in the course of ordering supplies for the table-a hare, a goose, a side of beef or mutton-'
'But the peignoir.'
'That is die crux of the whole matter. You see, it was sent up from the laundry the day before, in perfect order, clean and without mark or tear-'
“Of course,'' Cyprian agreed angrily.”They wouldn't send it up in any other way. What are you talking about, man?'
'On the evening of her death'-Rathbone ignored the interruption, if anything he was even more polite-'Mrs. Has-lett retired to her room and changed for the night. Unfortunately the peignoir was torn, we shall probably never
