Anne Perry - A Dangerous Mourning

"I see." Araminta's face was ashen white with two high spots of color in her cheeks.

The door opened again and Romola came in, saw the frozen tableau in front of her, Beatrice sitting upright on the sofa, Araminta stiff as a twig, her face set and teeth clenched tight, Hester still standing behind the other large armchair, not knowing what to do, and Monk sitting uncomfortably leaning forward. She glanced at the menu in Araminta's hand, then ignored it. It was apparent even to her that she had interrupted something acutely painful, and dinner was of little importance.

"What is wrong?" she demanded, looking from one to another of them. "Do you know who killed Octavia?"

"No we don't!" Beatrice turned toward her and spoke surprisingly sharply. "We were discussing the parlormaid who was dismissed two years ago."

"Whatever for?" Romola's voice was heavy with disbelief. "Surely that can hardly matter now?"

"Probably not," Beatrice agreed.

"Then why are you wasting time discussing it?" Romola came over to the center of the room and sat down in one of the smaller chairs, arranging her skirts gracefully. "You all look as if it were fearful. Has something happened to her?"

"I have no idea," Beatrice snapped, her temper broken at last. "I should think it is not unlikely."

"Why should it?" Romola was confused and frightened; this was all too much for her. "Didn't you give her a character? Why did you dismiss her anyway?'' She twisted around to look at Araminta, her eyebrows raised.

“No, I did not give her a character,'' Beatrice said flatly.

"Well why not?" Romola looked at Araminta and away again. "Was she dishonest? Did she steal something? No one told me!"

"It was none of your concern," Araminta said brusquely.

"It was if she was a thief! She might have taken something of mine!"

"Hardly. She charged that she had been raped!" Araminta glared at her.

"Raped?" Romola was amazed, her expression changed

from fear to total incredulity. "You mean- raped) Good gracious! '' Relief flooded her, the color returning to her beautiful skin. "Well if she was of loose morals of course you had to dismiss her. No one would argue with that. I daresay she took to the streets; women of that sort do. Why on earth are we concerned about it now? There is nothing we can do about it, and probably there never was."

Hester could contain herself no longer.

"She was raped, Mrs. Moidore-taken by force by someone heavier and stronger than herself. That does not stem from immorality. It could happen to any woman."

Romola stared at her as if she had grown horns. "Of course it stems from immorality! Decent women don't get violated- they don't lay themselves open to it-they don't invite it-or frequent such places in such company. I don't know what kind of society you come from that you could suggest such a thing.'' She shook her head a little. "I daresay your experiences as a nurse have robbed you of any finer feelings-I beg your pardon for saying such a thing, but you force the issue. Nurses have a reputation for loose conduct which is well known-and scarcely to be envied. Respectable women who behave moderately and dress with decorum do not excite the sort of passions you are speaking of, nor do they find themselves in situations where such a thing could occur. The very idea is quite preposterous-and repulsive."

"It is not preposterous," Hester contradicted flatly. "It is frightening, certainly. It would be very comfortable to suppose that if you behave discreetly you are in no danger of ever being assaulted or having unwelcome attentions forced upon you." She drew in her breath. "It would also be completely untrue, and a quite false sense of safety-and of being morally superior and detached from the pain and the humiliation of it. We would all like to think it could not happen to us, or anyone we know-but it would be wrong.'' She stopped, seeing Romola's incredulity turning to outrage, Beatrice's surprise and a first spark of respect, and Araminta's extraordinary interest and something that looked almost like a momentary flicker of warmth.

"You forget yourself!" Romola said. "And you forget who we are. Or perhaps you never knew? I am not aware what manner of person you nursed before you came here, but I

assure you we do not associate with the sort of people who assault women."

"You are a fool," Araminta said witheringly. "Sometimes I wonder what world it is you live in."

"Minta," Beatrice warned, her voice on edge, her hands clenched together again.”I think we have discussed the matter enough. Mr. Monk will pursue whatever course he deems appropriate. There is nothing more we can offer at the moment. Hester, will you please help me upstairs? I wish to retire. I will not be down for dinner, nor do I wish to see anyone until I feel better."

"How convenient," Araminta said coldly. "But I am sure we shall manage. There is nothing you are needed for. I shall see to everything, and inform Papa." She swung around to Monk. "Good day, Mr. Monk. You must have enough to keep you busy for some time-although whether it will serve any purpose other than to make you appear diligent, I doubt. I don't see how you can prove anything, whatever you suspect.''

"Suspect?'' Romola looked first at Monk, then at her sister-in-law, her voice rising with fear again. "Suspect of what? What has this to do with Octavia?"

But Araminta ignored her and walked past her out of the door.

Monk stood up and excused himself to Beatrice, inclined his head to Hester, then held the door open for them as they left, Romola behind them, agitated and annoyed, but helpless to do anything about it.

As soon as Monk stepped inside the police station the sergeant looked up from the desk, his face sober, his eyes gleaming.

"Mr. Runcorn wants to see you, sir. Immediate, like."

"Does he," Monk replied dourly. "Well I doubt he'll get much joy of it, but I'll give him what there is."

"He's in his room, sir."

"Thank you," Monk said. "Mr. Evan in?"

"No sir. He came in, and then he went out again. Didn't say where."

Monk acknowledged the reply and went up the stairs to Rnncorn's office. He knocked on the door and at the command went in. Runcorn was sitting behind his large, highly polished desk, two elegant envelopes and half a dozen sheets of fine notepaper written on and half folded lying next to them. The other surfaces were covered with four or five newspapers, some open, some folded.

He looked up, his face dark with anger and his eyes narrow and bright.

"Well. Have you seen the newspapers, eh? Have you seen what they are saying about us?" He held one up and Monk saw the black headlines halfway down the page: QUEEN ANNE STREET MURDERER STILL LOOSE. POLICE BAFFLED. And then the writer went on to question the usefulness of the new police force, and was it money well spent or now an unworkable idea.

"Well?" Runcorn demanded.

“I hadn't seen that one,'' Monk answered. “I haven't spent much time reading newspapers."

"I don't want you reading the newspapers, damn it," Run-corn exploded. "I want you doing something so they don't write rubbish like this. Or this." He snatched up the next one. “Or this." He threw them away, disregarding the mess as they slid on the polished surface and fell onto the floor in a rattling heap. He grasped one of the letters. "From the Home Office." His fingers closed on it, knuckles white. "I'm getting asked some very embarrassing questions, Monk, and I can't answer them. I'm not prepared to defend you indefinitely-I can't. What in hell's name are you doing, man? If someone in that house killed the wretched woman, then you haven't far to look, have you? Why can't you get this thing settled? For heaven's sake, how many suspects can you have? Four or five at the most. What's the matter with you that you can't finish it up?"