Anne Perry - Defend and Betray

Hester said nothing.

“Then I'll go to the Carlyons'.”

“The Carlyons'?” Now she was surprised. “You'll not find anything there, but even if you did, what good would it do? They'll all lie to protect him, and we know about him anyway! It's the other person we need to find-with proof.”

“Not the colonel-Peverell Erskine.”

She was stunned, her face filled with amazement and disbelief. “Peverell! Oh no! You can't think it was him!”

“Why not? Because we like him?” He was hurting himself as well as her and they both understood it. “Do you think it has to be someone who looks like a monster? There was no violence used, no hate or greed-just a man who has never grown up enough to find an appropriate closeness with an adult woman, a man who only feels safe with a child who won't judge him or demand a commitment or the ability to give, who won't see the flaws in his character or the clumsiness or inadequacy of his acts.”

“You sound as if you want me to feel sorry for him,” she said with tight, hard disgust, but he did not know whether that disgust was at him, at the abuses, or only at the situation-or even if it was so hard because underneath it was the wrench of real pity.

“I don't care what you feel,” he lied back. “Only what you think. Just because Peverell Erskine is an agreeable man and his wife loves him doesn't mean he can't have weaknesses that destroy him-and others.”

“I don't believe it of Peverell,” she said stubbornly, but she gave no reason.

“That's just stupid,” he snapped at her, aware of the anger inside himself to which he chose to give no name. “You're hardly much use if you are working on that level of intelligence.”

“I said I don't believe it,” she retorted equally violently. “I didn't say I wouldn't investigate the possibility.”

“Oh yes?” He raised his eyebrows sarcastically.”How?”

“Through Damaris, of course,” she said with stinging contempt. “She discovered something that night-something that upset her beyond bearing. Had you forgotten that? Or did you just think I had?”

Monk stared at her, and was about to make an equally acid reply when the door opened again and Major Tiplady returned, immediately followed by the maid with a tray of tea, announcing that supper would be ready in a little over half an hour. It was the perfect opportunity to change his tone altogether, and be suddenly charming, to enquire after Major Tiplady's recovery, appreciate the tea, and even to speak courteously to Hester. They talked of other things: the news from India, the ugly rumors of opium war in China, the Persian War, and unrest in the government at home. All the subjects were distressing, but they were far away, and he found the brief half hour most agreeable, a relief from responsibility and the urgent present.

The following day Lovat-Smith called further witnesses as to the unblemished character of the general, his fine nature and heroic military record. Once again Hester went to court to watch and listen on Major Tiplady's behalf, and Monk went first to the house of Callandra Daviot, where he learned from her, to his chagrin, that she had been unable to find anything beyond the merest whisper to indicate that General Carlyon had ever formed any relationships that were anything but the most proper and correct. However, she did have extensive lists of names of all youths who had served with his regiment, both in England and in India, and she produced it with an apology.

“Don't worry,” he said with sudden gentleness. “This may be all we need.”

She looked at him with something close to a squint, disbelief plain in her face.

He scanned down the list rapidly to see if the name of the Furnivals' bootboy was there. It was on the second page, Robert Andrews, honorable discharge, owing to wounds received in action. He looked up, smiling at her.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Maybe,” he answered. “I'm going to find out.”

“Monk!”

“Yes.” He looked at her with a sudden awareness of how much she had done for him. “I think this may be the Furnivals' bootboy,” he explained with a lift of hope in his voice. “The one who dropped all the laundry when he came face-to-face with the general on the night of the murder. I 'm going to the Furnivals' house now to find out. Thank you.”

“Ah,” she said with a touch of satisfaction creeping into her expression at last. “Ah-well… good.”

He thanked her again and bade her good-bye with a graceful kiss to the air, then hurried out to find a hansom to take him back to the Furnivals' house.

He reached it at a quarter to ten, in time to see Maxim leave, presumably to go into the City. He waited almost an hour and a half, and was rewarded by seeing Louisa, glamorous and quite unmistakable in a richly flowered bonnet and skirts so wide it took very great skill for her to negotiate the carriage doors.

As soon as she was well out of sight, Monk went to the back door and knocked. It was opened by the bootboy, looking expectant. His expression changed utterly when he saw Monk; apparently he had been anticipating someone else.

“Yes?” he said with a not unfriendly frown. He was a smart lad and stood very straight, but there was a watchfulness in his eyes, a knowledge of hurt.

“I was here before, speaking to Mrs. Furnival,” Monk began carefully, but already he felt a kind of excitement. “And she was kind enough to help me in enquiring into the tragedy of General Carlyon's death.”

The boy's expression darkened, an almost imperceptible tightening of the skin around his eyes and mouth, a narrowing of the lips.

“If you want Mrs. Furnival, you should 'ave gone to the front door,” he said warily.

“I don't, this time.” Monk smiled at him. “There are just a few details about other people who have called at the house in the past, and perhaps Master Valentine could help me. But I need to speak with one of your footmen, perhaps John.”

“Well you'd better come in,” the bootboy said cautiously. “An' I'll ask Mr. Diggins, 'e's the butler. I can't let you do thatmeself.”

“Of course not.” Monk followed him in graciously.

“Wot's your name, then?” the boy asked.

“Monk-William Monk. What is yours?”

“Who, me?” The boy was startled.

“Yes-what is your name?” Monk made it casual.

“Robert Andrews, sir. You wait 'ere, an' I'll see Mr. Diggins for yer.” And the boy straightened his shoulders again and walked out very uprightly, as if he were a soldier on parade. Monk was left in the scullery, pulse racing, thoughts teeming in his mind, longing to question the boy and knowing how infinitely delicate it was, and that a word or a look that was clumsy might make him keep silence forever.

“What is it this time, Mr. Monk?” the butler asked when he returned a few minutes later. “I'm sure we've all told you all we know about that night. Now we'd just like to forget it and get on with our work. I'll not 'ave you upsetting all our maids again!”

“I don't need to see the maids,” Monk said placatingly. “Just a footman would be quite sufficient, and possibly the bootboy. It is only about who called here frequently.”

“Robert said something about Master Valentine.” The butler looked at Monk closely. “I can't let you see him, not without the master's or the mistress's permission, and they're both out at the present.”

“I understand.” Monk chose not to fight when he knew he could not win. That would have to wait for another time. “I daresay you know everything that goes on in the house anyway. If you can spare the time?”

The butler considered for a moment. He was not immune to flattery, if it were disguised well enough, and he certainly liked what was his due.