Defend and Betray (12 page)

Louisa explained Monk's presence quickly. “Mr. Monk is working for Alexandra Carlyon's lawyer.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Furnival.” Monk inclined his head. He needed this man's help. “I appreciate your courtesy.”

Maxim's face darkened immediately, but it was with pity rather than irritation.

“I wish there was something we could do. But it's too late now.” His voice was constricted, as though his distress were startlingly deep and full of anger. “We should have done it weeks ago.” He moved towards the passage leading to the withdrawing room. “What is there now, Mr. Monk?”

“Only information,” Monk answered. “Is there anything you remember of that evening that might explain things better?”

A flash of ironic humor crossed Maxim's face, and something that looked like self-blame. “Believe me, Mr. Monk, I've racked my brain trying to think of an explanation, and I know nothing now I didn't know then. It's a complete mystery to me. I know, of course, that Alex and Thaddeus had differences of opinion. In fact, to be honest, I know they did not get on particularly well; but that is true of a great many people, if not most, at some time or another. It does not excuse one breaking the marriage vows, and it certainly doesn't result in their killing each other.”

“Mrs. Carlyon says she did it out of jealousy over her husband's attention towards Mrs. Furnival...”

Maxim's eyes widened in surprise. “That's absurd! They've been friends for years, in fact since before—before Valentine was born. Nothing has happened suddenly to make her jealous, nothing has changed at all.” He looked genuinely confused. If he were an actor he was superb. It had crossed Monk's mind to wonder if it might have been he and not Alexandra who was the jealous spouse, or even for a wild moment if the general was Valentine's father. But he could think of no reason why Alexandra should confess to protect Maxim, unless they were lovers—in which case he had little cause to be jealous over the general and Louisa. In fact, it was in his interest it should continue.

“But Mrs. Carlyon was distressed that evening?” he asked aloud.

“Oh yes.” Maxim poked his hands deep into his pockets and frowned. “Very. But I don't know what about, except that Thaddeus rather ignored her, but that is hardly cause for violence. Anyway, everyone seemed rather excitable that evening. Damaris Erskine was almost to the point of frenzy.” He did not mention that she had singled him out for her abuse. “And I have no idea why about that either.” He looked bewildered. “Nor had poor Peverell, to judge by his face. And Sabella was very overwrought as well—but then she has been rather often lately.” His expression was rueful and more than a little embarrassed. “Altogether it was a pretty dreadful evening.”

“But nothing happened to make you think it would end in murder?”

“Good God, no! No, nothing at all. It was just. . .”He stopped, his face bleak, lost for any words adequate to explain his feelings.

“Thank you, Mr. Furnival.” Monk could think of nothing further to ask at this point. He thanked Louisa also and took his leave, going out into the patchy sunshine of Albany Street with his mind crowded with thoughts and impressions: Louisa's arrogant walk and her confident, inviting face with an element of coldness in it in repose; Valentine's hidden pain; and Maxim's innocence.

* * * * *

Next Monk visited Alexandra Carlyon's younger daughter, Sabella. The elder daughter lived in Bath, and was no part of this tragedy, except as it deprived her of her father, and almost certainly in due course of the law, of her mother also. But Sabella might well be at the heart of it, either the true motive for Alexandra's crime or even the murderer herself.

The Poles' house was on George Street, only a short walk away, the other side of the Hampstead Road, and it took him ten minutes on foot to reach the step. When the door opened he explained to the parlormaid that he was engaged to do all he could to assist Mrs. Carlyon, and he would be obliged if he might speak to Mr. or Mrs. Pole to that end.

He was shown into the morning room, a small, chilly place even in the bright, gusty winds of May with a sudden rain squall battering against the heavily curtained windows. And to be fair, they were very newly in mourning for Sabella's father.

It was not Sabella who came, but Fenton Pole, a pleasant, unremarkable young man with strawberry fair hair and an earnest face, regular features and china-blue eyes. He was fashionably dressed in a shawl-collared waistcoat, very white shirt and somber suit. He closed the door behind him and regarded Monk with misgiving.

“I am sorry to disturb you in a time of such family grief,” Monk began straightaway. “But the matter of helping Mrs. Carlyon cannot wait.”

Fenton Pole's frown became deeper and he moved towards Monk with a candid expression, as if he would confide something, then stopped a few feet away.

“I cannot think what anyone can do to help her,” he said anxiously. “Least of all my wife or I. We were present that evening, but anything I saw or heard only adds to her troubles. I think, Mr. Monk, that the least damage we can do would be to say as little as possible and let the end be as mercifully rapid as may be.” He looked down at his shoes, then up at Monk with a frown. “My wife is not well, and I refuse to add anymore to her distress. She has lost both father and mother, in the most dreadful circumstances. I am sure you appreciate that?”

“I do, Mr. Pole,” Monk conceded. “It would be hard to imagine anything worse than what appears to have happened. But so far it is only an appearance. We owe it to her, as well as ourselves, to see if there are other explanations, or mitigating circumstances. I am sure your wife, in love for her mother, would wish that too.”

“My wife is not well . . .” Pole repeated rather sharply.

“I regret it profoundly,” Monk interrupted. “But events will make no allowance for individual illness or grief.” Then before Pole could protest again, “But perhaps if you would tell me what you recall of the evening, I will have to disturb your wife very little—only to see if she can add anything you do not know.”

“I don't see that it can help.” Pole's jaw hardened and there was a stubborn light in his blue eyes.

“Neither do I, until I hear what you have to say.” Monk was beginning to grow irritated, and he concealed it with difficulty. He did not suffer foolishness, prejudice or complacency with any grace, and this man was exhibiting at least two of these faults. “But it is my profession to learn such things, and I have been employed by Mrs. Carlyon's barrister to discover what I can.”

Pole regarded him without answering.

Deliberately Monk sat down on one of the higher chairs as if he intended to be there for some time.

“The dinner party, Mr. Pole,” he insisted. “I understand your wife quarreled with her father almost as soon as she arrived at the Furnivals' house. Do you know what was the cause of that difference?”

Pole looked discomfited. “I cannot see what that has to do with the general's death, but since you ask, I don't know what the cause was. I imagine it was some old misunderstanding and nothing new or of any importance.”

Monk looked at him with disbelief as civil as he could make it.

“Surely something was said? It is impossible to have a quarrel without mentioning what it is about, at least nominally, even if what is spoken of is not the real cause.”

Pole's blond eyebrows rose. He pushed his hands even deeper into his pockets and turned away irritably. “If that is what you want. I thought from what you were saying that you wished to know the real cause—although it can hardly matter now.”

Monk felt his anger rising. His muscles were tight and his voice was harsh when he replied.

“What did they say to each other, Mr. Pole?”

Pole sat down and crossed his legs. He looked at Monk coldly.

“The general made some observation about the army in India, and Sabella said she had heard there was a very tense situation there. The general told her it was nothing. In fact he was rather dismissive of her opinions, and it angered her. She felt he was being condescending and told him so. Sabella imagines that she knows something about India—and I am afraid that perhaps I have indulged her. At that point Maxim Furnival intervened and tried to turn the subject to something else, not entirely successfully. It was not anything remarkable, Mr. Monk. And it certainly had no bearing upon Mrs. Carlyon's quarrel with him.”

“What was that about?”

“I have no idea!” he snapped. “I simply assume there was one, because she could not possibly have killed him unless there was a most violent difference between them. But none of us were aware of anything of the sort, or naturally we should have done something to prevent it.” He looked annoyed, as if he could not believe Monk was so stupid intentionally.

Before Monk could reply the door opened and a lovely but disheveled young woman stood facing them, her fair hair over her shoulders, her gown wrapped around by a shawl.

She held it with one slender, pale hand grasped close to her throat. She stared at Monk, disregarding Pole.

“Who are you? Polly said you are trying to help Mama. How can you do that?”

Monk rose to his feet. “William Monk, Mrs. Pole. I am employed by your mother's barrister, Mr. Rathbone, to see if I can learn something to mitigate her case.”

She stared at him in silence. Her eyes were very wide and fixed, and there was a hectic color in her cheeks.

Pole had risen when she came in, and now he turned to her gently. “Sabella, my dear, there is no cause to let this concern you. I think you should go back and lie down ...”

She pushed him away angrily and came towards Monk. Pole put his hand on her arm and she snatched it away from him.

“Mr. Monk, is it possible you can do something to help my mother? You said 'mitigation.' Does that mean the law might take into account what manner of man he was? How he bullied us, forced us to his will regardless of our own desires?”

“Sabella . . .” Pole said urgently. He glared at Monk. “Really, Mr. Monk, this is all irrelevant and I—”

“It is not irrelevant!” Sabella said angrily, cutting across him.”Will you be good enough to answer me, Mr. Monk?”

He heard the rising hysteria in her voice and it was quite obvious she was on the edge of losing control altogether. It was hardly remarkable. Her family had been shattered by the most appalling double tragedy. She had effectively lost both her parents in a scandal which would ruin their reputations and tear her family life apart and expose it to public ignominy. What could he say to her that would not either make it worse or be totally meaningless? He forced his dislike of Pole out of his mind.

“I don't know, Mrs. Pole,” he said very gently. “I hope so. I believe she must have had some reason to do such a thing—if indeed it was she who did it. I need to learn what the reason was: it may be grounds for some sort of defense.”

“For God's sake, man!” Pole exploded furiously, his face tight with rage. “Have you no sense of decency at all? My wife is ill—can you not see that? I am sorry, but Mrs. Carlyon's defense, if indeed there can be any, lies with her solicitors, not with us. You must do what you can and not involve my wife. Now I must ask you to leave, without causing any more distress than you already have.” He stood, holding his position rather than moving towards Monk, but his threat was plain. He was a very angry man, and Monk thought he was also frightened, although his fear might well be for his wife's mental state and nothing more. Indeed she did look on the border of complete collapse.

Monk no longer had authority to insist, as he had when a policeman. He had no choice but to leave, and do it with as much dignity as possible. Being asked to leave was galling enough, being thrown out would be a total humiliation, which he would not endure. He turned from Pole to Sabella, but before he could collect his own excuses, she spoke.

“I have the deepest affection for my mother, Mr. Monk, and regardless of what my husband says, if there is anything at all I can do . . .” She stood rigidly, her body shaking, very deliberately ignoring Pole. “I shall do it! You may feel free to call upon me at any time. I shall instruct the servants that you are to be allowed in, and I am to be told.”

“Sabella!” Pole was exasperated. “I forbid it! You really have no idea what you are saying—”

Before he could finish she swung around on him in fury, her face spotted with color, her eyes brilliant, lips twisted.

“How dare you forbid me to help my mother! You are just like Papa—arrogant, tyrannical, telling me what I may and may not do, regardless of my feelings or what I know to be right.” Her voice was getting higher and more and more shrill. “I will not be dictated to—I—”

“ Sabella! Keep your voice down!” he said furiously.”Remember who you are—and to whom you speak. I am your husband, and you owe me your obedience, not to mention your loyalty.”

“Owe you?” She was shouting now. “I do not
owe
you anything! I married you because my father commanded me and I had no choice.”

“You are hysterical!” Pole's face was scarlet with fury and embarrassment. “Go to your room! That is an order, Sabella, and I will not be defied!” He waved his arm towards the door. “Your father's death has unhinged you, which is understandable, but I will not have you behave like this in front of a—a—” He was lost for words to describe Monk.

As if she had just remembered his presence, Sabella looked back at Monk, and at last realized the enormity of her behavior. Her color paled and with shuddering breath she turned and went out of the room without speaking again, leaving the door swinging.

Pole looked at Monk with blazing eyes, as if it were Monk's fault he had witnessed the scene.

“As you can see, Mr. Monk,” he said stiffly, “my wife is in a very distressed state. It will be perfectly clear to you that nothing she says can be of any use to Mrs. Carlyon, or to anyone else.” His face was hard, closed to all entreaty. “I must ask you not to call again. In spite of what she says, you will not be permitted in. I regret I cannot help, but it must be plain Co anyone that we are in no state to do so. Good day to you. The maid will show you to the door.” And so saying he turned around on his heel and went out, leaving Monk alone.