Page 115 of A Dangerous Mourning (William Monk 2)

“There is nothing to do but bear it, Beatrice.” His voice was very gentle, but there was no wavering in it. “We cannot run away. There is no way of denying it without making it immeasurably worse.”

She clutched his hand and looked at Hester.

“Who was it?” she said, her voice barely trembling now, her eyes direct.

“Araminta,” Hester replied.

“Not alone.”

“No. I don’t know who helped her.”

Beatrice put her hands very slowly over her face. She knew—and Hester realized it when she saw her clenched knuckles and heard her gasp. But she did not ask. Instead she looked for a moment at Septimus, then turned and walked very slowly out of the room, down the main stairs, and out of the front door into the street to where Monk was standing in the rain.

Gravely, with the rain soaking her hair and her dress, oblivious of it, she told him.

Monk went straight to Evan, and Evan took it to Runcorn.

“Balderdash!” Runcorn said furiously. “Absolute balderdash! Whatever put such a farrago of total nonsense in your head? The Queen Anne Street case is closed. Now get on with your present case, and if I hear any more about this you will be in serious trouble. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?” His long face was suffused with color. “You are a great deal too like Monk for your own good. The sooner you forget him and all his arrogance, the better chance you will have of making yourself a career in the police force.”

“You won’t question Lady Moidore again?” Evan persisted.

“Great guns, Evan. What is wrong with you? No I won’t. Now get out of here and go and do your job.”

Evan stood to attention for a moment, the words of disgust boiling up inside him, then turned on his heel and went out. But instead of returning to his new inspector, or to any part of his present case, he found a hansom cab and directed it to take him to the offices of Oliver Rathbone.

Rathbone received him as soon as he could decently dismiss his current, rather garrulous client.

“Yes?” he said with great curiosity. “What is it?”

Clearly and concisely Evan told him what Hester had done, and saw with a mixture of emotions the acute interest with which Rathbone listened, and the alternating fear and amusement in his face, the anger and the sudden gentleness. Young as Evan was, he recognized it as an involvement of more than intellectual or moral concern.

Then he recounted what Monk had added, and his own still smoldering experience with Runcorn.

“Indeed,” Rathbone said slowly and with deep thought. “Indeed. Very slender, but it does not take a thick rope to hang a man, only a strong one—and I think this may indeed be strong enough.”

“What will you do?” Evan asked. “Runcorn won’t look at it.”

Rathbone smiled, a neat, beautiful gesture. “Did you imagine he might?”

“No—but—” Evan shrugged.

“I shall take it to the Home Office.” Rathbone crossed his legs and placed his fingers tip to tip. “Now tell me again, every detail, and let me be sure.”

Obediently Evan repeated every word.

“Thank you.” Rathbone rose to his feet. “Now if you will accompany me I shall do what I can—and if we are successful, you may choose yourself a constable and we shall make an arrest. I think perhaps we had better be quick.” His face darkened. “From what you say, Lady Moidore at least is already aware of the tragedy to shatter her house.”

Hester had told Monk all she knew. Against his wishes she had returned to the house, soaked and bedraggled and without an excuse. She met Araminta on the stairs.

“Good heavens,” Araminta said with incredulity and amusement. “You look as if you have taken a bath with all your clothes on. Whatever possessed you to go out in this without your coat and bonnet?”

Hester scrambled for an excuse and found none at all.

“It was quite stupid of me,” she said as if it were an apology for half-wittedness.

“Indeed it was idiotic!” Araminta agreed. “What were you thinking of?”

“I—er—”