He had had time to think a lot about Grey and formulate questions in his mind by the time the footman returned and conducted him through the green baize door and across the corridor to Lady Fabia's sitting room. It was decorated discreetly with deep pink velvet and rosewood furniture. Lady Fabia herself was seated on a Louis Quinze sofa and when Monk saw her all his preconceptions fled his tongue. She was not very big, but as hard and fragile as porcelain, her coloring perfect, not a blemish on her skin, not a soft, fair hair out of place. Her features were regular, her blue eyes wide, only a slightly jutting chin spoiled the delicacy of her face. And she was perhaps too thin; slen-derness had given way to angularity. She was dressed in violet and black, as became someone in mourning, although on her it looked more like something to be observed for one's own dignity than any sign of distress. There was nothing frail in her manner.
"Good morning," she said briskly, dismissing the footman with a wave of her hand. She did not regard Monk with any particular interest and her eyes barely glanced at his face. "You may sit if you wish. I am told you have come to report to me the progress you have made in discovering and apprehending the murderer of my son. Pray proceed."
Opposite him Lady Fabia sat, her back ramrod-straight from years of obedience to governesses, walking as a child with a book on her head for deportment, and riding upright in a sidesaddle in the park or to hounds. There was little Monk could do but obey, sitting reluctantly on one of the ornate chairs and feeling self-conscious.
"Well?" she demanded when he remained silent. "The watch your constable brought was not my son's."
Monk was stung by her tone, by her almost unthinking assumption of superiority. In the past he must have been used to this, but he could not remember; and now it stung with the shallow sharpness of gravel rash, not a wound but a blistering abrasion. A memory of Beth's gentleness came to his mind. She would not have resented this. What was the difference between them? Why did he not have her soft Northumbrian accent? Had he eradicated it intentionally, washing out his origins in an attempt to appear some kind of gentleman? The thought made him blush for its stupidity.
Lady Shelburne was staring at him.
"We have established the only time a man could have gained entry to the buildings,'' he replied, still stiff with his own sense of pride. "And we have a description of the only man who did so." He looked straight into her chilly and rather surprised blue eyes. "He was roughly six feet tall, of solid build, as far as can be judged under a greatcoat. He was dark-complexioned and clean-shaven. He went ostensibly to visit a Mr. Yeats, who also lives in the building. We have not yet spoken to Mr. Yeats-"
"Why not?"
"Because you required that I come and report our progress to you, ma'am."
Her eyebrows rose in incredulity, touched with contempt. The sarcasm passed her by entirely.
"Surely you cannot be the only man directed to conduct such an important case? My son was a brave and distinguished soldier who risked his life for his country. Is this the best with which you can repay him?"
"London is full of crimes, ma'am; and every man or woman murdered is a loss to someone."
"You can hardly equate the death of a marquis's son with that of some thief or indigent in the street!" she snapped back.
"Nobody has more than one life to lose, ma'am; and all are equal before the law, or they should be."
"Nonsense! Some men are leaders, and contribute to society; most do not. My son was one of those who did."
"Some have nothing to-" he began.
"Then that is their own fault!" she interrupted. "But I do not wish to hear your philosophies. I am sorry for those in the gutter, for whatever reason, but they really do not interest me. What are you doing about apprehending this madman who killed my son? Who is he?"
"We don't know-"
"Then what are you doing to find out?" If she had any feelings under her exquisite exterior, like generations of her kind she had been bred to conceal them, never to indulge herself in weakness or vulgarity. Courage and good taste were her household gods and no sacrifice to them was questioned, nor too great, made daily and without fuss.
Monk ignored Runcorn's admonition, and wondered in passing how often he had done so in the past. There had been a certain asperity in Runcorn's tone this morning which surpassed simply frustration with the case, or Lady Shelburne's letter.
"We believe it was someone who knew Major Grey," he answered her. "And planned to kill him."
"Nonsense!" Her response was immediate. "Why should anyone who knew my son have wished to kill him? He was a man of the greatest charm; everyone liked him, even those who barely knew him." She stood up and walked over towards the window, her back half to him. "Perhaps that is difficult for you to understand; but you never met him. Lovel, my eldest son, has the sobriety, the sense of responsibility, and something of a gift to manage men; Menard is excellent with facts and figures. He can make anything profitable; but it was Joscelin who had the charm, Joscelin who could make one laugh." There was a catch in her voice now, the sound of real grief. “Menard cannot sing as Joscelin could; and Lovel has no imagination. He will make an excellent master of Shelburne. He will govern it well and be just to everyone, as just as it is wise to be-but my God"-there was sudden heat in her voice, almost passion-"compared with Joscelin, he is such a bore!"
Suddenly Monk was touched by the sense of loss that came through her words, the loneliness, the feeling that something irrecoverably pleasing had gone from her life and part of her could only look backwards from now on.
"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it deeply. "I know it cannot bring him back, but we will find the man, and he will be punished."
"Hanged," she said tonelessly. "Taken out one morning and his neck broken on the rope."
"Yes."
"That is of little use to me." She turned back to him. "But it is better than nothing. See to it that it is done."
It was dismissal, but he was not yet ready to go. There were things he needed to know. He stood up.
"I mean to, ma'am; but I still need your help-"
"Mine?" Her voice expressed surprise, and disapproval.
"Yes ma'am. If I am to learn who hated Major Grey enough to kill him"-he caught her expression-"for whatever reason. The finest people, ma'am, can inspire envy, or greed, jealousy over a woman, a debt of honor that cannot be paid-"
"Yes, you make your point." She blinked and the muscles in her thin neck tightened. "What is your name?"
"William Monk."
"Indeed. And what is it you wish to know about my son, Mr. Monk?"
"To start with, I would like to meet the rest of the family."
Her eyebrows rose in faint, dry amusement.
"You think I am biased, Mr. Monk, that I have told you something less than the truth?"
"We frequently show only our most flattering sides to those we care for most, and who care for us," he replied quietly.
"How perceptive of you." Her voice was stinging. He tried to guess what well-covered pain was behind those words.
"When may I speak to Lord Shelburne?" he asked. "And anyone else who knew Major Grey well?"
"If you consider it necessary, I suppose you had better." She went back to the door. "Wait here, and I shall ask him to see you, when it is convenient." She pulled the door open and walked through without looking back at him.
He sat down, half facing the window. Outside a woman in a plain stuff dress walked past, a basket on her arm. For a wild moment memory surged back to him. He saw in his mind a child as well, a girl with dark hair, and he knew the cobbled street beyond the trees, going down to the water. There was something missing; he struggled for it, and then knew it was wind, and the scream of gulls. It was a memory of happiness, of complete safety. Childhood-perhaps his mother, and Beth?