by Anne Perry
“By all means.” Basil was regaining his command. “And the valet as well.”
“Thank you, sir. That is most helpful of you.”
Basil’s eyebrows rose. “What on earth did you expect me to do, man? It was my daughter who was murdered.” His control was complete again.
There was nothing Monk could reply to that, except to express a brief sympathy again and take his leave to go downstairs, write a note to Evan at the police station, and dispatch the groom to fetch him and another constable.
The search, begun forty-five minutes later, started with the rooms of the maids at the far end of the attic, small, cold garrets looking over the gray slates towards their own mews, and the roofs of Harley Mews beyond. They each contained an iron bedstead with mattress, pillow and covers, a wooden hard-backed chair, and a plain wood dresser with a glass on the wall above. No maid would be permitted to present herself for work untidy or in an ill-kept uniform. There was also a cupboard for clothes and a ewer and basin for washing. The rooms were distinguished one from another only by the patterns of the knotted rag rugs on the floor and by the few pictures that belonged to each inhabitant, a sketch of family, in one case a silhouette, a religious text or reproduction of a famous painting.
Neither Monk nor Evan found a knife. The constable, under detailed instructions, was searching the outside property, simply because it was the only other area to which the servants had access without leaving the premises, and thus their duty.
“Of course if it was a member of the family they’ve all been over half London by now,” Evan observed with a crooked smile. “It could be at the bottom of the river, or in any of a million gutters or rubbish bins.”
“I know that.” Monk did not stop his work. “And Myles Kellard looks by far the most likely, at the moment. Or Araminta, if she knew. But can you think of a better thing to be doing?”
“No,” Evan admitted glumly. “I’ve spent the last week and a half chasing my shadow around London looking for jewelry I’ll lay any odds you like was destroyed the night it was taken—or trying to find out the past history of servants whose records are exemplary and deadly monotonous.” He was busy turning out drawers of neat, serviceable feminine clothes as he spoke, his long fingers touching them carefully, his face pulled into an expression of distaste at his intrusion. “I begin to think employers don’t see people at all, simply aprons and uniform stuff dresses and a lace cap,” he went on. “Whose head it is on is all the same, providing the tea is hot, the table is laid, the fires are blacked and laid and stoked, the meal is cooked and served and cleared away, and every time the bell is rung, someone answers it to do whatever you want.” He folded the clothes neatly and replaced them. “Oh—and of course the house is always clean and there are always clean clothes in the dresser. Who does it is largely immaterial.”
“You are becoming cynical, Evan!”
Evan flashed a smile. “I’m learning, sir.”
After the maids’ rooms they came down the stairs to the second floor up from the main house. At one end of the landing were the rooms of the housekeeper and the cook and the ladies’ maids, and now of course Hester; and at the other the rooms of the butler, the two footmen, the bootboy and the valet.
“Shall we begin with Percival?” Evan asked, looking at Monk apprehensively.
“We may as well take them in order,” Monk answered. “The first is Harold.”
But they found nothing beyond the private possessions of a very ordinary young man in service in a large house: one suit of clothes for the rare times off duty, letters from his family, several from his mother, a few mementoes of childhood, a picture of a pleasant-faced woman of middle years with the same fair hair and mild features as himself, presumably his mother, and a feminine handkerchief of inexpensive cambric, carefully pressed and placed in his Bible—perhaps Dinah’s?
Percival’s room was as different from Harold’s as the one man was from the other. Here there were books, some poetry, some philosophy of social conditions and change, one or two novels. There were no letters, no sign of family or other ties. He had two suits of his own clothes in the cupboard for his times off duty, and some very smart boots, several neckties and handkerchiefs, and a surprising number of shirts and some extremely handsome cuff links and collar studs. He must have looked quite a dandy when he chose. Monk felt a stab of familiarity as he moved the personal belongings of this other young man who strove to dress and deport himself out of his station in life. Had he himself begun like this—living in someone else’s house, aping their manners trying to improve himself? It was also a matter of some curiosity as to where Percival got the money for such things—they cost a great deal more than a footman’s wages, even if carefully saved over several years.
“Sir!”
He jerked up and stared at Evan, who was standing white-faced, the whole drawer of the dresser on the floor at his feet, pulled out completely, and in his hand a long garment of ivory silk, stained brown in smears, and a thin, cruel blade poking through, patched and blotched with the rusty red of dried blood.
Monk stared at it, stunned. He had expected an exercise in futility, merely something to demonstrate that he was doing all he could—and now Evan held in his hand what was obviously the weapon, wrapped in a woman’s peignoir, and it had been concealed in Percival’s room. It was a conclusion so startling he found it hard to grasp.
“So much for Myles Kellard,” Evan said, swallowing hard and laying the knife and the silk down carefully on the end of the bed, withdrawing his hand quickly as if desiring to be away from it.
Monk replaced the things he had been looking through in the cupboard and stood up straight, hands in his pockets.
“But why would he leave it here?” he said slowly. “It’s damning!”
Evan frowned. “Well, I suppose he didn’t want to leave the knife in her room, and he couldn’t risk carrying it openly, with blood on it, in case he met someone—”
“Who, for heaven’s sake?”
Evan’s fair face was intensely troubled, his eyes dark, his lips pulled in distaste that was far deeper than anything physical.
“I don’t know! Anyone else on the landing in the night—”
“How would he explain his presence—with or without a knife?” Monk demanded.
“I don’t know!” Evan shook his head. “What do footmen do? Maybe he’d say he heard a noise—intruders—the front door—I don’t know. But it would be better if he didn’t have a knife in his hands—especially a bloodstained one.”
“Better still if he had left it there in her room,” Monk argued.
“Perhaps he took it out without thinking.” He looked up and met Monk’s eyes. “Just had it in his hand and kept hold of it? Panicked? Then when he got outside and halfway along the corridor he didn’t dare go back?”
“Then why the peignoir?” Monk said. “He wrapped it in that to take it, by the look of it. That’s not the kind of panic you’re talking about. Now why on earth should he want the knife? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Not to us,” Evan agreed slowly, staring at the crumpled silk in his hand. “But it must have to him—there it is!”
“And he never had the opportunity to get rid of it between then and now?” Monk screwed up his face. “He couldn’t possibly have forgotten it!”
“What other explanation is there?” Evan looked helpless. “It’s here!”
“Yes—but was Percival the one who put it here? And why didn’t we find it when we looked for the jewelry?”
Evan blushed. “Well I didn’t pull out drawers and look under them for anything. I daresay the constable didn’t either. Honestly I was pretty sure we wouldn’t find it anyway—and the silver vase wouldn’t have fitted.” He looked uncomfortable.
Monk pulled a face. “Even if we had, it might not have been there then—I suppose. I don’t know, Evan. It just seems so … stupid! And Percival is arrogant, abrasive, contemptuous of other people, especially women, and he’s got a h
ell of a lot of money from somewhere, to judge from his wardrobe, but he’s not stupid. Why should he leave something as damning as this hidden in his room?”
“Arrogance?” Evan suggested tentatively. “Maybe he just thinks we are not efficient enough for him to be afraid of? Up until today he was right.”
“But he was afraid,” Monk insisted, remembering Percival’s white face and the sweat on his skin. “I had him in the housekeeper’s room and I could see the fear in him, smell it! He fought to get out of it, spreading blame everywhere else he could—on the laundrymaid, and Kellard—even Araminta.”
“I don’t know!” Evan shook his head, his eyes puzzled. “But Mrs. Boden will tell us if this is her knife—and Mrs. Kellard will tell us if that is her sister’s—what did you call it?”
“Peignoir,” Monk replied. “Dressing robe.”
“Right—peignoir. I suppose we had better tell Sir Basil we’ve found it!”
“Yes.” Monk picked up the knife, folding the silk over the blade, and carried it out of the room, Evan coming after him.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Evan asked, coming down the stairs a step behind.
Monk hesitated. “I’m not happy it’s enough,” he said thoughtfully. “Anyone could have put these in his room—and only a fool would leave them there.”
“They were fairly well hidden.”
“But why keep them?” Monk insisted. “It’s stupid—Percival’s far too sly for that.”
“Then what?” Evan was not argumentative so much as puzzled and disturbed by a series of ugly discoveries in which he saw no sense. “The laundrymaid? Is she really jealous enough to murder Octavia and hide the weapon and the gown in Percival’s room?”
They had reached the main landing, where Maggie and Annie were standing together, wide-eyed, staring at them.
“All right girls, you’ve done a good job. Thank you,” Monk said to them with a tight smile. “You can go about your own duties now.”
“You’ve got something!” Annie stared at the silk in his hand, her face pale, and she looked frightened. Maggie stood very close to her, equal fear in her features.
There was no point in lying; they would find out soon enough.
“Yes,” he admitted. “We’ve got the knife. Now get about your duties, or you’ll have Mrs. Willis after you.”
Mrs. Willis’s name was enough to break the spell. They scuttled off to fetch carpet beaters and brushes, and he saw their long gray skirts whisk around the corner into the broom cupboard in a huddle together, whispering breathlessly.
Basil was waiting for the two police in his study, sitting at his desk. He admitted them immediately and looked up from the papers he had been writing on, his face angry, his brow dark.
“Yes?”
Monk closed the door behind him.
“We found a knife, sir; and a silk garment which I believe is a peignoir. Both are stained with blood.”
Basil let out his breath slowly, his face barely changed, just a shadow as if some final reality had come home.
“I see. And where did you find these things?”
“Behind a drawer in the dresser in Percival’s room,” Monk answered, watching him closely.
If Basil was surprised it did not show in his expression. His heavy face with its short, broad nose and mouth wreathed in lines remained careful and tired. Perhaps one could not expect it of him. His family had endured bereavement and suspicion for weeks. That it should finally be ended and the burden lifted from his immediate family must be an overwhelming relief. He could not be blamed if that were paramount. However repugnant the thought, he cannot have helped wondering if his son-in-law might be responsible, and Monk had already seen that he and Araminta had a deeper affection than many a father and child. She was the only one who had his inner strength, his command and determination, his dignity and almost total self-control. Although that might be an unfair judgment, since Monk had never seen Octavia alive; but she had apparently been flawed by the weakness of drink and the vulnerability of loving her husband too much to recover from his death—if indeed that were a flaw. Perhaps it was to Basil and Araminta, who had disapproved of Harry Haslett in the first place.
“I assume you are going to arrest him.” It was barely a question.
“Not yet,” Monk said slowly. “The fact that they were found in his room does not prove it was he who put them there.”
“What?” Basil’s face darkened with angry color and he leaned forward over the desk. Another man might have risen to his feet, but he did not stand to servants, or police, who were in his mind the same. “For God’s sake, man, what more do you want? The very knife that stabbed her, and her clothes found in his possession!”
“Found in his room, sir,” Monk corrected. “The door was not locked; anyone in the house could have put them there.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Basil said savagely. “Who in the devil’s name would put such things there?”
“Anyone wishing to implicate him—and thus remove suspicion from themselves,” Monk replied. “A natural act of self-preservation.”
“Who, for example?” Basil said with a sneer. “You have every evidence that it was Percival. He had the motive, heaven help us. Poor Octavia was weak in her choice of men. I was her father, but I can admit that. Percival is an arrogant and presumptuous creature. When she rebuffed him and threatened to have him thrown out, he panicked. He had gone too far.” His voice was shaking, and deeply as he disliked him, Monk had a moment’s pity for him. Octavia had been his daughter, whatever he had thought of her marriage, or tried to deny her; the thought of her violation must have wounded him inwardly more than he could show, especially in front of an inferior like Monk.
He mastered himself with difficulty and continued. “Or perhaps she took the knife with her,” he said quietly, “fearing he might come, and when he did, she tried to defend herself, poor child.” He swallowed. “And he overpowered her and it was she who was stabbed.” At last he turned, leaving his back towards Monk. “He panicked,” he went on. “And left, taking the knife with him, and then hid it because he had no opportunity to dispose of it.” He moved away towards the window, hiding his face. He breathed in deeply and let it out in a sigh. “What an abominable tragedy. You will arrest him immediately and get him out of my house. I will tell my family that you have solved the crime of Octavia’s death. I thank you for your diligence—and your discretion.”
“No sir,” Monk said levelly, part of him wishing he could agree. “I cannot arrest him on this evidence. It is not sufficient—unless he confesses. If he denies it, and says someone else put these things in his room—”
Basil swung around, his eyes hard and very black. “Who?”
“Possibly Rose,” Monk replied.
Basil stared at him. “What?”
“The laundrymaid who is infatuated with him, and might have been jealous enough to kill Mrs. Haslett and then implicate Percival. That way she would be revenged upon them both.”
Basil’s eyebrows rose. “Are you suggesting, Inspector, that my daughter was in rivalry with a laundrymaid for the love of a footman? Do you imagine anyone at all will believe you?”
How easy it would be to do what they all wanted and arrest Percival. Runcorn would be torn between relief and frustration. Monk could leave Queen Anne Street and take a new case. Except that he did not believe this one was over—not yet.
“I am suggesting, Sir Basil, that the footman in question is something of a braggart,” he said aloud. “And he may well have tried to make the laundrymaid jealous by telling her that that was the case. And she may have been gullible enough to believe him.”
“Oh.” Basil gave up. Suddenly the anger drained out of him. “Well it is your job to find out which is the truth. I don’t much care. Either way, arrest the appropriate person and take them away. I will dismiss the other anyway—without a character. Just attend to it.”
“Or, on the other hand,” Monk said coldly, “it might ha
ve been Mr. Kellard. It now seems undeniable that he resorts to violence when his desire is refused.”
Basil looked up. “Does it? I don’t recall telling you anything of the sort. I said that she made some such charge and that my son-in-law denied it.”
“I found the girl,” Monk told him with a hard stare, all his dislike flooding back. The man was callous, almost brutal in his indifference. “I heard her account of the event, and I believe it.” He did not mention what Martha Rivett had said about Araminta and her wedding night, but it explained very precisely the emotions Hester had seen in her and her continuous, underlying bitterness towards her husband. If Basil did not know, there was no purpose in telling him so private and painful a piece of information.
“Do you indeed?” Basil’s face was bleak. “Well fortunately judgment does not rest with you. Nor will any court accept the unsubstantiated word of an immoral servant girl against that of a gentleman of unblemished reputation.”
“And what anyone believes is irrelevant,” Monk said stiffly. “I cannot prove that Percival is guilty—but more urgent than that, I do not yet know that he is.”
“Then get out and find out!” Basil said, losing his temper at last. “For God’s sake do your job!”
“Sir.” Monk was too angry to add anything further. He swung on his heel and went out, shutting the door hard behind him. Evan was standing miserably in the hall, waiting, the peignoir and the knife in his hand.
“Well?” Monk demanded.
“It’s the kitchen knife Mrs. Boden was missing,” Evan answered. “I haven’t asked anyone about this yet.” He held up the peignoir, his face betraying the distress he felt for death, loneliness and indignity. “But I requested to see Mrs. Kellard.”
“Good. I’ll take it. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I asked Dinah and she told me to wait.”
Monk swore. He hated being left in the ball like a mendicant, but he had no alternative. It was a further quarter of an hour before Dinah returned and conducted them to the boudoir, where Araminta was standing in the center of the floor, her face strained and grim but perfectly composed.
