The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  Opportunity. That was his only course left. If the events of the dinner party had been retold accurately (and to imagine them all lying was too remote and forced an idea to entertain), then there were four people who could have done it, the four he had already considered: Alexandra, Sabella, Louisa and Maxim.

  Who else was in the house and not at the party? All the servants—and young Valentine Furnival. But Valentine was little more than a child, and by all accounts very fond of the general. That left the servants. He must make one last effort to account for their whereabouts that evening. If nothing else, it might establish beyond question whether Sabella Pole could have come downstairs and killed her father.

  He took a hansom—after all, Rathbone was paying for it—and presented himself at the Furnivals’ front door. Although he wanted to speak to the servants, he must obtain permission first.

  Maxim, home early, was startled to see him, and even more to hear his request, but with a smile that conveyed both surprise and pity he granted it without argument. Apparently Louisa was out taking tea with someone or other, and Monk was glad of it. She was far more acute in her suspicion, and might well have hindered him.

  He began with the butler, a very composed individual well into his late sixties, with a broad nose and a tight, satisfied mouth.

  “Dinner was served at nine o’clock.” He was uncertain whether to add the “sir” or not. Precisely who was this person making enquiries? His master had been unclear.

  “Which staff were on duty?” Monk asked.

  The butler’s eyes opened wide to convey his surprise at such an ignorant question.

  “The kitchen and dining room staff, sir.” His voice implied “of course.”

  “How many?” Monk kept his patience with difficulty.

  “Myself and the two footmen,” the butler replied levelly. “The parlormaid and the downstairs maid who serves sometimes if we have company. In the kitchen there were the cook, two kitchen maids and a scullery maid—and the bootboy. He carries things if he’s needed and does the occasional errand.”

  “In all parts of the house?” Monk asked quickly.

  “That is not usually required,” the butler replied somberly.

  “And on this occasion?”

  “He was in disgrace, sent to the scullery.”

  “What time in the evening was that?” Monk persisted.

  “Long before the general’s death—about nine o’clock, I gather.”

  “That would be after the guests arrived,” Monk observed.

  “It would,” the butler agreed grimly.

  It was only idle curiosity which made him ask, “What happened?”

  “Stupid boy was carrying a pile of clean linen upstairs for one of the maids, who was busy, and he bumped into the general coming out of the cloakroom. Wasn’t looking where he was going, I suppose—daydreaming—and he dropped the whole lot. Then instead of apologizing and picking them up, like any sensible person, he just turned on his heel and fled. The laundress had a few hard words to say to him, I can promise you! He spent the rest of the evening in the scullery. Didn’t leave it.”

  “I see. What about the rest of the staff?”

  “The housekeeper was in her sitting room in the servants’ wing. The tweenies would be in their bedroom, the upstairs maids in theirs, the stillroom maid had an evening off to go and visit her mother, who’s been took poorly. Mrs. Furnival’s ladies’ maid would be upstairs and Mr. Furnival’s valet likewise.”

  “And the outside staff?”

  “Outside, sir.” The butler looked at him with open contempt.

  “They have no access to the house?”

  “No sir, they have no need.”

  Monk gritted his teeth. “And none of you heard the general fall onto the suit of armor, or the whole thing come crashing down?”

  The butler’s face paled, but his eyes were steady.

  “No sir. I already told the police person who enquired. We were about our duties, and they did not necessitate any of us coming through the hall. As you may have observed, the withdrawing room is to the rear of the house, and by that time dinner was well finished. We had no cause to pass in that direction.”

  “After dinner were you all in the kitchen or the pantry clearing away?”

  “Yes sir, naturally.”

  “No one left?”

  “What would anyone leave for? We had more than sufficient to keep us busy if we were to get to bed before one.”

  “Doing what, precisely?” It galled Monk to have to persist in the face of such dignified but subtly apparent scorn. But he would not explain to the man.

  Because his master had required it, the butler patiently answered these exceedingly tedious and foolish questions.

  “I saw to the silver and the wine, with the assistance of the first footman The second footman tidied up the dining room and set everything straight ready for morning, and fetched more coal up in case it was required—”

  “The dining room,” Monk interrupted. “The second footman was in the dining room. Surely he would have heard the armor go over?”

  The butler flushed with annoyance. He had been caught out.

  “Yes sir, I suppose he would,” he said grudgingly. “If he’d been in the dining room when it happened.”

  “And you said he fetched up coal. Where from?”

  “The coal cellar, sir.”

  “Where is the door to it?”

  “Back of the scullery … sir.” The “sir” was heavy with irony.

  “Which rooms would he bring coal for?”

  “I …” The butler stopped. “I don’t know, sir.” His face betrayed that he had realized the possibilities. For the dining room, the morning room, the library or billiard room the footman would have crossed the hall.

  “May I speak with him?” Monk did not say please; the request was only a formality. He had every intention of speaking with the man regardless.

  The butler was not going to put himself in the position of being wrong again.

  “I’ll send him to you.” And before Monk could argue that he would go to the man, which would give him an opportunity to see the servants’ area, the butler was gone.

  A few minutes later a very nervous young man came in, dressed in ordinary daytime livery of black trousers, shirt and striped waistcoat. He was in his early twenties, fair haired and fair skinned, and at the moment he was extremely ill at ease. Monk guessed the butler had reasserted his authority over the situation by frightening his immediate junior.

  Out of perversity Monk decided to be thoroughly pleasant with the young man.

  “Good morning,” he said with a disarming smile—at least that was how it was intended. “I apologize for taking you from your duties, but I think you may be able to help me.”

  “Me sir?” His surprise was patent. “’Ow can I do that, sir?”

  “By telling me, as clearly as you can remember, everything you did the evening General Carlyon died, starting after dinner when the guests went to the withdrawing room.”

  The footman screwed up his face in painfully earnest concentration and recounted his usual routine.

  “Then what?” Monk prompted.

  “The withdrawing room bell rang,” the footman answered. “And since I was passing right by there, I answered it. They wanted the fire stoked, so I did it.”

  “Who was there then?”

  “The master wasn’t there, and the mistress came in just as I was leaving.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I—er…”

  “Had another word with the kitchen maid?” Monk took a guess. He smiled as he said it.

  The footman colored, his eyes downcast. “Yes sir.”

  “Did you fetch the coal buckets for the library?”

  “Yes sir—but I don’t remember how many minutes later it was.” He looked unhappy. Monk guessed it was probably quite some time.

  “And crossed the hall to do it?”

  “Yes sir. The armor w
as still all right then.”

  So whoever it was, it was not Louisa. Not that he had held any real hope that it might be.

  “Any other rooms you took coal for? What about upstairs?”

  The footman blushed hotly and lowered his eyes.

  “You were supposed to, and didn’t?” Monk guessed.

  The footman looked up quickly. “Yes I did, sir! Mrs. Furnival’s room. The master doesn’t care for a fire at this time o’ the year.”

  “Did you see someone, or something, when you were upstairs?”

  “No sir!”

  What was the man lying about? There was something; it was there in his pink face, his downcast eyes, his awkward hands and feet. He was riddled with guilt.

  “Where did you go upstairs? What rooms did you pass? Did you hear something, an argument?”

  “No sir.” He bit his lip and still avoided Monk’s eyes.

  “Well?” Monk demanded.

  “I went up the front stairs—sir …”

  Suddenly Monk understood. “Oh, I see—with the coal buckets?”

  “Yes sir. Please sir …”

  “I shan’t tell the butler,” Monk promised quickly.

  “Thank you, sir! I–thank you sir.” He swallowed. “The armor was still there, sir; and I didn’t see the general—or anyone else, except the upstairs maid.”

  “I see. Thank you. You have helped me considerably.”

  “Have I sir?” He was doubtful, but relieved to be excused.

  Next Monk went upstairs to find the off-duty housemaids. It was his last hope that one of them had seen Sabella.

  The first maid offered no hope at all. The second was a bright girl of about sixteen with a mass of auburn hair. She seemed to grasp the significance of his questions, and answered readily enough, although with wary eyes, and he caught a sense of eagerness that suggested to him she had something to hide as well as something to reveal. Presumably she was the one the footman had seen.

  “Yes, I saw Mrs. Pole,” she said candidly. “She wasn’t feeling well, so she lay down for a while in the green room.”

  “When was that?”

  “I—I dunno, sir.”

  “Was it long after dinner?”

  “Oh, yes sir. We ’as our dinner at six o’clock!”

  Monk realized his mistake and tried to undo it.

  “Did you see anyone else while you were on the landing?”

  The color came to her face and suddenly the picture was clearer.

  “I shan’t report what you say, unless I have to. But if you lie, you may go to prison, because an innocent person could be hanged. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  Now she was ashen white, so frightened as to be robbed momentarily of words.

  “So who did you see?”

  “John.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “The footman who was filling the coal buckets?”

  “Yes sir—but I didn’t speak to him—honest! I jus’ came to the top o’ the stairs, like. Mrs. Pole were in the green room, ’cause I passed the door and it was open, an’ I seen ’er like.”

  “You came all the way down from your own room at the top of the house?”

  She nodded, guilt over her attempt to see the footman outweighing every other thought. She had no idea of the significance of what she was saying.

  “How did you know when he was going to be there?”

  “I …” She bit her lip. “I waited on the landing.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Carlyon go upstairs to Master Valentine’s room?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Carlyon come down again?”

  “No sir, nor the general, sir—I swear to God!”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I went as far as the top o’ the stairs and looked for John, sir. I knew that was about the time ’e’d be fillin’ the coal buckets.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No. I reckon I were too late. I ’ad to ’ang around cos of all the people comin’ and goin’. I ’ad ter wait for the master ter go down again.”

  “You saw Mr. Furnival go down again?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “When you were at the top of the stairs, looking for John-think very carefully, you may have to swear to this in court, before a judge, so tell the truth, as you know it …”

  She gulped. “Yes sir?”

  “Did you look down at the hallway below you?”

  “Yes sir. I were looking for John.”

  “To come from the back of the house?”

  “Yes sir—with the coal buckets.”

  “Was the suit of armor standing where it usually does?”

  “I think so.”

  “It wasn’t knocked over?”

  “No—o’ course it weren’t, or I’d ’ave seen it. It’d be right between me and the corridor to the back.”

  “Then where did you go, after waiting for John and realizing you were too late?”

  “Back upstairs again.”

  He saw the flicker in her eyes, barely discernible, just a tremor.

  “Tell me the truth: did you pass anyone?”

  Her eyes were downcast, the blush came again. “I heard someone comin’, I don’t know who. I didn’t want to be caught there, so I went into Mrs. Pole’s room to see if she needed anything. I was goin’ ter say I thought I’d ’eard ’er call out, if anyone asked me.”

  “And the people passed, going along the passage to the front stairs?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “When was that?”

  “I dunno, sir. God help me, I don’t! I swear it!”

  “That’s all right, I believe you.” Alexandra and the general, minutes before she killed him.

  “Did you hear anything?”

  “No sir.”

  “You didn’t hear voices?”

  “No sir.”

  “Or the suit of armor crashing over?”

  “No sir. The green room is a long way from the top o’ the stairs, sir.” She did not bother to swear—it was easily verifiable.

  “Thank you,” he said honestly.

  So only Alexandra had the opportunity after all. It was murder.

  “You’ve been a great help.” He forced the words out. “A very great help. That’s all—you can go.” And Alexandra was guilty. Louisa and Maxim had already gone up and come down again, and the general was alive.

  “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” And she turned on her heel and fled.

  5

  OLIVER RATHBONE AWAITED the arrival of Monk with some hope, in spite of his reason telling him that it was extremely unlikely he had been able to find any worthwhile evidence that it was not after all Alexandra Carlyon who had killed the general. He shared Monk’s contempt for Runcorn personally, but he had a considerable respect for the police in general, and had found that when they brought a case to trial, they were seldom fundamentally in error. But he did hope that Monk might have turned up a stronger and more sympathetic motive than jealousy. And if he were honest, there was a lingering corner in his mind which cherished a vague idea that it might indeed have been someone else— although how it would be any better had it been Sabella, he had no idea, except that so far Sabella was not his client.

  As well as Monk, he had invited Hester Latterly. He had hesitated before doing so. She had no official part in the case, nor indeed had she had in any other case. But she had opportunities for observation of the Carlyon family that neither he nor Monk possessed. And it had been she who had brought him the case in the first place and enlisted his help. She was owed some information as to the conclusion—if indeed there was a conclusion. Monk had sent him a message that he had incontrovertible evidence which he must share, so it was unquestionably a decisive point.

  Apart from that, he felt a wish that she should be included, and he chose not to examine the cause of it. Therefore at ten minutes before eight on the evening of May 14, he was awaiting their arrival with uncharacteristic nervousness. He was sure he w
as concealing it perfectly, and yet it was there, once or twice a flutter in his stomach, a very slight tightening of his throat, and several changed decisions as to what he intended to say. He had chosen to receive them in his home rather than his office, because in the office time was precious and he would feel compelled simply to hear the bare outlines of what Monk had learned, and not to question him more deeply and to explore his understanding and his instinct. At home there was all evening, and no sense of haste, or of time being money.

  And also, since it was in all probability a miserable tale, perhaps he owed Monk something more generous than simply a word of thanks and dismissal, and his money. And if she had heard from Monk directly what his discoveries were, it would be far easier for Hester to accept Rathbone’s declining the case, if that were the only reasonable choice left to him. That was all most logical, nevertheless he found himself repeating it over and over, as if it required justification.

  Although he was expecting them, their arrival caught him by surprise. He had not heard them come, presumably by hansom since neither of them had a carriage of their own. He was startled by the butler, Eames, announcing their presence, and a moment later they were in the room, Monk as beautifully tailored as usual. His suit must have cost as much as Rathbone’s own, obviously bought in his police days when he had money for such luxuries. The waistcoat was modishly short with a shawl collar, and he wore a pointed, standing collar with a lavish bow tie.

  Hester was dressed much more reservedly, in a cool teal-green gown with pointed waist and pagoda sleeves with separate gathered undersleeves of white broderie anglaise. There was no glamour to it, and yet he found it remarkably pleasing. It was both simple and subtle, and the shade accentuated the slight flush in her cheeks.

  They greeted each other very formally, even stiffly, and he invited them to be seated. He noticed Hester’s eyes glancing around the room, and suddenly it seemed to him less satisfactory than it had. It was bare of feminine touches. It was his, not inherited from his family, and there had been no woman resident in it since he came, some eleven years ago. His housekeeper and his cook he did not count. They maintained what he had, but introduced nothing new, nothing of their own taste.