A Dangerous Mourning (24 page)

"Well now, you're right about that," Mrs. Boden agreed. "I 'ave a good 'and with girls, if I do say so myself. But I surely wish the police would find out who did it and arrest them. I don't sleep safe in my bed, wondering. I just can't believe anyone in the family would do such a thing. I've been in this house since before Mr. Cyprian was born, never mind Miss Octavia and Miss Araminta. I never did care a great deal for Mr. Kellard, but I expect he has his qualities, and he is a gentleman, after all."

"You think it was one of the servants?" Hester affected

surprise, and considerable respect, as though Mrs. Boden's opinion on such matters weighed heavily with her.

"Stands to reason, don't it?" Mrs. Boden said quietly, slicing the steak with expert strokes, quick, light and extremely powerful. "And it wouldn't be any of the girls—apart from anything else, why would they?"

"Jealousy?" Hester suggested innocently.

"Nonsense." Mrs. Boden reached for the kidneys. "They wouldn't be so daft. Sal never goes upstairs. Lizzie is a bossy piece and wouldn't give a halfpenny to a blind man, but she knows right from wrong, and sticks by it whatever. Rose is a willful creature, always wants what she can't 'ave, and I wouldn't put it past her to do something wild, but not that." She shook her head. "Not murder. Too afraid of what'd happen to her, apart from anything else. Fond of 'er own skin, that one."

"And not the upstairs girls," Hester added instinctively, then wished she had waited for Mrs. Boden to speak.

"They can be silly bits of things," Mrs. Boden agreed. "But no harm in them, none at all. And Dinah's far too mild to do anything so passionate. Nice girl, but bland as a cup of tea. Comes from a nice family in the country somewhere. Too pretty maybe, but that's parlormaids for you. And Mary and Gladys—well, that Mary's got a temper, but it's all flash and no heat. She wouldn't harm anyone—and wouldn't have any call to. Very fond of Miss Octavia, she was, very fond—and Miss Octavia of her too. Gladys is a sourpuss, puts on airs— but that's ladies' maids. No viciousness in her, least not that much. Wouldn't 'ave the courage either."

"Harold?" Hester asked. She did not even bother to mention Mr. Phillips, not because he could not have done it, but because Mrs. Boden's natural loyalties to a servant she considered of her own seniority would prevent her from entertaining the possibility with any open-mindedness.

Mrs. Boden gave her an old-fashioned look. "And what for, may I ask? What would Harold be doing in Miss Octavia's room in the middle of the night? He can't see any girl but Dinah, the poor boy, not but it'll do him a ha'porth of good.''

"Percival?" Hester said the inevitable.

"Must be." Mrs. Boden pushed away the last of the kidney and reached for the mixing bowl full of pastry dough. She

tipped the dough out onto the board, floured it thoroughly and began to roll it out with the wooden pin, brisk, sharp strokes first one way, then turned it with a single movement and started in the other direction. "Always had ideas above himself, that one, but never thought it would go this far. Got a sight more money than I can account for," she added viciously. "Nasty streak in him. Seen it a few times. Now your kettle's boiling, don't let it fill my kitchen with steam."

“Thank you.'' Hester turned and went to the range, picking the kettle off the hob with a potholder and first scalding the teapot, then swilling it out and making the tea with the rest of the water.

* * * * *

Monk returned to Queen Anne Street because he and Evan had exhausted every other avenue of possible inquiry. They had not found the missing jewelry, nor had they expected to, but it was obligatory that they pursue it to the end, even if only to satisfy Runcorn. They had also taken the character references of every servant in the Moidore house and checked with all their previous employers, and found no blemish of character that was in the slightest way indicative of violence of emotion or action to come. There were no dark love affairs, no accusations of theft or immorality, nothing but very ordinary lives of domesticity and work.

Now there was nowhere to look except back in Queen Anne Street among the servants yet again. Monk stood in the housekeeper's sitting room waiting impatiently for Hester. He had again given Mrs. Willis no reason for asking to see the nurse, a woman who was not even present at the time of the crime. He was aware of her surprise and considerable criticism. He would have to think of some excuse before he saw her again.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come," he ordered.

Hester came in and closed the door behind her. She looked neat and professional, her hair tied back severely and her dress plain gray-blue stuff and undecorated, her apron crisp white. Her costume was both serviceable and more than a little prudish.

"Good morning," she said levelly.

"Good morning," he replied, and without preamble started to ask her about the days since he had last seen her, his manner

more curt than he would have chosen, simply because she was so similar to her sister-in-law, Imogen, and yet so different, so lacking in mystery and feminine grace.

She was recounting her duties and all that she had seen or overheard.

"All of which tells me only that Percival is not particularly well liked," he said tartly. "Or simply that everyone is afraid and he seems the most likely scapegoat."

"Quite," she agreed briskly. "Have you a better idea?"

Her very reasonableness caught him on a raw nerve. He was acutely aware of his failure to date, and that he had nowhere else to look but here.

"Yes!" he snapped back. "Take a better look at the family. Find out more about Fenella Sandeman, for one. Have you any idea where she goes to indulge her disreputable tastes, if they really are disreputable? She stands to lose a lot if Sir Basil throws her out. Octavia might have found out that afternoon. Maybe that was what she was referring to when she spoke to Septimus. And see if you can find out whether Myles Kellard really did have an affair with Octavia, or if it is just malicious gossip among servants with idle tongues and busy imaginations. It seems they don't lack for either."

"Don't give me orders, Mr. Monk." She looked at him frostily. "I am not your sergeant."

“Constable, ma'am,'' he corrected with a sour smile. "You have promoted yourself unwarrantably. You are not my constable."

She stiffened, her shoulders square, almost military, her face angry.

"Whatever the rank I do not hold, Mr. Monk, I think the main reason for suggesting that Percival may have killed Octavia is the belief that he either was having an affair with her or was attempting to."

"And he killed her for that?" He raised his eyebrows in sarcastic inquiry.

"No," she said patiently. "Because she grew tired of him, and they quarreled, I suppose. Or possibly the laundrymaid Rose did, in jealousy. She is in love with Percival—or perhaps
love
is not the right word—something rather cruder and more immediate, I think, would be more accurate. Although I don't know how you can prove it.''

"Good. For a moment I was afraid you were about to instruct me."

"I would not presume—not until I am at least a sergeant." And with a swing of her skirt she turned and went out.

It was ridiculous. It was not the way he had intended the interview to go, but something about her so frequently annoyed him, an arbitrariness. A large part of his anger was because she was in some degree correct, and she knew it. He had no idea how to prove Percival's guilt—if indeed he was guilty.

Evan was busy talking to the grooms, not that he had anything else specific to ask them. Monk spoke to Phillips, learning nothing, then sent for Percival.

This time the footman looked far more nervous. Monk had seen the tense shoulders tight and a little high, the hands that were never quite still, the fine beading of sweat on the lips, and the wary eyes. It meant nothing, except that Percival had enough intelligence to know the circle was closing and he was not liked. They were all frightened for themselves, and the sooner someone was charged, the sooner life could begin to settle to normality again, and safety. The police would go, and the awful, sick suspicion would die away. They could look each other straight in the eye again.

"You're a handsome fellow." Monk looked him up and down with anything but approval. "I gather footmen are often picked for their looks.''

Percival met his eyes boldly, but Monk could almost smell his fear.

"Yes sir."

"I imagine quite a few women are enamored of you, in one way or another. Women are often attracted by good looks."

A flicker of a smirk crossed Percival's dark face and died away.

"Yes sir, from time to time."

"You must have experienced it?"

Percival relaxed a fraction, his body easing under his livery jacket.

"That's true."

"Is it ever an embarrassment?"

"Not often. You get used to it."

Conceited swine, Monk thought, but perhaps not without

cause. He had a suppressed vitality and a sort of insolence Monk imagined many women might find exciting.

"You must have to be very discreet?" he said aloud.

"Yes sir." Percival was quite amused now, off his guard, pleased with himself as memories came to mind.

"Especially if it's a lady, not merely one of the maids?" Monk went on. "Must be awkward for you if a visiting lady is ... interested?"

"Yes sir—have to be careful."

"I imagine men get jealous?"

Perciva] was puzzled; he had not forgotten why he was here. Monk could see the thoughts flicker across his face, and none of them provided explanation.

"I suppose they might," he said carefully.

"Might?" Monk raised his eyebrows. His voice was patronizing, sarcastic. "Come, Percival, if you were a gentleman, wouldn't you be jealous as the grave if your fine lady preferred the attentions of the footman to yours?''

This time the smirk was unmistakable, the thought was too sweet, the most delicious of all superiorities, better, closer to the essence of a man than even money or rank.

"Yes sir—I imagine I would be."

"Especially over a woman as comely as Mrs. Haslett?"

Now Percival was confused. "She was a widow, sir. Captain Haslett died in the war." He shifted his weight uncomfortably. "And she didn't have any admirers that were serious. She wouldn't look at anyone—still grieving over the captain."

"But she was a young woman, used to married life, and handsome," Monk pressed.

The light was back in Percival's face. "Oh yes," he agreed. "But she didn't want to marry again." He sobered quickly. "And anyway, nobody's threatened me—it was her that was killed. And there wasn't anyone close enough to be that jealous. Anyhow, even if there was, there wasn't anyone else in the house that night."

"But if there had been, would they have had cause to be jealous?'' Monk screwed up his face as if the answer mattered and he had found some precious clue.

"Well—" Percival's lips curled in a satisfied smile. "Yes—

I suppose they would." His eyes widened hopefully. "Was there someone here, sir?"

"No." Monk's expression changed and all the lightness vanished. "No. I simply wanted to know if you had had an affair with Mrs. Haslett."

Suddenly Percival understood and the blood fled from his skin, leaving him sickly pale. He struggled for words and could only make strangled sounds in his throat.

Monk knew the moment of victory and the instinct to kill; it was as familiar as pain, or rest, or the sudden shock of cold water, a memory in his flesh as well as his mind. And he despised himself for it. This was the old self surfacing through the cloud of forgetting since the accident; this was the man the records showed, who was admired and feared, who had no friends.

And yet this arrogant little footman might have murdered Octavia Haslett in a fit of lust and male conceit. Monk could not afford to indulge his own conscience at the cost of letting him go.

"Did she change her mind?" he asked with all the old edge to his voice, a world of biting contempt. "Suddenly saw the ridiculous vulgarity of an amorous adventure with a footman?"

Percival called him something obscene under his breath, then his chin came up and his eyes blazed.

"Not at all," he said cockily, his terror mastered at least on the surface. His voice shook, but his speech was perfectly clear. "If it was anything to do with me, it'd be Rose, the laundrymaid. She's infatuated with me, and jealous as death. She might have gone upstairs in the night with a kitchen knife and killed Mrs. Haslett. She had reason to—I hadn't."

"You are a real gentleman." Monk curled his lip with disgust, but it was a possibility he could not ignore, and Percival knew it. The sweat of relief was glistening on the footman's brow.

"All right." Monk dismissed him. "You can go for now."

"Do you want me to send Rose in?" he asked at the door.

"No I don't. And if you want to survive here, you'll do well not to tell anyone of this conversation. Lovers who suggest their mistresses for murder are not well favored by other peo-pie."

Percival made no reply, but he did not look guilty, just relieved—and careful.

Swine, Monk thought, but he could not blame him entirely. The man was cornered, and too many other hands were turning against him, not necessarily because they thought he was guilty, but someone was, and that person was afraid.

* * * * *

At the end of another day of interviews, all except that with Percival proving fruitless, Monk started off towards the police station to report to Runcorn, not that he had anything conclusive to say, simply that Runcom had demanded it.

He was walking the last mile in the crisp late-autumn afternoon, trying to formulate in his mind what he would say, when he passed a funeral going very slowly north up Tottenham Court Road towards the Euston Road. The hearse was drawn by four black horses with black plumes, and through the glass he could see the coffin was covered with flowers. There must have been pounds and pounds worth. He could imagine the perfume of them, and the care that had gone into raising them in a hothouse at this time of the year.