A Dangerous Mourning (30 page)

"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 feirly 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. Runcom would be torn between relief and frustration. Monk could leave Queen Anne Street and take a new

case. Except that he did not believe (his 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 any way—without a character. Just attend to it."

“Or, on the other hand,'' Monk said coldly, “it might have 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. Kel-lard."

"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 hall 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.

"What is it, Mr. Monk?" she said quietly, ignoring Evan, who waited silently by the door. "I believe you have found the knife—in one of the servants' bedrooms. Is that so?"

“Yes, Mrs. Kellard.'' He did not know how she would react to this visual and so tangible evidence of death. So far everything had been words, ideas—terrible, but all in the mind. This was real, her sister's clothes, her sister's blood. The iron resolution might break. He could not feel a warmth towards her, she was too distant, but he could feel both pity and admiration. "We also found a silk peignoir stained with blood. I am sorry to have to ask you to identify such a distressing thing, but we need to know if it belonged to your sister." He had been holding it low, half behind him, and he knew she had not noticed it.

She seemed very tense, as if it were important rather than painful. He thought that perhaps it was her way of keeping her control.

"Indeed?" She swallowed. "You may show it to me, Mr. Monk. I am quite prepared and will do all I can."

He brought the peignoir forward and held it up, concealing as much of the blood as he could. It was only spatters, as if it had been open when she was stabbed; the stains had come largely from being wrapped around the blade.

She was very pale, but she did not flinch from looking at it.

"Yes," she said quietly and slowly. "That is Octavia's. She was wearing it the night she was killed. I spoke to her on the landing just before she went in to say good-night to Mama. I remember it very clearly—the lace lilies. I always admired it."

She took a deep breath. " May I ask you where you found it?'' Now she was as white as the silk in Monk's hand.

"Behind a drawer in Percival's bedroom," he answered.

She stood quite still. "Oh. I see."

He waited for her to continue, but she did not.

“I have not yet asked him for an explanation,'' he went on, watching her face.

"Explanation?" She swallowed again, so painfully hard he could see the constriction in her throat. "How could he possibly explain such a thing?" She looked confused, but there was no observable anger in her, no rage or revenge. Not yet. "Is not the only answer that he hid it there after he had killed her, and had not found an opportunity to dispose of it?"

Monk wished he could help her, but he could not.

"Knowing something of Percival, Mrs. Kellard, would you expect him to hide it in his own room, such a damning thing; or in some place less likely to incriminate him?" he asked.

The shadow of a smile crossed her face. Even now she could see a bitter humor in the suggestion. "In the middle of the night, Inspector, I should expect him to put it in the one place where his presence would arouse no suspicion—his own room. Perhaps he intended to put it somewhere else later, but never found the opportunity." She took a deep breath and her eyebrows arched high. "One requires to be quite certain of being unobserved for such an act, I should imagine?"

"Of course." He could not disagree.

"Then it is surely time you questioned him? Have you sufficient force with you, should he prove violent, or shall I send for one of the grooms to assist you?"

How practical.

"Thank you,'' he declined.”But I think Sergeant Evan and I can manage. Thank you for your assistance. I regret having to ask you such questions, or that you should need to see the peignoir." He would have added something less formal, but she was not a woman to whom one offered anything as close or gentle as pity. Respect, and an understanding of courage, was all she would accept.

"It was necessary, Inspector," she acknowledged with stiff grace.

"Ma'am.'' He inclined his head, excusing himself, and with

Evan a step behind him, went to the butler's pantry to ask Phillips if he might see Percival.

"Of course," Phillips said gravely. "May I ask, sir, if you have discovered something in your search? One of the upstairs maids said that you had, but they are young, and inclined to be overimaginative.''

"Yes we have," Monk replied. "We found Mrs. Boden's missing knife and a peignoir belonging to Mrs. Haslett. It appears to have been the knife used to kill her."

Phillips looked very white and Monk was afraid for a moment he was going to collapse, but he stood rigid like a soldier on parade.

"May I ask where you found it?" There was no "sir." Phillips was a butler, and considered himself socially very superior to a policeman. Even these desperate circumstances did not alter that.

"I think it would be better at the moment if that were a confidential matter," Monk replied coolly. "It is indicative of who hid them there, but not conclusive."

"I see." Phillips felt the rebuff; it was there in his pale face and rigid manner. He was in charge of the servants, used to command, and he resented a mere policeman intruding upon his field of responsibility. Everything beyond the green baize door was his preserve. "And what is it you wish of me? I shall be pleased to assist, of course." It was a formality; he had no choice, but he would keep up the charade.