A Dangerous Mourning (31 page)

"I'm obliged,'' Monk said, hiding his flash of humor. Phillips would not appreciate being laughed at. "I would like to see the menservants one at a time—beginning with Harold, and then Rhodes the valet, then Percival."

"Of course. You may use Mrs. Willis's sitting room if you wish to."

"Thank you, that would be convenient."

He had nothing to say to either Harold or Rhodes, but to keep up appearances he asked them about their whereabouts during the day and if their rooms were locked. Their answers told him nothing he did not already know.

When Percival came he already knew something was deeply wrong. He had far more intelligence than either of the other two, and perhaps something in Phillips's manner forewarned him, as did the knowledge that something had been found in the servants' rooms. He knew the family members were increasingly frightened. He saw them every day, heard the sharpened tempers, saw the suspicion in their eyes, the altered relationships, the crumbling belief. Indeed he had tried to turn Monk towards Myles Kellard himself. He must know they would be doing the same thing, feeding every scrap of information they could to turn the police to the servants' hall. He came in with the air of fear about him, his body tense, his eyes wide, a small nerve ticking in the side of his face.

Evan moved silently to stand between him and the door.

"Yes sir?'' Percival said without waiting for Monk to speak, although his eyes flickered as he became aware of Evan's change of position—and its meaning.

Monk had been holding the silk and the knife behind him. Now he brought them forward and held them up, the knife in his left hand, the peignoir hanging, the spattered blood dark and ugly. He watched Percival's face minutely, every shade of expression. He saw surprise, a shadow of puzzlement as if it were confusing to him, but no blanching of new fear. In fact there was even a quick lift of hope, as if a moment of sun had shone through clouds. It was not the reaction he had expected from a guilty man. At that instant he believed Percival did not know where they had been found.

"Have you seen these before?" he said. The answer would be of little value to him, but he had to begin somewhere.

Percival was very pale, but more composed than when he came in. He thought he knew what the threat was now, and it disturbed him less than the unknown.

"Maybe. The knife looks like several in the kitchen. The silk could be any of those I've passed in the laundry. But I certainly haven't seen them like that. Is that what killed Mrs. Haslett?"

"It certainly looks like it, doesn't it?"

"Yes sir."

"Don't you want to know where we found them?" Monk glanced past him to Evan and saw the doubt in his face also, an exact reflection of what he was feeling himself. If Percival knew they had found these things in his room, he was a superb actor and a man of self-control worthy of anyone's admiration—and an incredible fool not to have found some way of disposing of them before now.

Percival lifted his shoulders a fraction but said nothing.

"Behind the bottom drawer in the dresser in your bedroom."

This time Percival was horrified. There was no mistaking the sudden rush of blood from his skin, the dilation of his eyes and the sweat standing out on his lip and brow.

He drew breath to speak, and his voice failed him.

In that moment Monk had a sudden sick conviction that Percival had not killed Octavia Haslett. He was arrogant, selfish, and had probably misused her, and perhaps Rose, and he had money that would take some explaining, but he was not guilty of murder. Monk looked at Evan again and saw the same thoughts, even to the shock of unhappiness, mirrored in his eyes.

Monk looked back at Percival.

"I assume you cannot tell me how they got there?"

Percival swallowed convulsively. "No—no I can't."

"I thought not."

"I can't!" Percival's voice rose an octave to a squeak, cracking with fear. "Before God, I didn't kill her! IVe never seen them before—not like that!" The muscles of his body were so knotted he was shaking. "Look—I exaggerated. I said she admired me—I was bragging. I never had an affair with her.'' He started to move agitatedly.”She was never interested in anyone but Captain Haslett. Look—I was polite to her, no more than that. And I never went to her room except to carry trays or flowers or messages, which is my job." His hands moved convulsively. "I don't know who killed her—but it wasn't me! Anyone could have put these things in my room— why would I keep them there?" His words were falling over each other. "I'm not a fool. Why wouldn't I clean the knife and put it back in its place in the kitchen—and burn the silk? Why wouldn't I?" He swallowed hard and turned to Evan. "I wouldn't leave them there for you to find."

“No, I don't think you would,'' Monk agreed.”Unless you were so sure of yourself you thought we wouldn't search? YouVe tried to direct us to Rose, and to Mr. Kellard, or even Mrs. Kellaid. Perhaps you thought you had succeeded—and you were keeping them to implicate someone else?"

Percival licked his dry lips. "Then why didn't I do that? I can go in and out of bedrooms easily enough; IVe only got to

get something from the laundry to carry and no one would question me. I wouldn't leave them in my own room, I'd have hidden them in someone else's—Mr. Kellard's—for you to find!"

"You didn't know we were going to search today," Monk pointed out, pushing the argument to the end, although he had no belief in it. "Perhaps you planned to do that—but we were too quick?"

"YouVe been here for weeks," Percival protested. "I'd have done it before now—and said something to you to make you search. It'd have been easy enough to say I'd seen something, or to get Mrs. Boden to check her knives to find one gone. Come on—don't you think I could do that?"

"Yes," Monk agreed. "I do."

Percival swallowed and choked. "Well?" he said when he regained his voice.

"You can go for now."

Percival stared wide-eyed for a long moment, then turned on his heel and went out, almost bumping into Evan and leaving the door open.

Monk looked at Evan.

"I don't think he did it,'' Evan said very quietly.”It doesn't make sense."

"No—neither do I," Monk agreed.

"Mightn't he run?" Evan asked anxiously.

Monk shook his head. "We'd know within an hour—and it'd send half the police in London after him. He knows that."

"Then who did it?" Evan asked. "Kellard?"

"Or did Rose believe that Percival really was having an affair, and she did it in jealousy?" Monk thought aloud.

"Or somebody we haven't even thought of?" Evan added with a downward little smile, devoid of humor. "I wonder what Miss Latterly thinks?"

Monk was prevented from answering by Harold putting his head around die door, his face pale, his blue eyes wide and anxious.

"Mr. Phillips says are you all right, sir?"

“Yes, thank you. Please tell Mr. Phillips we haven't reached any conclusion so far, and will you ask Miss Latterly to come here."

"The nurse, sir? Are you unwell, sir? Or are you going to . . ."He trailed off, his imagination ahead of propriety.

Monk smiled sourly. "No, I'm not going to say anything to make anyone faint. I merely want to ask her opinion about something. Will you send for her please?"

"Yes sir. I—yes sir." And he withdrew in haste, glad to be out of a situation beyond him.

"Sir Basil won't be pleased," Evan said dryly.

“No, I imagine not,'' Monk agreed.”Nor will anyone else. They all seemed keen that poor Percival should be arrested and the matter dealt with, and us out of the way.''

"And someone who will be even angrier," Evan pulled a face, "will be Runcom."

"Yes," Monk said slowly with some satisfaction. "Yes— he will, won't he!"

Evan sat down on the arm of one of Mrs. Willis's best chairs, swinging his legs a little. “I wonder if your not arresting Percival will prompt whoever it is to try something more dramatic?"

Monk grunted and smiled very slightly. "That's a very comfortable thought.''

There was a knock on the door and as Evan opened it Hester came in, looking puzzled and curious.

Evan closed the door and leaned against it.

Monk told her briefly what had happened, adding his own feelings and Evan's in explanation.

"One of the family," she said quietly.

"What makes you say that?"

She lifted her shoulders very slightly, not quite a shrug, and her brow wrinkled in thought. "Lady Moidore is afraid of something, not something that has happened, but something she is afraid may yet happen. Arresting a footman wouldn't trouble her; it would be a relief." Her gray eyes were very direct. "Then you would go away, the public and the newspapers would forget about it, and they could begin to recover. They would stop suspecting one another and trying to pretend they are not."

“Myles Kellard?'' he asked.

She frowned, finding words slowly. "If he did, I think it would be in panic. He doesn't seem to me to have the nerve to cover for himself as coolly as this. I mean keeping the knife

and the peignoir and hiding it in Percival's room." She hesitated. "I think if he killed her, then someone else is hiding it for him—perhaps Araminta? Maybe that is why he is afraid of her—and I think he is."

"And Lady Moidore knows this—or suspects it?"

"Perhaps."

"Or Araminta killed her sister when she found her husband in her room?" Evan suggested suddenly. "That is something that might happen. Perhaps she went along in the night and found them together and killed her sister and left her husband to take the blame?''

Monk looked at him with considerable respect. It was a solution he had not yet thought of himself, and now it was there in words. "Eminently possible," he said aloud. "Far more likely man Percival going to her room, being rejected and knifing her. For one thing, he would hardly go for a seduction armed with a kitchen knife, and unless she was expecting him, neither would she." He leaned comfortably against one of Mrs. Willis's chairs. "And if she were expecting him," he went on, "surely there were better ways of defending herself, simply by informing her father that the footman had overstepped himself and should be dismissed. Basil had already proved himself more than willing to dismiss a servant who was innocently involved with one of the family, how much more easily one who was not innocent."

He saw their immediate comprehension.

"Are you going to tell Sir Basil?" Evan asked.

"I have no choice. He's expecting me to arrest Percival."

"And Runcorn?" Evan persisted.

"I'll have to tell him too. Sir Basil will—"

Evan smiled, but no answer was necessary.

Monk turned to Hester. "Be careful," he warned. "Whoever it is wants us to arrest Percival. They will be upset that we haven't and may do something rash."

"I will," she said quite calmly.

Her composure irritated him. "You don't appear to understand the risk.'' His voice was sharp. "There would be a physical danger to you."

"I am acquainted with physical danger." She met his eyes levelly with a glint of amusement. “I have seen a great deal

more death than you have, and been closer to my own than I am ever likely to be in London."

His reply was futile, and he forbore from making it. This time she was perfectly right—he had forgotten. Dryly he excused himself and reported to the front of the house and an irate Sir Basil.

"In God's name, what more do you need?" he shouted, banging his fist on his desk and making the ornaments jump. "You find the weapon and my daughter's bloodstained clothes in the man's bedroom! Do you expect a confession?"

Monk explained with as much clarity and patience as he could exactly why he felt it was not yet sufficient evidence, but Basil was angry and dismissed him with less than courtesy, at the same time calling for Harold to attend him instantly and take a letter.

By the time Monk had returned to the kitchen and collected Evan, walked along to Regent Street and picked up a hansom to the police station to report to Runcorn, Harold, with Sir Basil's letter, was ahead of him.

“What in the devil's name are you doing, Monk?'' Runcorn demanded, leaning across his desk, the paper clenched in his fist. "You've got enough evidence to hang me man twice over. What are you playing at, man, telling Sir Basil you aren't going to arrest him? Go back and do it right now!"

"I don't think he's guilty," Monk said flatly.

Runcorn was nonplussed. His long face fell into an expression of disbelief. "You what?"

"I don't think he's guilty," Monk repeated clearly and with a sharper edge to his voice.

The color rose in Runcorn's cheeks, beginning to mottle his skin.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course he's guilty!" he shouted. "Good God man, didn't you find the knife and her bloodstained clothes in his room? What more do you want? What innocent explanation could there possibly be?"

"That he didn't put them there." Monk kept his own voice low. "Only a fool would have left things like that where they might be found."

"But you didn't find them, did you?" Runcorn said furiously, on his feet now. “Not until the cook told you her knife

was missing. This damn footman can't have known she'd notice it after this time. He didn't know you'd search the place."

"We already searched it once for the missing jewelry," Monk pointed out.

"Well you didn't search it very well, did you?" Runcorn accused with satisfaction lacing through his words even now. "You didn't expect to find it, so you didn't make a proper job of it. Slipshod—think you're cleverer than anybody else and leap to conclusions." He leaned forward over the desk, his hands resting on the surface, splay fingered. "Well you were wrong this time, weren't you—in fact I 'd say downright incompetent. If you'd done your job and searched properly in the beginning, you'd have found the knife and the clothes and spared the family a great deal of distress, and the police a lot of time and effort.''

He waved the letter. "If I thought I could, I'd take all the rest of the police wages out of yours, to cover the hours wasted by your incompetence! You're losing your touch, Monk, losing your touch. Now try to make up for it in some degree by going back to Queen Anne Street, apologizing to Sir Basil, and arresting the damned footman.''