by Anne Perry
“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.
“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! I’ve 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? You’ve tried to direct us to Rose, and to Mr. Kellard, or even Mrs. Kellard. 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; I’ve 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?”
“You’ve 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 the 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 Runcorn.”
“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 than 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 the 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?”