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With a flash of temper the red-haired kitchen maid swung out of the room and along the corridor, her heels clicking on the uncarpeted floor.
“And don’t you sonse out of here like that!” the cook called after her. “Cheeky piece. Eyes on the footman next door, that’s ’er trouble. Lazy baggage.” She turned back to Monk. “Now if you ’aven’t anything more to ask me, you get out of my way too. You can talk to the footmen in Mr. Phillips’s pantry. He’s busy down in the cellar and won’t be disturbing you.”
Monk obeyed and was shown by Willie the bootboy into the pantry, the room where the butler kept all his keys, his accounts, and the silver that was used regularly, and also spent much of his time when not on duty. It was warm and extremely comfortably, if serviceably, furnished.
Harold, the junior footman, was a thickset, fair-haired young man, in no way a pair to Percival, except in height. He must possess some other virtue, less visible to the first glance, or Monk guessed his days here would be numbered. He questioned him, probably just as Evan had already done, and Harold produced his now well-practiced replies. Monk could not imagine him the philanderer Fenella Sandeman had thought up.
Percival was a different matter, more assured, more belligerent, and quite ready to defend himself. When Monk pressed him he sensed a personal danger, and he answered with bold eyes and a ready tongue.
“Yes sir, I know it was someone in the house who killed Mrs. Haslett. That doesn’t mean it was one of us servants. Why should we? Nothing to gain, and everything to lose. Anyway, she was a very pleasant lady, no occasion to wish her anything but good.”
“You liked her?”
Percival smiled. He had read Monk’s implication long before he replied, but whether from uneasy conscience or astute sense it was impossible to say.
“I said she was pleasant enough, sir. I wasn’t familiar, if that’s what you mean!”
“You jumped to that very quickly,” Monk retorted. “What made you think that was what I meant?”
“Because you are trying to accuse one of us below stairs so you don’t have the embarrassment of accusing someone above,” Percival said baldly. “Just because I wear livery and say ‘yes sir, no ma’am’ doesn’t mean I’m stupid. You’re a policeman, no better than I am—”
Monk winced.
“And you know what it’ll cost you if you charge one of the family,” Percival finished.
“I’ll charge one of the family if I find any evidence against them,” Monk replied tartly. “So far I haven’t.”
“Then maybe you’re too careful where you look.” Percival’s contempt was plain. “You won’t find it if you don’t want to—and it surely wouldn’t suit you, would it?”
“I’ll look anywhere I think there’s something to find,” Monk said. “You’re in the house all day and all night. You tell me where to look.”
“Well, Mr. Thirsk steals from the cellar—taken half the best port wine over the last few years. Don’t know how he isn’t drunk half the time.”
“Is that a reason to kill Mrs. Haslett?”
“Might be—if she knew and ratted on him to Sir Basil. Sir Basil would
take it very hard. Might throw the old boy out into the street.”
“Then why does he take it?”
Percival shrugged very slightly. It was not a servant’s gesture.
“I don’t know—but he does. Seen him sneaking down the steps many a time—and back up with a bottle under his coat.”
“I’m not very impressed.”
“Then look at Mrs. Sandeman.” Percival’s face tightened, a shadow of viciousness about his mouth. “Look at some of the company she keeps. I’ve been out in the carriage sometimes and taken her to some very odd places. Parading up and down that Rotten Row like a sixpenny whore, and reads stuff Sir Basil would burn if he saw it—scandal sheets, sensational press. Mr. Phillips would dismiss any of the maids if he caught them with that kind of thing.”
“It’s hardly relevant. Mr. Phillips cannot dismiss Mrs. Sandeman, no matter what she reads,” Monk pointed out.
“Sir Basil could.”
“But would he? She is his sister, not a servant.”
Percival smiled. “She might just as well be. She has to come and go when he says, wear what he approves of, speak to whoever he likes and entertain his friends. Can’t have her own here, unless he approves them—or she doesn’t get her allowance. None of them do.”
He was a young man with a malicious tongue and a great deal of personal knowledge of the family, Monk thought, very possibly a frightened young man. Perhaps his fear was justified. The Moidores would not easily allow one of their own to be charged if suspicion could be diverted to a servant. Percival knew that; maybe he was only the first person downstairs to see just how sharp the danger was. In time no doubt others would also; the tales would get uglier as the fear closed in.
