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“Yes sir. Mrs. Haslett was … very appreciative.”
Monk was suddenly infuriated by the man’s complacence, his insufferable conceit. He thought of Octavia lying dead with the blood dark down her robe. She had seemed so vulnerable, so helpless to protect herself—which was ridiculous, since she was the one person in all of this tragedy who was now beyond pain or the petty fancies of dignity. But he bitterly resented this grubby little man’s ease of reference to her, his self-satisfaction, even his thoughts.
“How gratifying for you,” he said acidly. “If occasionally embarrassing.”
“No sir,” Percival said quickly, but there was a smugness to his face. “She was very discreet.”
“But of course,” Monk agreed, loathing Percival the more. “She was, after all, a lady, even if she occasionally forgot it.”
Percival’s narrow mouth twitched with irritation. Monk’s contempt had reached him. He did not like being reminded that it was beneath a lady to admire a footman in that way.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Percival said with a sneer. He looked Monk up and down and stood a little straighter himself, his opinion in his eyes.
Monk had no idea what ladies of whatever rank might similarly have admired him; his memory was blank but his temper burned.
“I can imagine,” he replied viciously. “I’ve arrested a few whores from time to time.”
Percival’s cheeks flamed but he dared not say what came to his mind. He stared back with brilliant eyes.
“Indeed sir? I expect your job brings you into company of a great many people I have no experience of at all. Very regrettable.” Now his eyes were perfectly level and hard. “But like cleaning the drains, someone has to do it.”
“Precarious,” Monk said with deliberate edge. “Being admired by a lady. Never know where you are. One minute you are the servant, dutiful and respectfully inferior, the next the lover, with hints of being stronger, masterful.” He smiled with a sneer like Percival’s own. “Then before you know where you are, back to being the footman again, ‘Yes ma’am, “No ma’am,’ and dismissed to your own room whenever my lady is bored or has had enough. Very difficult not to make a mistake—” He was watching Percival’s face and the succession of emotions racing across it. “Very hard to keep your temper—?
?
There it was—the first shadow of real fear, the quick beading of sweat on the lip, the catching of breath.
“I didn’t lose my temper,” Percival said, his voice cracking and loathing in his eyes. “I don’t know who killed her—but it wasn’t me!”
“No?” Monk raised his eyebrows very high. “Who else had a reason? She didn’t ‘admire’ anyone else, did she? She didn’t leave any money. We cannot find anything to suggest she knew something shameful about anyone. We can’t find anyone who hated her—”
“Because you aren’t very clever, are you.” Percival’s dark eyes were narrow and bright. “I already told you Rose hated her, because she was jealous as a cat over me. And what about Mr. Kellard? Or are you too well trained to dare accuse one of the gentry if you can pin it on a servant?”
“No doubt you would like me to ask why Mr. Kellard should kill Mrs. Haslett.” Monk was equally angry, but would not reply to the jibe because that would be to admit it hurt. He would as soon have charged one of the family as a servant, but he knew what Runcorn would feel, and try to drive him to do, and his frustration was equally with him as with Percival. “And you will tell me whether I ask or not, to divert my attention from you.”
That robbed Percival of a great deal of his satisfaction, which was what Monk had intended. Nevertheless he could not afford to remain silent.
“Because he had a fancy for Mrs. Haslett,” Percival said in a hard, quiet voice. “And the more she declined him, the hotter it got—that’s how it is.”
“And so he killed her?” Monk said, baring his teeth in something less than a smile. “Seems an odd way of persuading her. Would put her out of his reach permanently, wouldn’t it? Or are you supposing a touch of necrophilia?”
“What?”
“Gross relationship with the dead,” Monk explained.
“Disgusting.” Percival’s lip curled.
“Or perhaps he was so infatuated he decided if he could not have her then no one should?” Monk suggested sarcastically. It was not the sort of passion either of them thought Myles Kellard capable of, and he knew it.
“You’re playing the fool on purpose,” Percival said through thin lips. “You may not be very bright—and the way you’ve gone about this case surely shows it—but you’re not that stupid. Mr. Kellard wanted to lie with her, nothing more. But he’s one that won’t accept a refusal.” He lifted one shoulder. “And if he fancied her and she said she’d tell everyone he’d have to kill her. He couldn’t cover that up the way he did with poor Martha. It’s one thing to rape a maid, no one cares—but you can’t rape your wife’s sister and get away with it. Her father won’t hide that up for you!”
Monk stared at him. Percival had won his attention without shadow this time, and he knew it; the victory was shining in his narrowed eyes.
“Who is Martha?” Resent it as he might, Monk had no option but to ask.
Percival smiled slowly. He had small, even teeth.
“Was,” he corrected. “God knows where she is now—workhouse, if she’s alive at all.”
