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“And you haven’t seen it since Mrs. Haslett’s death?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Monk!” Her hands jerked up in the air. “I thought I ‘ad, but Sal and May tell me as they ’aven’t, and when I last cut beef I did it with the old one. I was so upset I can’t recall what I did, and that’s the truth.”
“Then I suppose we’d better see if we can find it,” Monk agreed. “I’ll get Sergeant Evan to organize a search. Who else knows about this?”
Her face was blank; she understood no implication.
“Who else, Mrs. Boden?” he repeated calmly.
“Well I don’t know, Mr. Monk. I don’t know who I might have asked. I looked for it, naturally, and asked everyone if they’d seen it.”
“Who do you mean by ‘everyone,’ Mrs. Boden? Who else apart from the kitchen staff?”
“Well—I’m sure I can’t think.” She was beginning to panic because she could see the urgency in him and she did not understand. “Dinah. I asked Dinah because sometimes things get moved through to the pantry. And I may have mentioned it to ’Arold. Why? They don’t know where it is, or they’d ’ave said.”
“Someone wouldn’t have,” he pointed out.
It was several seconds before she grasped what he meant, then her hand flew to her mouth and she let out a stifled shriek.
“I had better inform Sir Basil.” That was a euphemism for asking Sir Basil’s permission for the search. Without a warrant he could not proceed, and it would probably cost him his job if he were to try against Sir Basil’s wishes. He left Mrs. Boden in the kitchen sitting in the chair and May running for smelling salts—and almost certainly a strong nip of brandy.
He was surprised to find himself shown to the library and left barely five minutes before Basil came in looking tense, his face creased, his eyes very dark.
“What is it, Monk? Have you learned anything at last? My God, it is past time you did!”
“The cook reports one of her kitchen carving knives missing, sir. I would like your permission to search the house for it.”
“Well of course search for it!” Basil said. “Do you expect me to look for it for you?”
“It was necessary to have your permission, Sir Basil,” Monk said between his teeth. “I cannot go through your belongings without a warrant, unless you permit me to.”
“My belongings.” He was startled, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“Is not everything in the house yours, sir, apart from what is Mr. Cyprian’s, or Mr. Kellard’s—and perhaps Mr. Thirsk’s?”
Basil smiled bleakly, merely a slight movement of the corner of the lips. “Mrs. Sandeman’s personal belongings are her own, but otherwise, yes, they are mine. Of course you have my permission to search anywhere you please. You will need assistance, no doubt. You may send one of my grooms in the small carriage to fetch whomever you wish—your sergeant …” He shrugged, but his shoulders under the black barathea of his coat were tense. “Constables?”
“Thank you,” Monk acknowledged. “That is most considerate. I shall do that immediately.”
“Perhaps you should wait for them at the head of the male servants’ staircase?” Basil raised his voice a little. “If whoever has the knife gets word of this they may be tempted to move it before you can begin your task. From there you can see the far end of the passage where the female servants’ staircase emerges.” He was explaining himself more than usual. It was the first real crack in his composure that Monk had seen. “That is the best position I can offer. I imagine there is little point in having any one of the servants stand guard—they must all be suspect.” He watched Monk’s face.
“Thank you,” Monk said again. “That is most perceptive of you. May I also have one of the upstairs maids stay on the main landing? They would observe anyone coming or going on other than an ordinary duty—which they would be used to. Perhaps the laundrymaids and other domestic staff could remain downstairs until this is over—and the footmen of course?”
“By all means.” Basil was regaining his command. “And the valet as well.”
“Thank you, sir. That is most helpful of you.”
Basil’s eyebrows rose. “What on earth did you expect me to do, man? It was my daughter who was murdered.” His control was complete again.
There was nothing Monk could reply to that, except to express a brief sympathy again and take his leave to go downstairs, write a note to Evan at the police station, and dispatch the groom to fetch him and another constable.
The search, begun forty-five minutes later, started with the rooms of the maids at the far end of the attic, small, cold garrets looking over the gray slates towards their own mews, and the roofs of Harley Mews beyond. They each contained an iron bedstead with mattress, pillow and covers, a wooden hard-backed chair, and a plain wood dresser with a glass on the wall above. No maid would be permitted to present herself for work untidy or in an ill-kept uniform. There was also a cupboard for clothes and a ewer and basin for washing. The rooms were distinguished one from another only by the patterns of the knotted rag rugs on the floor and by the few pictures that belonged to each inhabitant, a sketch of family, in one case a silhouette, a religious text or reproduction of a famous painting.
Neither Monk nor Evan found a knife. The constable, under detailed instructions, was searching the outside property, simply because it was the only other area to which the servants had access without leaving the premises, and thus their duty.
“Of course if it was a member of the family they’ve all been over half London by now,” Evan observed with a crooked smile. “It could be at the bottom of the river, or in any of a million gutters or rubbish bins.”
“I know that.” Monk did not stop his work. “And Myles Kellard looks by far the most likely, at the moment. Or Araminta, if she knew. But can you think of a better thing to be doing?”
