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“Arrogance?” Evan suggested tentatively. “Maybe he just thinks we are not efficient enough for him to be afraid of? Up until today he was right.”
“But he was afraid,” Monk insisted, remembering Percival’s white face and the sweat on his skin. “I had him in the housekeeper’s room and I could see the fear in him, smell it! He fought to get out of it, spreading blame everywhere else he could—on the laundrymaid, and Kellard—even Araminta.”
“I don’t know!” Evan shook his head, his eyes puzzled. “But Mrs. Boden will tell us if this is her knife—and Mrs. Kellard will tell us if that is her sister’s—what did you call it?”
“Peignoir,” Monk replied. “Dressing robe.”
“Right—peignoir. I suppose we had better tell Sir Basil we’ve found it!”
“Yes.” Monk picked up the knife, folding the silk over the blade, and carried it out of the room, Evan coming after him.
“Are you going to arrest him?” Evan asked, coming down the stairs a step behind.
Monk hesitated. “I’m not happy it’s enough,” he said thoughtfully. “Anyone could have put these in his room—and only a fool would leave them there.”
“They were fairly well hidden.”
“But why keep them?” Monk insisted. “It’s stupid—Percival’s far too sly for that.”
“Then what?” Evan was not argumentative so much as puzzled and disturbed by a series of ugly discoveries in which he saw no sense. “The laundrymaid? Is she really jealous enough to murder Octavia and hide the weapon and the gown in Percival’s room?”
They had reached the main landing, where Maggie and Annie were standing together, wide-eyed, staring at them.
“All right girls, you’ve done a good job. Thank you,” Monk said to them with a tight smile. “You can go about your own duties now.”
“You’ve got something!” Annie stared at the silk in his hand, her face pale, and she looked frightened. Maggie stood very close to her, equal fear in her features.
There was no point in lying; they would find out soon enough.
“Yes,” he admitted. “We’ve got the knife. Now get about your duties, or you’ll have Mrs. Willis after you.”
Mrs. Willis’s name was enough to break the spell. They scuttled off to fetch carpet beaters and brushes, and he saw their long gray skirts whisk around the corner into the broom cupboard in a huddle together, whispering breathlessly.
Basil was waiting for the two police in his study, sitting at his desk. He admitted them immediately and looked up from the papers he had been writing on, his face angry, his brow dark.
“Yes?”
Monk closed the door behind him.
“We found a knife, sir; and a silk garment which I believe is a peignoir. Both are stained with blood.”
Basil let out his breath slowly, his face barely changed, just a shadow as if some final reality had come home.
“I see. And where did you find these things?”
“Behind a drawer in the dresser in Percival’s room,” Monk answered, watching him closely.
If Basil was surprised it did not show in his expression. His heavy face with its short, broad nose and mouth wreathed in lines remained careful and tired. Perhaps one could not expect it of him. His family had endured bereavement and suspicion for weeks. That it should finally be ended and the burden lifted from his immediate family must be an overwhelming relief. He could not be blamed if that were paramount. However repugnant the thought, he cannot have helped wondering if his son-in-law might be responsible, and Monk had already seen that he and Araminta had a deeper affection than many a father and child. She was the only one who had his inner strength, his command and determination, his dignity and almost total self-control. Although that might be an unfair judgment, since Monk had never seen Octavia alive; but she had apparently been flawed by the weakness of drink and the vulnerability of loving her husband too much to recover from his death—if indeed that were a flaw. Perhaps it was to Basil and Araminta, who had disapproved of Harry Haslett in the first place.
“I assume you are going to arrest him.” It was barely a question.
“Not yet,” Monk said slowly. “The fact that
they were found in his room does not prove it was he who put them there.”
“What?” Basil’s face darkened with angry color and he leaned forward over the desk. Another man might have risen to his feet, but he did not stand to servants, or police, who were in his mind the same. “For God’s sake, man, what more do you want? The very knife that stabbed her, and her clothes found in his possession!”
“Found in his room, sir,” Monk corrected. “The door was not locked; anyone in the house could have put them there.”
