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“Don’t be absurd!” Basil said savagely. “Who in the devil’s name would put such things there?”
“Anyone wishing to implicate him—and thus remove suspicion from themselves,” Monk replied. “A natural act of self-preservation.”
“Who, for example?” Basil said with a sneer. “You have every evidence that it was Percival. He had the motive, heaven help us. Poor Octavia was weak in her choice of men. I was her father, but I can admit that. Percival is an arrogant and presumptuous creature. When she rebuffed him and threatened to have him thrown out, he panicked. He had gone too far.” His voice was shaking, and deeply as he disliked him, Monk had a moment’s pity for him. Octavia had been his daughter, whatever he had thought of her marriage, or tried to deny her; the thought of her violation must have wounded him inwardly more than he could show, especially in front of an inferior like Monk.
He mastered himself with difficulty and continued. “Or perhaps she took the knife with her,” he said quietly, “fearing he might come, and when he did, she tried to defend herself, poor child.” He swallowed. “And he overpowered her and it was she who was stabbed.” At last he turned, leaving his back towards Monk. “He panicked,” he went on. “And left, taking the knife with him, and then hid it because he had no opportunity to dispose of it.” He moved away towards the window, hiding his face. He breathed in deeply and let it out in a sigh. “What an abominable tragedy. You will arrest him immediately and get him out of my house. I will tell my family that you have solved the crime of Octavia’s death. I thank you for your diligence—and your discretion.”
“No sir,” Monk said levelly, part of him wishing he could agree. “I cannot arrest him on this evidence. It is not sufficient—unless he confesses. If he denies it, and says someone else put these things in his room—”
Basil swung around, his eyes hard and very black. “Who?”
“Possibly Rose,” Monk replied. Basil stared at him. “What?”
“The laundrymaid who is infatuated with him, and might have been jealous enough to kill Mrs. Haslett and then implicate Percival. That way she would be revenged upon them both.”
Basil’s eyebrows rose. “Are you suggesting, Inspector, that my daughter was in rivalry with a laundrymaid for the love of a footman? Do you imagine anyone at all will believe you?” How easy it would be to do what they all wanted and arrest Percival. Runcorn would be torn between relief and frustration. Monk could leave Queen Anne Street and take a new case. Except that he did not believe this one was over—not yet.
“I am suggesting, Sir Basil, that the footman in question is something of a braggart,” he said aloud. “And he may well have tried to make the laundrymaid jealous by telling her that that was the case. And she may have been gullible enough to believe him.”
“Oh.” Basil gave up. Suddenly the anger drained out of him. “Well it is your job to find out which is the truth. I don’t much care. Either way, arrest the appropriate person and take them away. I will dismiss the other anyway—without a character. Just attend to it.”
“Or, on the other hand,” Monk said coldly, “it might have been Mr. Kellard. It now seems undeniable that he resorts to violence when his desire is refused.”
Basil looked up. “Does it? I don’t recall telling you anything of the sort. I said that she made some such charge and that my son-in-law denied it.”
“I found the girl,” Monk told him with a hard stare, all his dislike flooding back. The man was callous, almost brutal in his indifference. “I heard her account of the event, and I believe it.” He did not mention what Martha Rivett had said about Araminta and her wedding night, but it explained very precisely the emotions Hester had seen in her and her continuous, underlying bitterness towards her husband. If Basil did not know, there was no purpose in telling him so private and painful a piece of information.
“Do you indeed?” Basil’s face was bleak. “Well fortunately judgment does not rest with you. Nor will any court accept the unsubstantiated word of an immoral servant girl against that of a gentleman of unblemished reputation.”
“And what anyone believes is irrelevant,” Monk said stiffly. “I cannot prove that Percival is guilty—but more urgent than that, I do not yet know that he is.”
“Then get out and find out!” Basil said, losing his temper at last. “For God’s sake do your job!”
“Sir.” Monk was too angry to add anything further. He swung on his heel and went out, shutting the door hard behind him. Evan was standing miserably in the hall, waiting, the peignoir and the knife in his hand.
“Well?” Monk demanded.
“It’s the kitchen knife Mrs. Boden was missing,” Evan answered. “I haven’t asked anyone about this yet.” He held up the peignoir, his face betraying the distress he felt for death, loneliness and indignity. “But I requested to see Mrs. Kellard.”
“Good. I’ll take it. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I asked Dinah and she told me to wait.”
Monk swore. He hated being left in the hall like a mendicant, but he had no alternative. It was a further quarter of an hour before Dinah returned and conducted them to the boudoir, where Araminta was standing in the center of the floor, her face strained and grim but perfectly composed.
“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.
