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“Behind a drawer in Percival’s bedroom,” he answered.
She stood quite still. “Oh. I see.”
He waited for her to continue, but she did not.
“I have not yet asked him for an explanation,” he went on, watching her face.
“Explanation?” She swallowed again, so painfully hard he could see the constriction in her throat. “How could he possibly explain such a thing?” She looked confused, but there was no observable anger in her, no rage or revenge. Not yet. “Is not the only answer that he hid it there after he had killed her, and had not found an opportunity to dispose of it?”
Monk wished he could help her, but he could not.
“Knowing something of Percival, Mrs. Kellard, would you expect him to hide it in his own room, such a damning thing; or in some place less likely to incriminate him?” he asked.
The shadow of a smile crossed her face. Even now she could see a bitter humor in the suggestion. “In the middle of the night, Inspector, I should expect him to put it in the one place where his presence would arouse no suspicion—his own room. Perhaps he intended to put it somewhere else later, but never found the opportunity.” She took a deep breath and her eyebrows arched high. “One requires to be quite certain of being unobserved for such an act, I should imagine?”
“Of course.” He could not disagree.
“Then it is surely time you questioned him? Have you sufficient force with you, should he prove violent, or shall I send for one of the grooms to assist you?”
How practical.
“Thank you,” he declined. “But I think Sergeant Evan and I can manage. Thank you for your assistance. I regret having to ask you such questions, or that you should need to see the peignoir.” He would have added something less formal, but she was not a woman to whom one offered anything as close or gentle as pity. Respect, and an understanding of courage, was all she would accept.
“It was necessary, Inspector,” she acknowledged with stiff grace.
“Ma’am.” He inclined his head, excusing himself, and with Evan a step behind him, went to the butler’s pantry to ask Phillips if he might see Percival.
“Of course,” Phillips said gravely. “May I ask, sir, if you have discovered something in your search? One of the upstairs maids said that you had, but they are young, and inclined to be overimaginative.”
“Yes we have,” Monk replied. “We found Mrs. Boden’s missing knife and a peignoir belonging to Mrs. Haslett. It appears to have been the knife used to kill her.”
Phillips looked very white and Monk was afraid for a moment he was going to collapse, but he stood rigid like a soldier on parade.
“May I
ask where you found it?” There was no “sir.” Phillips was a butler, and considered himself socially very superior to a policeman. Even these desperate circumstances did not alter that.
“I think it would be better at the moment if that were a confidential matter,” Monk replied coolly. “It is indicative of who hid them there, but not conclusive.”
“I see.” Phillips felt the rebuff; it was there in his pale face and rigid manner. He was in charge of the servants, used to command, and he resented a mere policeman intruding upon his field of responsibility. Everything beyond the green baize door was his preserve. “And what is it you wish of me? I shall be pleased to assist, of course.” It was a formality; he had no choice, but he would keep up the charade.
“I’m obliged,” Monk said, hiding his flash of humor. Phillips would not appreciate being laughed at. “I would like to see the menservants one at a time—beginning with Harold, and then Rhodes the valet, then Percival.”
“Of course. You may use Mrs. Willis’s sitting room if you wish to.”
“Thank you, that would be convenient.”
He had nothing to say to either Harold or Rhodes, but to keep up appearances he asked them about their whereabouts during the day and if their rooms were locked. Their answers told him nothing he did not already know.
When Percival came he already knew something was deeply wrong. He had far more intelligence than either of the other two, and perhaps something in Phillips’s manner forewarned him, as did the knowledge that something had been found in the servants’ rooms. He knew the family members were increasingly frightened. He saw them every day, heard the sharpened tempers, saw the suspicion in their eyes, the altered relationships, the crumbling belief. Indeed he had tried to turn Monk towards Myles Kellard himself. He must know they would be doing the same thing, feeding every scrap of information they could to turn the police to the servants’ hall. He came in with the air of fear about him, his body tense, his eyes wide, a small nerve ticking in the side of his face.
Evan moved silently to stand between him and the door.
“Yes sir?” Percival said without waiting for Monk to speak, although his eyes flickered as he became aware of Evan’s change of position—and its meaning.
Monk had been holding the silk and the knife behind him. Now he brought them forward and held them up, the knife in his left hand, the peignoir hanging, the spattered blood dark and ugly. He watched Percival’s face minutely, every shade of expression. He saw surprise, a shadow of puzzlement as if it were confusing to him, but no blanching of new fear. In fact there was even a quick lift of hope, as if a moment of sun had shone through clouds. It was not the reaction he had expected from a guilty man. At that instant he believed Percival did not know where they had been found.
“Have you seen these before?” he said. The answer would be of little value to him, but he had to begin somewhere.
