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“I’ll have to tell him too. Sir Basil will—”
Evan smiled, but no answer was necessary.
Monk turned to Hester. “Be careful,” he warned. “Whoever it is wants us to arrest Percival. They will be upset that we haven’t and may do something rash.”
“I will,” she said quite calmly.
Her composure irritated him. “You don’t appear to understand the risk.” His voice was sharp. “There would be a physical danger to you.”
“I am acquainted with physical danger.” She met his eyes levelly with a glint of amusement. “I have seen a great deal more death than you have, and been closer to my own than I am ever likely to be in London.”
His reply was futile, and he forbore from making it. This time she was perfectly right—he had forgotten. Dryly he excused himself and reported to the front of the house and an irate Sir Basil.
“In God’s name, what more do you need?” he shouted, banging his fist on his desk and making the ornaments jump. “You find the weapon and my daughter’s bloodstained clothes in the man’s bedroom! Do you expect a confession?”
Monk explained with as much clarity and patience as he could exactly why he felt it was not yet sufficient evidence, but Basil was angry and dismissed him with less than courtesy, at the same time calling for Harold to attend him instantly and take a letter.
By the time Monk had returned to the kitchen and collected Evan, walked along to Regent Street and picked up a hansom to the police station to report to Runcorn, Harold, with Sir Basil’s letter, was ahead of him.
“What in the devil’s name are you doing, Monk?” Runcorn demanded, leaning across his desk, the paper clenched in his fist. “You’ve got enough evidence to hang the man twice over. What are you playing at, man, telling Sir Basil you aren’t going to arrest him? Go back and do it right now!”
“I don’t think he’s guilty,” Monk said flatly.
Runcorn was nonplussed. His long face fell into an expression of disbelief. “You what?”
“I don’t think he’s guilty,” Monk repeated clearly and with a sharper edge to his voice.
The color rose in Runcorn’s cheeks, beginning to mottle his skin.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he’s guilty!” he shouted. “Good God man, didn’t you find the knife and her bloodstained clothes in his room? What more do you want? What innocent explanation could there possibly be?”
“That he didn’t put them there.” Monk kept his own voice low. “Only a fool would have left things like that where they might be found.”
“But you didn’t find them, did you?” Runcorn said furiously, on his feet now. “Not until the cook told you her knife was missing. This damn footman can’t have known she’d notice it after this time. He didn’t know you’d search the place.”
“We already searched it once for the missing jewelry,” Monk pointed out.
“Well you didn’t search it very well, did you?” Runcorn accused with satisfaction lacing through his words even now. “You didn’t expect to find it, so you didn’t make a proper job of it. Slipshod—think you’re cleverer than anybody else and leap to conclusions.” He leaned forward over the desk, his hands resting on the surface, splay fingered. “Well you were wrong this time, weren’t you—in fact I’d say downright incompetent. If you’d done your job and searched properly in the beginning, you’d have found the knife and the clothes and spared the family a great deal of distress, and the police a lot of time and effort.”
He waved the letter. “If I thought I could, I’d take all the rest of the police wages out of yours, to cover the hours wasted by your incompetence! You’re losing your touch, Monk, losing your touch. Now try to make up for it in some degree by going back to Queen Anne Street, apologizing to Sir Basil, and arresting the damned footman.”
“It wasn’t there when we looked the first time,” Monk repeated. He was not going to allow Evan to be blamed, and he believed that what he said was almost certainly true.
Runcorn blinked. “Well all that means is that he had it somewhere else then—and put it in the drawer afterwards.” Runcorn’s voice was getting louder in spite of himself. “Get back to Queen Anne Street and arrest that footman—do I make myself clear? I don’t know what simpler words to put it in. Get out, Monk—arrest Percival for murder.”
“No sir. I don’t think he did it.”
“Nobody gives a fig what you think, damn it! Just do as you are told.” Runcorn’s face was deepening in color and his hands were clenching on the desk top.
Monk forced himself to keep his temper sufficiently to argue the case. He would like simply to have told Runcorn he was a fool and left.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he began with an effort. “If he had the chance to get rid of the jewelry, why didn’t he get rid of the knife and the peignoir at the same time?”
“He probably didn’t get rid of the jewelry,” Runcorn said with a sudden flash of satisfaction. “I expect it’s still there, and if you searched properly you’d find it—stuffed inside an old boot, or sewn in a pocket or something. After all, you were looking for a knife this time; you wouldn’t look anywhere too small to conceal one.”
“We were looking for jewelry the first time,” Monk pointed out with a touch of sarcasm he could not conceal. “We could hardly have missed a carving knife and a silk dressing robe.”
“No you couldn’t, if you’d been doing your job,” Runcorn agreed. “Which means you weren’t—doesn’t it, Monk?”
