"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 feirly 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."
“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. Runcom would be torn between relief and frustration. Monk could leave Queen Anne Street and take a new
case. Except that he did not believe (his 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 any way-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.''