"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. Kel-lard."
"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.
"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.