William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

the next day he was greeted in the kitchen by Mrs. Boden, looking grim and anxious, her face very pink and her hair poking in wild angles out of her white cap.
    “Good morning, Mr. Monk. I am glad you’ve come!”
    “What is it, Mrs. Boden?” His heart sank, although he could think of nothing specific he feared. “What has happened?”
    “One of my big kitchen carving knives is missing, Mr. Monk.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I could have sworn I had it last time we had a roast o’ beef, but Sal says she thinks as it was the other one I used, the old one, an’ now I reckon she must be right.” She poked her hair back under her cap and wiped her face agitatedly. “No one else can remember, and May gets sick at the thought. I admit it fair turns my stomach when I think it could’ve been the one that stabbed poor Miss Octavia.”
    Monk was cautious. “When did this thought come to you, Mrs. Boden?” he asked guardedly.
    “Yesterday, in the evening.” She sniffed. “Miss Araminta sent down for a little thin-cut beef for Sir Basil. He’d come in late and wanted a bite to eat.” Her voice was rising and there was a note of hysteria in it. “I went to get my best knife, an’ it weren’t there. That’s when I started to look for it, thinking as it had been misplaced. And it in’t here—not anywhere.”
    “And you haven’t seen it since Mrs. Haslett’s death?”
    “I don’t know, Mr. Monk!” Her hands jerked up in the air. “I thought I ‘ad, but Sal and May tell me as they ’aven’t, and when I last cut beef I did it with the old one. I was so upset I can’t recall what I did, and that’s the truth.”
    “Then I suppose we’d better see if we can find it,” Monk agreed. “I’ll get Sergeant Evan to organize a search. Who else knows about this?”
    Her face was blank; she understood no implication.
    “Who else, Mrs. Boden?” he repeated calmly.
    “Well I don’t know, Mr. Monk. I don’t know who I might have asked. I looked for it, naturally, and asked everyone if they’d seen it.”
    “Who do you mean by ‘everyone,’ Mrs. Boden? Who else apart from the kitchen staff?”
    “Well—I’m sure I can’t think.” She was beginning to panic because she could see the urgency in him and she did not understand. “Dinah. I asked Dinah because sometimes things get moved through to the pantry. And I may have mentioned it to ’Arold. Why? They don’t know where it is, or they’d ’ave said.”
    “Someone wouldn’t have,” he pointed out.
    It was several seconds before she grasped what he meant, then her hand flew to her mouth and she let out a stifled shriek.
    “I had better inform Sir Basil.” That was a euphemism for asking Sir Basil’s permission for the search. Without a warrant he could not proceed, and it would probably cost him his job if he were to try against Sir Basil’s wishes. He left Mrs. Boden in the kitchen sitting in the chair and May running for smelling salts—and almost certainly a strong nip of brandy.
    He was surprised to find himself shown to the library and left barely five minutes before Basil came in looking tense, his face creased, his eyes very dark.
    “What is it, Monk? Have you learned anything at last? My God, it is past time you did!”
    “The cook reports one of her kitchen carving knives missing, sir. I would like your permission to search the house for it.”
    “Well of course search for it!” Basil said. “Do you expect me to look for it for you?”
    “It was necessary to have your permission, Sir Basil,”Monk said between his teeth. “I cannot go through your belongings without a warrant, unless you permit me to.”
    “My belongings.” He was startled, his eyes wide with disbelief.
    “Is not everything in the house yours, sir, apart from what is Mr. Cyprian’s, or Mr. Kellard’s—and perhaps Mr. Thirsk’s?”
    Basil smiled bleakly, merely a slight movement of the corner of the lips. “Mrs. Sandeman’s personal belongings are her own, but otherwise, yes, they are mine. Of course you have my permission to search anywhere you please. You will need assistance, no doubt. You may send one of my grooms in the small carriage to fetch whomever you wish—your sergeant …” He shrugged, but his shoulders under the black barathea of his coat were tense. “Constables?”
    “Thank you,” Monk acknowledged. “That is most considerate. I shall do that immediately.”
    “Perhaps you should wait for them at the head of