William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

the male servants’ staircase?” Basil raised his voice a little. “If whoever has the knife gets word of this they may be tempted to move it before you can begin your task. From there you can see the far end of the passage where the female servants’ staircase emerges.” He was explaining himself more than usual. It was the first real crack in his composure that Monk had seen. “That is the best position I can offer. I imagine there is little point in having any one of the servants stand guard—they must all be suspect.” He watched Monk’s face.
    “Thank you,” Monk said again. “That is most perceptive of you. May I also have one of the upstairs maids stay on the main landing? They would observe anyone coming or going on other than an ordinary duty—which they would be used to. Perhaps the laundrymaids and other domestic staff could remain downstairs until this is over—and the footmen of course?”
    “By all means.” Basil was regaining his command. “And the valet as well.”
    “Thank you, sir. That is most helpful of you.”
    Basil’s eyebrows rose. “What on earth did you expect me to do, man? It was my daughter who was murdered.” His control was complete again.
    There was nothing Monk could reply to that, except to expressa brief sympathy again and take his leave to go downstairs, write a note to Evan at the police station, and dispatch the groom to fetch him and another constable.
    The search, begun forty-five minutes later, started with the rooms of the maids at the far end of the attic, small, cold garrets looking over the gray slates towards their own mews, and the roofs of Harley Mews beyond. They each contained an iron bedstead with mattress, pillow and covers, a wooden hard-backed chair, and a plain wood dresser with a glass on the wall above. No maid would be permitted to present herself for work untidy or in an ill-kept uniform. There was also a cupboard for clothes and a ewer and basin for washing. The rooms were distinguished one from another only by the patterns of the knotted rag rugs on the floor and by the few pictures that belonged to each inhabitant, a sketch of family, in one case a silhouette, a religious text or reproduction of a famous painting.
    Neither Monk nor Evan found a knife. The constable, under detailed instructions, was searching the outside property, simply because it was the only other area to which the servants had access without leaving the premises, and thus their duty.
    “Of course if it was a member of the family they’ve all been over half London by now,” Evan observed with a crooked smile. “It could be at the bottom of the river, or in any of a million gutters or rubbish bins.”
    “I know that.” Monk did not stop his work. “And Myles Kellard looks by far the most likely, at the moment. Or Araminta, if she knew. But can you think of a better thing to be doing?”
    “No,” Evan admitted glumly. “I’ve spent the last week and a half chasing my shadow around London looking for jewelry I’ll lay any odds you like was destroyed the night it was taken—or trying to find out the past history of servants whose records are exemplary and deadly monotonous.” He was busy turning out drawers of neat, serviceable feminine clothes as he spoke, his long fingers touching them carefully, his face pulled into an expression of distaste at his intrusion. “I begin to think employers don’t see people at all, simply aprons and uniform stuff dresses and a lace cap,” he went on. “Whose head it is on is all the same, providing the tea is hot, the table is laid, the fires are blacked and laid and stoked, themeal is cooked and served and cleared away, and every time the bell is rung, someone answers it to do whatever you want.” He folded the clothes neatly and replaced them. “Oh—and of course the house is always clean and there are always clean clothes in the dresser. Who does it is largely immaterial.”
    “You are becoming cynical, Evan!”
    Evan flashed a smile. “I’m learning, sir.”
    After the maids’ rooms they came down the stairs to the second floor up from the main house. At one end of the landing were the rooms of the housekeeper and the cook and the ladies’ maids, and now of course Hester; and at the other the rooms of the butler, the two footmen, the bootboy and the valet.
    “Shall we begin with Percival?” Evan asked, looking at Monk apprehensively.
    “We may as well take them in order,” Monk answered. “The first is