William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

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, heavenhelp 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. Runcorn would be torn between relief and frustration. Monk could leave Queen Anne Street and take a newcase. Except that he did not believe this 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 anyway—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