William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

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.”
    “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. Kellard.”
    “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