William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

hands were clenching on the desk top.
    Monk forced himself to keep his temper sufficiently to argue the case. He would like simply to have told Runcorn he was a fool and left.
    “It doesn’t make sense,” he began with an effort. “If he had the chance to get rid of the jewelry, why didn’t he get rid of the knife and the peignoir at the same time?”
    “He probably didn’t get rid of the jewelry,” Runcorn saidwith a sudden flash of satisfaction. “I expect it’s still there, and if you searched properly you’d find it—stuffed inside an old boot, or sewn in a pocket or something. After all, you were looking for a knife this time; you wouldn’t look anywhere too small to conceal one.”
    “We were looking for jewelry the first time,” Monk pointed out with a touch of sarcasm he could not conceal. “We could hardly have missed a carving knife and a silk dressing robe.”
    “No you couldn’t, if you’d been doing your job,” Runcorn agreed. “Which means you weren’t—doesn’t it, Monk?”
    “Either that or it wasn’t there then,” Monk agreed, staring back at him without a flicker. “Which is what I said before. Only a fool would keep things like that, when he could clean the knife and put it back in the kitchen without any difficulty at all. Nobody would be surprised to see a footman in the kitchen; they’re in and out all the time on errands. And they are frequently the last to go to bed at night because they lock up.”
    Runcorn opened his mouth to argue, but Monk overrode him.
    “Nobody would be surprised to see Percival about at midnight or later. He could explain his presence anywhere in the house, except someone else’s bedroom, simply by saying he had heard a window rattle, or feared a door was unlocked. They would simply commend him for his diligence.”
    “A position you might well envy,” Runcorn said. “Even your most fervent admirer could hardly recommend you for yours.”
    “And he could as easily have put the peignoir on the back of the kitchen range and closed the lid, and it would be burned without a trace,” Monk went on, disregarding the interruption. “Now if it were the jewelry we found, that would make more sense. I could understand someone keeping that, in the hope that some time they would be able to sell it, or even give it away or trade it for something. But why keep a knife?”
    “I don’t know, Monk,” Runcorn said between his teeth. “I don’t have the mind of a homicidal footman. But he did keep it, didn’t he, damn it. You found it.”
    “We found it, yes,” Monk agreed with elaborate patience which brought the blood dark and heavy to Runcorn’s cheeks. “But that is the point I am trying to make, sir. There is noproof that it was Percival who kept it—or that it was he who put it there. Anyone could have. His room is not locked.”
    Runcorn’s eyebrows shot up.
    “Oh indeed? You have just been at great pains to point out to me that no one would keep such a thing as a bloodstained knife! Now you say someone else did—but not Percival. You contradict yourself, Monk.” He leaned even farther across the desk, staring at Monk’s face. “You are talking like a fool. The knife was there, so someone did keep it—for all your convoluted arguments—and it was found in Percival’s room. Get out and arrest him.”
    “Someone kept it deliberately to put it in Percival’s room and make him seem guilty.” Monk forgot his temper and began to raise his voice in exasperation, refusing to back away either physically or intellectually. “It only makes sense if it was kept to be used.”
    Runcorn blinked. “By whom, for God’s sake? This laundrymaid of yours? You’ve no proof against her.” He waved his hand, dismissing her. “None at all. What’s the matter with you, Monk? Why are you so dead against arresting Percival? What’s he done for you? Surely you can’t be so damned perverse that you make trouble simply out of habit?” His eyes narrowed and his face was only a few feet from Monk’s.
    Monk still refused to step backward.
    “Why are you so determined to try to blame one of the family?” Runcorn said between his teeth. “Good God, wasn’t the Grey case enough for you, dragging the family into that? Have you got it into your mind that it was this Myles Kellard, simply because he took advantage of a parlormaid? Do you want to punish him for that—is that what this is about?”
    “Raped,” Monk corrected very distinctly. His