William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

there were places in the family’s rooms you did not search?” she said.
    “I imagine so.” His face was dark with the ugliness of it. “God! How brutal! They must have kept the knife and the peignoir, stained with her blood, just in case they were needed—to incriminate some poor devil.” He shuddered involuntarily, and she felt a sudden coldness in the room that had nothing to do with the meager fire or the steady sleet outside, now turning to snow.
    “Perhaps if we could find the hiding place,” she said tentatively, “we might know who it was who used it?”
    He laughed, a jerky, painful sound.
    “The person who put it in Percival’s room behind the drawers in his dresser? I don’t think we can assume that the hiding place incriminates them.”
    She felt foolish.
    “Of course not,” she admitted quietly. “Then what can we look for?”
    He sank into silence again for a long time, and she waited, racking her brains.
    “I don’t know,” he said at last, with obvious difficulty. “Blood in the study might be indicative—Percival would not have killed her there. The whole premise is that he forced his way into her bedroom and she fought him off and was killed in the process—”
    She stood up, suddenly full of energy now that there was something to do.
    “I will look for it. It won’t be difficult—”
    “Be careful,” he said so sharply that it was almost a bark. “Hester!”
    She opened her mouth to be dismissive, full of the excitement of at last having some idea to pursue.
    “Hester!” He caught her by the shoulder, his hands hard.
    She winced and would have pulled away had she the strength.
    “Hester—listen to me!” he said urgently. “This man—or woman—has done far more than conceal a suicide. They have committed a slow and very deliberate murder.” His face was tight with distress. “Have you ever seen a man hanged? I have. And I watched Percival struggle as the net tightened around him for the weeks before—and then I visited him in Newgate. It is a terrible way to die.”
    She felt a little sick, but she did not retreat.
    “They will have no pity for you,” he went on relentlessly, “if you threaten them in even the slightest way. In fact I think now that you know this, it would be better if you were to send in your notice. Tell them by letter that you have had an accident and cannot return. No one is needing a nurse; a ladies’ maid could perfectly well perform all that Lady Moidore wants.”
    “I will not.” She stood almost chest to chest with him andglared. “I am going back to Queen Anne Street to see if I can discover what really happened to Octavia—and possibly who did it and caused Percival to be hanged.” She realized the enormity of what she was saying, but she had left herself no retreat.
    “Hester.”
    “What?”
    He took a deep breath and let her go. “Then I will remain in the street nearby, and shall look to see you at least every hour at a window that gives to the street. If I don’t, I shall call Evan at the police station and have him enter the place—”
    “You can’t!” she protested.
    “I can!”
    “On what pretext, for heaven’s sake?”
    He smiled with bitter humor. “That you are wanted in connection with a domestic theft. I can always release you afterwards—with unblemished character—a case of mistaken identity.”
    She was more relieved than she would show.
    “I am obliged to you.” She tried to say it stiffly, but her emotion showed through, and for a moment they stared at each other with that perfect understanding that occasionally flashed between them. Then she excused herself, picked up her coat again and allowed him to help her into it, and took her leave.
       She entered the Queen Anne Street house discreetly and avoided all but the most essential conversation, going upstairs to check that Septimus was still recovering well. He was pleased to see her and greeted her with interest. She found it hard not to tell him anything of her discoveries or conclusions, and she made excuses to escape and go to Beatrice as soon as she could without hurting his feelings.
    After she had brought up her dinner she asked permission to retire early, saying she had letters to write, and Beatrice was content to acquiesce.
    She slept very restlessly, and it was no difficulty to rise at a little after two in the morning and creep downstairs with a candle. She dared not turn up the gas. It would glare like the sun and be too far