William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

she did not understand Hester’s insistence and it frightened her. “It wasn’t torn when the police showed it to me with the blood on it. That part of it wasn’t stained, and it was perfectly all right.”
    “You couldn’t be mistaken? Is there more than one piece of lace on it?”
    “Not like that.” She shook her head. “Look, Miss Latterly, whatever you may think of me, and it shows in your hoitytoity manners—I know my job and I know a shoulder from a hem of a peignoir. The lace was not torn when I sent it up from the laundry, and it was not torn when I identified it for the police—for any good that does anyone.”
    “It does a lot,” Hester said quietly. “Now would you swear to it?”
    “Why?”
    “Would you?” Hester could have shaken her in sheer frustration.
    “Swear to who?” Rose persisted. “What does it matter now?” Her face worked as if some tremendous emotion shook her. “You mean—” She could hardly find the words. “You mean—it wasn’t Percival who killed her?”
    “No—I don’t think so.”
    Rose was very white, her skin pinched. “God! Then who?”
    “I don’t know—and if you’ve any sense at all, and any desire to keep your life, let alone your job, you’ll say nothing to anyone.”
    “But how do you know?” Rose persisted.
    “You are better not understanding—believe me!”
    “What are you going to do?” Her voice was very quiet, but there was anxiety in it, and fear.
    “Prove it—if I can.”
    At that moment Lizzie came over, her lips tight with irritation.
    “If you need something laundered, Miss Latterly, please ask me and I will see it is done, but don’t stand here gossiping with Rose—she has work to do.”
    “I’m sorry,” Hester apologized, forcing a sweet smile, and fled.
    She was back in the main house and halfway up the stairs to Beatrice’s room before her thoughts cleared. If the peignoir was whole when Rose sent it up, and whole when it was found in Percival’s room, but torn when Octavia went to say goodnight to her mother, then she must have torn it some time during that day, and no one but Beatrice had noticed. She had not been wearing it when she died; it had been in Beatrice’sroom. Some time between Octavia leaving it there and its being discovered, someone had taken it, and a knife from the kitchen, covered the knife in blood and wrapped the peignoir around it, then hidden them in Percival’s room.
    But who?
    When had Beatrice mended it? Surely that night? Why would she bother after she knew Octavia was dead?
    Then where had it been? Presumably lying in the workbasket in Beatrice’s room. No one would care about it greatly after that. Or was it returned to Octavia’s room? Yes, surely returned, since otherwise whoever had taken it would realize their mistake and know Octavia had not been wearing it when she went to bed.
    She was on the top stair on the landing now. It had stopped raining and the sharp, pale winter sun shone in through the windows, making patterns on the carpet. She had passed no one else. The maids were all busy about their duties, the ladies’ maids attending to wardrobe, the housekeeper in her linen room, the upstairs maids making beds, turning mattresses and dusting everything, the tweeny somewhere in the passageway. Dinah and the footmen were somewhere in the front of the house, the family about their morning pleasures, Romola in the schoolroom with the children, Araminta writing letters in the boudoir, the men out, Beatrice still in her bedroom.
    Beatrice was the only one who knew about the torn lily, so she would not make the mistake of staining that peignoir—not that Hester had ever suspected her in the first place, or certainly not alone. She might have done it with Sir Basil, but then she was also frightened that someone had murdered Octavia, and she did not know who. Indeed she feared it might have been Myles. Hester considered for only an instant that Beatrice might have been a superb actress, then she abandoned it. To begin with, why should she? She had no idea Hester would repeat anything she said, let alone everything.
    Who knew which peignoir Octavia wore that evening? She had left the withdrawing room fully dressed in a dinner gown, as did all the women. Whom had she seen after changing for the night but before retiring?
    Only Araminta—and her mother.
    Proud, difficult, cold Araminta. It was she who had hiddenher sister’s suicide, and when it was inevitable that someone