William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

Mrs. Boden, the cook, was up to her elbows in flour. Her face was red with exertion and heat, but she had an agreeable expression and was still a handsome woman, even though the veins were beginning to break on her skin and when she smiled her teeth were discolored and would not last much longer.
    “If you’re wanting your Mr. Evan, he’s in the housekeeper’s sitting room,” she greeted Monk. “And if you’re looking for a cup o’ tea you’re too soon. Come back in half an hour. And don’t get under my feet. I’ve dinner to think of; even in mourning they’ve still got to eat—and so have all of us.”
    “Us” were the servants, and he noted the distinction immediately.
    “Yes ma’am. Thank you, I’d like to speak to your footmen, if you please, privately.”
    “Would you now.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Sal. Put those potatoes down and go and get Harold—then when ’e’s done, tell Percival to come. Well don’t stand there, you great pudding. Go an’ do as you’re told!” She sighed and began to mix the pastry with water to the right consistency. “Girls these days! Eats enough for a working navvy, she does, and look at her. Moves like treacle in winter. Shoo. Get on with you, girl.”
    With a flash of temper the red-haired kitchen maid swung out of the room and along the corridor, her heels clicking on the uncarpeted floor.
    “And don’t you sonse out of here like that!” the cook called after her. “Cheeky piece. Eyes on the footman next door, that’s ’er trouble. Lazy baggage.” She turned back to Monk. “Now if you ’aven’t anything more to ask me, you get out of my way too. You can talk to the footmen in Mr. Phillips’s pantry. He’s busy down in the cellar and won’t be disturbing you.”
    Monk obeyed and was shown by Willie the bootboy into the pantry, the room where the butler kept all his keys, his accounts, and the silver that was used regularly, and also spent much of his time when not on duty. It was warm and extremely comfortably, if serviceably, furnished.
    Harold, the junior footman, was a thickset, fair-hairedyoung man, in no way a pair to Percival, except in height. He must possess some other virtue, less visible to the first glance, or Monk guessed his days here would be numbered. He questioned him, probably just as Evan had already done, and Harold produced his now well-practiced replies. Monk could not imagine him the philanderer Fenella Sandeman had thought up.
    Percival was a different matter, more assured, more belligerent, and quite ready to defend himself. When Monk pressed him he sensed a personal danger, and he answered with bold eyes and a ready tongue.
    “Yes sir, I know it was someone in the house who killed Mrs. Haslett. That doesn’t mean it was one of us servants. Why should we? Nothing to gain, and everything to lose. Anyway, she was a very pleasant lady, no occasion to wish her anything but good.”
    “You liked her?”
    Percival smiled. He had read Monk’s implication long before he replied, but whether from uneasy conscience or astute sense it was impossible to say.
    “I said she was pleasant enough, sir. I wasn’t familiar, if that’s what you mean!”
    “You jumped to that very quickly,” Monk retorted. “What made you think that was what I meant?”
    “Because you are trying to accuse one of us below stairs so you don’t have the embarrassment of accusing someone above,” Percival said baldly. “Just because I wear livery and say ‘yes sir, no ma’am’ doesn’t mean I’m stupid. You’re a policeman, no better than I am—”
    Monk winced.
    “And you know what it’ll cost you if you charge one of the family,” Percival finished.
    “I’ll charge one of the family if I find any evidence against them,” Monk replied tartly. “So far I haven’t.”
    “Then maybe you’re too careful where you look.” Percival’s contempt was plain. “You won’t find it if you don’t want to—and it surely wouldn’t suit you, would it?”
    “I’ll look anywhere I think there’s something to find,” Monk said. “You’re in the house all day and all night. You tell me where to look.”
    “Well, Mr. Thirsk steals from the cellar—taken half thebest port wine over the last few years. Don’t know how he isn’t drunk half the time.”
    “Is that a reason to kill Mrs. Haslett?”
    “Might be—if she knew and ratted on him to Sir Basil. Sir Basil would take it very hard. Might throw the old boy out into