William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

the street.”
    “Then why does he take it?”
    Percival shrugged very slightly. It was not a servant’s gesture.
    “I don’t know—but he does. Seen him sneaking down the steps many a time—and back up with a bottle under his coat.”
    “I’m not very impressed.”
    “Then look at Mrs. Sandeman.” Percival’s face tightened, a shadow of viciousness about his mouth. “Look at some of the company she keeps. I’ve been out in the carriage sometimes and taken her to some very odd places. Parading up and down that Rotten Row like a sixpenny whore, and reads stuff Sir Basil would burn if he saw it—scandal sheets, sensational press. Mr. Phillips would dismiss any of the maids if he caught them with that kind of thing.”
    “It’s hardly relevant. Mr. Phillips cannot dismiss Mrs. Sandeman, no matter what she reads,” Monk pointed out.
    “Sir Basil could.”
    “But would he? She is his sister, not a servant.”
    Percival smiled. “She might just as well be. She has to come and go when he says, wear what he approves of, speak to whoever he likes and entertain his friends. Can’t have her own here, unless he approves them—or she doesn’t get her allowance. None of them do.”
    He was a young man with a malicious tongue and a great deal of personal knowledge of the family, Monk thought, very possibly a frightened young man. Perhaps his fear was justified. The Moidores would not easily allow one of their own to be charged if suspicion could be diverted to a servant. Percival knew that; maybe he was only the first person downstairs to see just how sharp the danger was. In time no doubt others would also; the tales would get uglier as the fear closed in.
    “Thank you, Percival,” Monk said wearily. “You can go—for now.”
    Percival opened his mouth to add something, then changed his mind and went out. He moved gracefully—well trained.
    Monk returned to the kitchen and had the cup of tea Mrs. Boden had previously offered, but even listening carefully he learned nothing of further use, and he left by the same way he had arrived and took a hansom from Harley Street down to the City. This time he was more fortunate in finding Myles Kellard in his office at the bank.
    “I can’t think what to tell you.” Myles looked at Monk curiously, his long face lit with a faint humor as if he found the whole meeting a trifle ridiculous. He sat elegantly on one of the Chippendale armchairs in his exquisitely carpeted room, crossing his legs with ease. “There are all sorts of family tensions, of course. There are in any family. But none of them seems a motive for murder to anyone, except a lunatic.”
    Monk waited.
    “I would find it a lot easier to understand if Basil had been the victim,” Myles went on, an edge of sharpness in his voice. “Cyprian could follow his own political interests instead of his father’s, and pay all his debts, which would make life a great deal easier for him—and for the fair Romola. She finds living in someone else’s house very hard to take. Ideas of being mistress of Queen Anne Street shine in her eyes rather often. But she’ll be a dutiful daughter-in-law until that day comes. It’s worth waiting for.”
    “And then you will also presumably move elsewhere?” Monk said quickly.
    “Ah.” Myles pulled a face. “How uncivil of you, Inspector. Yes, no doubt we shall. But old Basil looks healthy enough for another twenty years. Anyway, it was poor Tavie who was killed, so that line of thought leads you nowhere.”
    “Did Mrs. Haslett know of her brother’s debts?”
    Myles’s eyebrows shot up, giving his face a quizzical look. “I shouldn’t think so—but it’s a possibility. She certainly knew he was interested in the philosophies of the appalling Mr. Owen and his notions of dismantling the family.” He smiled with a raw, twisted humor. “I don’t suppose you’ve read Owen, Inspector? No—very radical—believes the patriarchal system is responsible for all sorts of greed, oppression and abuse—an opinion which Basil is hardly likely to share.”
    “Hardly,” Monk agreed. “Are these debts of Mr. Cyprian’s generally known?”
    “Certainly not!”
    “But he confided in you?”
    Myles lifted his shoulders a fraction.
    “No—not exactly. I am a banker, Inspector. I learn various bits of information that are not public property.” He colored faintly. “I told you that because you are investigating a murder in my family. It is not to be generally