William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

were on the landing?”
    The color came to her face and suddenly the picture was clearer.
    “I shan’t report what you say, unless I have to. But if you lie, you may go to prison, because an innocent person could be hanged. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
    Now she was ashen white, so frightened as to be robbed momentarily of words.
    “So who did you see?”
    “John.” Her voice was a whisper.
    “The footman who was filling the coal buckets?”
    “Yes sir—but I didn’t speak to him—honest! I jus’ came to the top o’ the stairs, like. Mrs. Pole were in the green room, ’cause I passed the door and it was open, an’ I seen ’er like.”
    “You came all the way down from your own room at the top of the house?”
    She nodded, guilt over her attempt to see the footman outweighing every other thought. She had no idea of the significance of what she was saying.
    “How did you know when he was going to be there?”
    “I …” She bit her lip. “I waited on the landing.”
    “Did you see Mrs. Carlyon go upstairs to Master Valentine’s room?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Did you see Mrs. Carlyon come down again?”
    “No sir, nor the general, sir—I swear to God!”
    “Then what did you do?”
    “I went as far as the top o’ the stairs and looked for John, sir. I knew that was about the time ’e’d be fillin’ the coal buckets.”
    “Did you see him?”
    “No. I reckon I were too late. I ’ad to ’ang around cos of all the people comin’ and goin’. I ’ad ter wait for the master ter go down again.”
    “You saw Mr. Furnival go down again?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “When you were at the top of the stairs, looking for John—think very carefully, you may have to swear to this in court, before a judge, so tell the truth, as you know it …”
    She gulped. “Yes sir?”
    “Did you look down at the hallway below you?”
    “Yes sir. I were looking for John.”
    “To come from the back of the house?”
    “Yes sir—with the coal buckets.”
    “Was the suit of armor standing where it usually does?”
    “I think so.”
    “It wasn’t knocked over?”
    “No—o’ course it weren’t, or I’d ’ave seen it. It’d be right between me and the corridor to the back.”
    “Then where did you go, after waiting for John and realizing you were too late?”
    “Back upstairs again.”
    He saw the flicker in her eyes, barely discernible, just a tremor.
    “Tell me the truth: did you pass anyone?”
    Her eyes were downcast, the blush came again. “I heard someone comin’, I don’t know who. I didn’t want to be caught there, so I went into Mrs. Pole’s room to see if she needed anything. I was goin’ ter say I thought I’d ’eard ’er call out, if anyone asked me.”
    “And the people passed, going along the passage to the front stairs?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “When was that?”
    “I dunno, sir. God help me, I don’t! I swear it!”
    “That’s all right, I believe you.” Alexandra and the general, minutes before she killed him.
    “Did you hear anything?”
    “No sir.”
    “You didn’t hear voices?”
    “No sir.”
    “Or the suit of armor crashing over?”
    “No sir. The green room is a long way from the top o’ the stairs, sir.” She did not bother to swear—it was easily verifiable.
    “Thank you,” he said honestly.
    So only Alexandra had the opportunity after all. It was murder.
    “You’ve been a great help.” He forced the words out. “A very great help. That’s all—you can go.” And Alexandra was guilty. Louisa and Maxim had already gone up and come down again, and the general was alive.
    “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” And she turned on her heel and fled.

5
    O
liver Rathbone awaited
the arrival of Monk with some hope, in spite of his reason telling him that it was extremely unlikely he had been able to find any worthwhile evidence that it was not after all Alexandra Carlyon who had killed the general. He shared Monk’s contempt for Runcorn personally, but he had a considerable respect for the police in general, and had found that when they brought a case to trial, they were seldom fundamentally in error. But he did hope that Monk might have turned up a stronger and more sympathetic motive than jealousy. And if he were honest, there was a lingering corner in his mind which cherished a vague idea that it might indeed have been someone else—although how it would be any better had it been Sabella, he had no idea, except that so far Sabella was not his