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“Yes, Sir Basil,” Monk answered him.

“That’s—” Basil stopped. For several seconds he remained in absolute silence, his thoughts apparently inward, racing, ideas grasped and rejected. Finally he came to some realization he could not cast aside. “I see,” he said at last. “I cannot think of any imaginable reason, but we must face the inevitable. It seems preposterous, and I still believe that you will find some flaw in your reasoning, or that your evidence is faulty. But until then we must proceed on your assumption.” He frowned very slightly. “What do you require next? I assure you we have no violent quarrels or conflicts in the house and no one has behaved in any way out of their usual custom.” He regarded Monk with something between dislike and a bitter humor. “And we do not have personal relationships with our servants, let alone of the sort which would occasion this.” He put his hands in his pockets. “It is absurd—but I do not wish to obstruct you.”

“I agree a quarrel seems unlikely.” Monk measured his words, both to keep his own dignity and to show Basil there was some sense to the argument. “Especially in the middle of the night when all the household was in bed. But it is not impossible Mrs. Haslett was privy to some secret, albeit unintentionally, that someone feared she might expose—” It was not only possible, it excluded her from all blame. He saw Basil’s face lose some of its anxiety, and a flicker of hope appeared in his eyes. His shoulder eased as he breathed out and let his arms drop.

“Poor Octavia.” He looked at one of the soft landscape paintings on the wall. “That does sound possible. I apologize. I spoke hastily. You had better pursue your inquiries. What do you wish to do first?”

Monk respected him for his ability to admit both haste and discourtesy. It was more than he had expected, and something he would have found hard himself. The measure of the man was larger than he thought.

“I would like to speak to the family first, sir. They may have observed something, or Mrs. Haslett may have confided in one of them.”

“The family?” Basil’s mouth twitched, but whether it was from fear or a dark, inward humor Monk could not even guess. “Very well.” He reached for the bell pull and tugged it. When the butler appeared he sent him to bring Cyprian Moidore to the morning room.

Monk waited in silence until he came.

Cyprian closed the door behind him and looked at his father. Seeing them almost side by side the resemblance was striking: the same shape of head; the dark, almost black eyes; and the broad mouth with its extraordinary mobility. And yet the expressions were so different the whole bearing was altered. Basil was more aware of his own power and was quicker tempered, the flash of humor more deeply covered. Cyprian was less certain, as if his strength was untried and he feared it might not prove adequate. Was the softer side of him compassion, or simply caution because he was still vulnerable and he knew it?

“The police have discerned that no one broke in to kill Octavia,” Basil explained briefly and without preamble. He did not watch his son’s face; apparently he was not concerned how the news affected him, nor did he explain Monk’s reasoning of possible motive. “The only solution left seems to be that it was someone already living here. Obviously not the family—therefore, we must presume, one of the servants. Inspector Monk wishes to speak to all of us to see what we observed—if indeed we observed anything.”

Cyprian stared at his father, then swung around to look at Monk as if he had been some monster brought in from a foreign land.

“I am sorry, sir.” Monk put in the apology Basil had omitted. “I am aware that it must be distressing, but if you could tell me what you did on Monday, and what you can recall of anything Mrs. Haslett may have said, especially if at any time she confided a concern to you, or some matter she may have discovered that could be seen as dangerous to anyone else.”

Cyprian frowned, concentration coming slowly to his face as thought