The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [197]
Monk smiled in spite of himself. “You don’t read enough of the more lurid press, Evan. Listen to the running patterers some time.”
“Rubbish,” Evan said heartily. “Not Phillips.”
“Footmen—grooms—bootboy?” Monk pressed. “And what about the older women?”
Evan was half leaning, half sitting on the windowsill.
“Grooms are in the stables and the back door is locked at night,” Evan replied. “Bootboy possibly, but he’s only fourteen. Can’t think of a motive for him. Older women—I suppose it is imaginable, some jealous or slight perhaps, but it would have to be a very violent one to provoke murder. None of them looks raving mad, or has ever shown the remotest inclination to violence. And they’d have to be mad to do such a thing. Anyway, passions in servants are far more often against each other. They are used to being spoken to in all manner of ways by the family.” He looked at Monk with gravity beneath the wry amusement. “It’s each other they take exception to. There’s a rigid hierarchy, and there’s been blood spilled before now over what job is whose.”
He saw Monk’s expression.
“Oh—not murder. Just a few hard bruises and the occasional broken head,” he explained. “But I think downstairs emotions concern others downstairs.”
“What about if Mrs. Haslett knew something about them, some past sin of thieving or immorality?” Monk suggested. “That would lose them a very comfortable position. Without references they’d not get another—and a servant who can’t get a place has nowhere to go but the sweatshops or the street.”
“Could be,” Evan agreed. “Or the footmen. There are two—Harold and Percival. Both seem fairly ordinary so far. I should say Percival is the more intelligent, and perhaps ambitious.”
“What does a footman aspire to be?” Monk said a little waspishly.
“A butler, I imagine,” Evan replied with a faint smile. “Don’t look like that, sir. Butler is a comfortable, responsible and very respected position. Butlers consider themselves socially far superior to the police. They live in fine houses, eat the best, and drink it. I’ve seen butlers who drink better claret than their masters—”
“Do their masters know that?”
“Some masters don’t have the palate to know claret from cooking wine.” Evan shrugged. “All the same, it’s a little kingdom that many men would find most attractive.”
Monk raised his eyebrows sarcastically. “And how would knifing the master’s daughter get him any closer to this enjoyable position?”
“It wouldn’t—unless she knew something about him that would get him dismissed without a reference.”
That was plausible, and Monk knew it.
“Then you had better go back and see what you can learn,” he directed. “I’m going to speak to the family again, which I still think, unfortunately, is far more likely. I want to see them alone, away from Sir Basil.” His face tightened. “He orchestrated the last time as if I had hardly been there.”
“Master in his house.” Evan hitched himself off the windowsill. “You can hardly be surprised.”
“That is why I intend to see them away from Queen Anne Street, if I can,” Monk replied tersely. “I daresay it will take me all week.”
Evan rolled his eyes upward briefly, and without speaking again went out; Monk heard his footsteps down the stairs.
It did take Monk most of the week. He began straightaway with great success, almost immediately finding Romola Moidore walking in a leisurely fashion in Green Park. She started along the grass parallel with Constitution Row, gazing at the trees beyond by Buckingham Palace. The footman Percival had informed Monk she would be there, having ridden in the carriage with Mr. Cyprian, who was taking luncheon at his club in nearby Piccadilly.
She was expecting to meet a Mrs. Ketteridge, but Monk caught up with her while she was still alone. She was dressed entirely in black, as befitted a woman whose family was in mourning, but she still looked extremely smart. Her wide skirts were tiered and trimmed with velvet, the pergola sleeves of her dress were lined with black silk, her bonnet was