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Basil was temporarily confused. He struggled for an answer that would fit all the facts they knew.

“Her ladies’ maid, I imagine. That is usual. Otherwise I am aware of no special regard,” he said carefully. “And it seems she did not tell anyone where she went.”

“What time off do the servants have?” Monk pursued. “Away from the house.”

“Half a day every other week,” Basil replied immediately. “That is customary.”

“Not a great deal for indulging in romance,” Monk observed. “It would seem more probable that whatever it was took place in Queen Anne Street.”

Sir Basil’s black eyes were hard, and he slapped at his fluttering coattails irritably.

“If you are trying to say that there was something very serious taking place in my house, of which I was unaware, indeed still am unaware, Inspector, then you have succeeded. Now if you can be as efficient in doing what you are paid for—and discover what it was—we shall all be most obliged. If there is nothing further, good day to you!”

Monk smiled. He had alarmed him, which was what he intended. Now Basil would go home and start demanding a lot of pertinent and inconvenient answers.

“Good day, Sir Basil.” Monk tipped his hat very slightly, and turning on his heel, marched on towards Horse Guards Parade, leaving Basil standing on the grass with a face heavy with anger and hardening resolution.

Monk attempted to see Myles Kellard at the merchant bank where he held a position, but he had already left for the day. And he had no desire to see any of the household in Queen Anne Street, where he would be most unlikely to be uninterrupted by Sir Basil or Cyprian.

Instead he made a few inquiries of the doorman of Cyprian’s club and learned almost nothing, except that he visited it frequently, and certainly gentlemen did have a flutter on cards or horses from time to time. He really could not say how much; it was hardly anyone else’s concern. Gentlemen always settled their debts of honor, or they would be blackballed instantly, not only here but in all probability by every other club in town as well. No, he did not know Mr. Septimus Thirsk; indeed he had not heard that gentleman’s name before.

Monk found Evan back at the police station and they compared the results of their day. Evan was tired, and although he had expected to learn little he was still discouraged that that was what had happened. There was a bubble of hope in him that always regarded the best of possibilities.

“Nothing you would call a romance,” he said dispiritedly, sitting on the broad ledge of the windowsill in Monk’s office. “I gather from one of the laundry maids, Lizzie, that she thinks the bootboy had a yearning toward Dinah, the parlormaid, who is tall and fair with skin like cream and a waist you could put your hands ’round.” His eyes widened as he visualized her in his memory. “And she’s not yet had so much attention paid her that she’s full of airs. But then that seems hardly worthy of comment. Both footmen and both grooms also admire her very heartily. I must admit, so did I.” He smiled, robbing the remark of any seriousness. “Dinah is as yet unmoved in return. General opinion is that she will set her cap a good deal higher.”

“Is that all?” Monk asked with a wry expression. “You spent all day below stairs to learn that? Nothing about the family?”

“Not yet,” Evan apologized, “But I am still trying. The other laundrymaid, Rose, is a pretty thing, very small and dark with eyes like cornflowers—and an excellent mimic, by the way. She has a dislike for the footman Percival, which sounds to me as if it may be rooted in having once been something much warmer—”

“Evan!”

Evan opened his eyes wide in innocence. “Based on much observation by the upstairs maid Maggie and the ladies’ maid Mary, who has a high regard for other people’s romances, moving them along wherever she can. And the other upstairs maid, Annie, has a sharp dislike for poor Percival, although she wouldn’t say why.”

“Very enlightening,” Monk said sarcastically.