The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [213]
“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 discussed. I hope you understand that.”
He had breached a confidence. Monk perceived that readily enough. Fenella’s words about him came back, and her arch look as she said them.
Myles hurried on. “I should think it was probably some stupid wrangle with a servant who got above himself.” He was looking very directly at Monk. “Octavia was a widow, and young. She wouldn’t get her excitement from scandal sheets like Aunt Fenella. I daresay one of the footmen admired her and she didn’t put him in his place swiftly enough.”
“Is that really what you think happened, Mr. Kellard?” Monk searched his face, the hazel eyes under their fair brows, the long, fluted nose and the mouth which could so easily be imaginative or slack, depending on his mood.
“It seems far more likely than Cyprian, whom she cared for, killing her because she might have told their father, of whom she was not fond, about his debts—or Fenella, in case Octavia told Basil about the company she keeps, which is pretty ragged.”
“I gathered Mrs. Haslett was still missing her husband,” Monk said slowly, hoping Myles would read the less delicate implication behind his words.
Myles laughed outright. “Good God, no. What a prude you are.” He leaned back in his chair. “She mourned Haslett—but she’s a woman. She’d have gone on making a parade of sorrow, of course. It’s expected. But she’s a woman like any other. I daresay Percival, at any rate, knows that. He’d take a little protestation of reluctance, a few smiles through the eyelashes and modest glances for what they were worth.”
Monk felt the muscles in his neck and scalp tightening in anger, but he tried to keep his emotion out of his voice.
“Which, if you are right, was apparently a great deal. She meant exactly what she said.”
“Oh—” Myles sighed and shrugged. “I daresay she changed her mind when she remembered he was a footman, by which time he had lost his head.”
“Have you any reason for suggesting this, Mr. Kellard, other than your belief that it seems likely to you?”
“Observation,” he said with a shadow of irritation across his face. “Percival is something of a ladies’ man, had considerable flirtations with one or two of the maids. It’s to be expected, you know.” A look of obscure satisfaction flickered across his face. “Can’t keep people together in a house day in, day out and not have something happen now and again. He’s an ambitious little beggar. Go and look there, Inspector. Now if you’ll excuse me, there really is nothing I can tell you, except to use your common sense and whatever knowledge of women you have. Now I wish you good-day.”
Monk returned to Queen Anne Street with a sense of darkness inside. He should have been encouraged by his interview with Myles Kellard. He had given an acceptable motive for one of the servants to have killed Octavia Haslett, and that would surely be the least unpleasant answer. Runcorn would be delighted. Sir Basil would be satisfied. Monk would arrest the footman and claim a victory. The press would praise him for his rapid and successful solution, which