The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [247]
Now there was nowhere to look except back in Queen Anne Street among the servants yet again. Monk stood in the housekeeper’s sitting room waiting impatiently for Hester. He had again given Mrs. Willis no reason for asking to see the nurse, a woman who was not even present at the time of the crime. He was aware of her surprise and considerable criticism. He would have to think of some excuse before he saw her again.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come,” he ordered.
Hester came in and closed the door behind her. She looked neat and professional, her hair tied back severely and her dress plain gray-blue stuff and undecorated, her apron crisp white. Her costume was both serviceable and more than a little prudish.
“Good morning,” she said levelly.
“Good morning,” he replied, and without preamble started to ask her about the days since he had last seen her, his manner more curt than he would have chosen, simply because she was so similar to her sister-in-law, Imogen, and yet so different, so lacking in mystery and feminine grace.
She was recounting her duties and all that she had seen or overheard.
“All of which tells me only that Percival is not particularly well liked,” he said tartly. “Or simply that everyone is afraid and he seems the most likely scapegoat.”
“Quite,” she agreed briskly. “Have you a better idea?”
Her very reasonableness caught him on a raw nerve. He was acutely aware of his failure to date, and that he had nowhere else to look but here.
“Yes!” he snapped back. “Take a better look at the family. Find out more about Fenella Sandeman, for one. Have you any idea where she goes to indulge her disreputable tastes, if they really are disreputable? She stands to lose a lot if Sir Basil throws her out. Octavia might have found out that afternoon. Maybe that was what she was referring to when she spoke to Septimus. And see if you can find out whether Myles Kellard really did have an affair with Octavia, or if it is just malicious gossip among servants with idle tongues and busy imaginations. It seems they don’t lack for either.”
“Don’t give me orders, Mr. Monk.” She looked at him frostily. “I am not your sergeant.”
“Constable, ma’am,” he corrected with a sour smile. “You have promoted yourself unwarrantably. You are not my constable.”
She stiffened, her shoulders square, almost military, her face angry.
“Whatever the rank I do not hold, Mr. Monk, I think the main reason for suggesting that Percival may have killed Octavia is the belief that he either was having an affair with her or was attempting to.”
“And he killed her for that?” He raised his eyebrows in sarcastic inquiry.
“No,” she said patiently. “Because she grew tired of him, and they quarreled, I suppose. Or possibly the laundrymaid Rose did, in jealousy. She is in love with Percival—or perhaps love is not the right word—something rather cruder and more immediate, I think, would be more accurate. Although I don’t know how you can prove it.”
“Good. For a moment I was afraid you were about to instruct me.”
“I would not presume—not until I am at least a sergeant.” And with a swing of her skirt she turned and went out.
It was ridiculous. It was not the way he had intended the interview to go, but something about her so frequently annoyed him, an arbitrariness. A large part of his anger was because she was in some degree correct, and she knew it. He had no idea how to prove Percival’s guilt—if indeed he was guilty.
Evan was busy talking to the