The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [248]
This time the footman looked far more nervous. Monk had seen the tense shoulders tight and a little high, the hands that were never quite still, the fine beading of sweat on the lips, and the wary eyes. It meant nothing, except that Percival had enough intelligence to know the circle was closing and he was not liked. They were all frightened for themselves, and the sooner someone was charged, the sooner life could begin to settle to normality again, and safety. The police would go, and the awful, sick suspicion would die away. They could look each other straight in the eye again.
“You’re a handsome fellow.” Monk looked him up and down with anything but approval. “I gather footmen are often picked for their looks.”
Percival met his eyes boldly, but Monk could almost smell his fear.
“Yes sir.”
“I imagine quite a few women are enamored of you, in one way or another. Women are often attracted by good looks.”
A flicker of a smirk crossed Percival’s dark face and died away.
“Yes sir, from time to time.”
“You must have experienced it?”
Percival relaxed a fraction, his body easing under his livery jacket.
“That’s true.”
“Is it ever an embarrassment?”
“Not often. You get used to it.”
Conceited swine, Monk thought, but perhaps not without cause. He had a suppressed vitality and a sort of insolence Monk imagined many women might find exciting.
“You must have to be very discreet?” he said aloud.
“Yes sir.” Percival was quite amused now, off his guard, pleased with himself as memories came to mind.
“Especially if it’s a lady, not merely one of the maids?” Monk went on. “Must be awkward for you if a visiting lady is … interested?”
“Yes sir—have to be careful.”
“I imagine men get jealous?”
Percival was puzzled; he had not forgotten why he was here. Monk could see the thoughts flicker across his face, and none of them provided explanation.
“I suppose they might,” he said carefully.
“Might?” Monk raised his eyebrows. His voice was patronizing, sarcastic. “Come, Percival, if you were a gentleman, wouldn’t you be jealous as the grave if your fine lady preferred the attentions of the footman to yours?”
This time the smirk was unmistakable, the thought was too sweet, the most delicious of all superiorities, better, closer to the essence of a man than even money or rank.
“Yes sir—I imagine I would be.”
“Especially over a woman as comely as Mrs. Haslett?”
Now Percival was confused. “She was a widow, sir. Captain Haslett died in the war.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “And she didn’t have any admirers that were serious. She wouldn’t look at anyone—still grieving over the captain.”
“But she was a young woman, used to married life, and handsome,” Monk pressed.
The light was back in Percival’s face. “Oh yes,” he agreed. “But she didn’t want to marry again.” He sobered quickly. “And anyway, nobody’s threatened me—it was her that was killed. And there wasn’t anyone close enough to be that jealous. Anyhow, even if there was, there wasn’t anyone else in the house that night.”
“But if there had been, would they have had cause to be jealous?” Monk screwed up his face as if the answer mattered and he had found some precious clue.
“Well—” Percival’s lips curled in a satisfied smile. “Yes—
I suppose they would.” His eyes widened hopefully. “Was there someone here, sir?”
“No.” Monk’s expression changed and all the lightness vanished. “No. I simply wanted to know if you had had an affair with Mrs. Haslett.”
Suddenly Percival understood and the blood fled from his skin, leaving him sickly pale. He struggled for words and could only make strangled sounds in his throat.
Monk knew the moment of victory and the instinct to kill; it was as familiar as pain, or rest, or the sudden shock of cold water, a memory in his flesh as well as his mind. And he despised himself for it. This was the old self surfacing through the cloud of forgetting since the accident; this was the man the records showed, who was