The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [252]
There it was—the first shadow of real fear, the quick beading of sweat on the lip, the catching of breath.
“I didn’t lose my temper,” Percival said, his voice cracking and loathing in his eyes. “I don’t know who killed her—but it wasn’t me!”
“No?” Monk raised his eyebrows very high. “Who else had a reason? She didn’t ‘admire’ anyone else, did she? She didn’t leave any money. We cannot find anything to suggest she knew something shameful about anyone. We can’t find anyone who hated her—”
“Because you aren’t very clever, are you.” Percival’s dark eyes were narrow and bright. “I already told you Rose hated her, because she was jealous as a cat over me. And what about Mr. Kellard? Or are you too well trained to dare accuse one of the gentry if you can pin it on a servant?”
“No doubt you would like me to ask why Mr. Kellard should kill Mrs. Haslett.” Monk was equally angry, but would not reply to the jibe because that would be to admit it hurt. He would as soon have charged one of the family as a servant, but he knew what Runcorn would feel, and try to drive him to do, and his frustration was equally with him as with Percival. “And you will tell me whether I ask or not, to divert my attention from you.”
That robbed Percival of a great deal of his satisfaction, which was what Monk had intended. Nevertheless he could not afford to remain silent.
“Because he had a fancy for Mrs. Haslett,” Percival said in a hard, quiet voice. “And the more she declined him, the hotter it got—that’s how it is.”
“And so he killed her?” Monk said, baring his teeth in something less than a smile. “Seems an odd way of persuading her. Would put her out of his reach permanently, wouldn’t it? Or are you supposing a touch of necrophilia?”
“What?”
“Gross relationship with the dead,” Monk explained.
“Disgusting.” Percival’s lip curled.
“Or perhaps he was so infatuated he decided if he could not have her then no one should?” Monk suggested sarcastically. It was not the sort of passion either of them thought Myles Kellard capable of, and he knew it.
“You’re playing the fool on purpose,” Percival said through thin lips. “You may not be very bright—and the way you’ve gone about this case surely shows it—but you’re not that stupid. Mr. Kellard wanted to lie with her, nothing more. But he’s one that won’t accept a refusal.” He lifted one shoulder. “And if he fancied her and she said she’d tell everyone he’d have to kill her. He couldn’t cover that up the way he did with poor Martha. It’s one thing to rape a maid, no one cares—but you can’t rape your wife’s sister and get away with it. Her father won’t hide that up for you!”
Monk stared at him. Percival had won his attention without shadow this time, and he knew it; the victory was shining in his narrowed eyes.
“Who is Martha?” Resent it as he might, Monk had no option but to ask.
Percival smiled slowly. He had small, even teeth.
“Was,” he corrected. “God knows where she is now—workhouse, if she’s alive at all.”
“All right, who was she?”
He looked at Monk with a level, jubilant stare.
“Parlormaid before Dinah. Pretty thing, neat and slender, walked like a princess. He took a fancy to her, and wouldn’t be told no. Didn’t believe she meant it. Raped her.”
“How do you know this?” Monk was skeptical, but not totally disbelieving. Percival was too sure of himself for it to be simply a malicious invention, nor was there the sweat of desperation on his skin. He stood easily, his body relaxed, almost excited.
“Servants are invisible,” Percival replied, eyes