The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [267]
“I know that.” Monk did not stop his work. “And Myles Kellard looks by far the most likely, at the moment. Or Araminta, if she knew. But can you think of a better thing to be doing?”
“No,” Evan admitted glumly. “I’ve spent the last week and a half chasing my shadow around London looking for jewelry I’ll lay any odds you like was destroyed the night it was taken—or trying to find out the past history of servants whose records are exemplary and deadly monotonous.” He was busy turning out drawers of neat, serviceable feminine clothes as he spoke, his long fingers touching them carefully, his face pulled into an expression of distaste at his intrusion. “I begin to think employers don’t see people at all, simply aprons and uniform stuff dresses and a lace cap,” he went on. “Whose head it is on is all the same, providing the tea is hot, the table is laid, the fires are blacked and laid and stoked, the meal is cooked and served and cleared away, and every time the bell is rung, someone answers it to do whatever you want.” He folded the clothes neatly and replaced them. “Oh—and of course the house is always clean and there are always clean clothes in the dresser. Who does it is largely immaterial.”
“You are becoming cynical, Evan!”
Evan flashed a smile. “I’m learning, sir.”
After the maids’ rooms they came down the stairs to the second floor up from the main house. At one end of the landing were the rooms of the housekeeper and the cook and the ladies’ maids, and now of course Hester; and at the other the rooms of the butler, the two footmen, the bootboy and the valet.
“Shall we begin with Percival?” Evan asked, looking at Monk apprehensively.
“We may as well take them in order,” Monk answered. “The first is Harold.”
But they found nothing beyond the private possessions of a very ordinary young man in service in a large house: one suit of clothes for the rare times off duty, letters from his family, several from his mother, a few mementoes of childhood, a picture of a pleasant-faced woman of middle years with the same fair hair and mild features as himself, presumably his mother, and a feminine handkerchief of inexpensive cambric, carefully pressed and placed in his Bible—perhaps Dinah’s?
Percival’s room was as different from Harold’s as the one man was from the other. Here there were books, some poetry, some philosophy of social conditions and change, one or two novels. There were no letters, no sign of family or other ties. He had two suits of his own clothes in the cupboard for his times off duty, and some very smart boots, several neckties and handkerchiefs, and a surprising number of shirts and some extremely handsome cuff links and collar studs. He must have looked quite a dandy when he chose. Monk felt a stab of familiarity as he moved the personal belongings of this other young man who strove to dress and deport himself out of his station in life. Had he himself begun like this—living in someone else’s house, aping their manners trying to improve himself? It was also a matter of some curiosity as to where Percival got the money for such things—they cost a great deal more than a footman’s wages, even if carefully saved over several years.
“Sir!”
He jerked up and stared at Evan, who was standing white-faced, the whole drawer of the dresser on the floor at his feet, pulled out completely, and in his hand a long garment of ivory silk, stained brown in smears, and a thin, cruel blade poking through, patched and blotched with the rusty red of dried blood.
Monk stared at it, stunned. He had expected an exercise in futility, merely something to demonstrate that he was doing all he could—and now Evan held in his hand what was obviously the weapon, wrapped in a woman’s peignoir, and it had been concealed in Percival’s room. It was a conclusion so startling he found it hard to grasp.
“So much for Myles Kellard,” Evan said, swallowing