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“All right girls, you’ve done a good job. Thank you,” Monk said to them with a tight smile. “You can go about your own duties now.”

“You’ve got something!” Annie stared at the silk in his hand, her face pale, and she looked frightened. Maggie stood very close to her, equal fear in her features.

There was no point in lying; they would find out soon enough.

“Yes,” he admitted. “We’ve got the knife. Now get about your duties, or you’ll have Mrs. Willis after you.”

Mrs. Willis’s name was enough to break the spell. They scuttled off to fetch carpet beaters and brushes, and he saw their long gray skirts whisk around the corner into the broom cupboard in a huddle together, whispering breathlessly.

Basil was waiting for the two police in his study, sitting at his desk. He admitted them immediately and looked up from the papers he had been writing on, his face angry, his brow dark.

“Yes?”

Monk closed the door behind him.

“We found a knife, sir; and a silk garment which I believe is a peignoir. Both are stained with blood.”

Basil let out his breath slowly, his face barely changed, just a shadow as if some final reality had come home.

“I see. And where did you find these things?”

“Behind a drawer in the dresser in Percival’s room,” Monk answered, watching him closely.

If Basil was surprised it did not show in his expression. His heavy face with its short, broad nose and mouth wreathed in lines remained careful and tired. Perhaps one could not expect it of him. His family had endured bereavement and suspicion for weeks. That it should finally be ended and the burden lifted from his immediate family must be an overwhelming relief. He could not be blamed if that were paramount. However repugnant the thought, he cannot have helped wondering if his son-in-law might be responsible, and Monk had already seen that he and Araminta had a deeper affection than many a father and child. She was the only one who had his inner strength, his command and determination, his dignity and almost total self-control. Although that might be an unfair judgment, since Monk had never seen Octavia alive; but she had apparently been flawed by the weakness of drink and the vulnerability of loving her husband too much to recover from his death—if indeed that were a flaw. Perhaps it was to Basil and Araminta, who had disapproved of Harry Haslett in the first place.

“I assume you are going to arrest him.” It was barely a question.

“Not yet,” Monk said slowly. “The fact that they were found in his room does not prove it was he who put them there.”

“What?” Basil’s face darkened with angry color and he leaned forward over the desk. Another man might have risen to his feet, but he did not stand to servants, or police, who were in his mind the same. “For God’s sake, man, what more do you want? The very knife that stabbed her, and her clothes found in his possession!”

“Found in his room, sir,” Monk corrected. “The door was not locked; anyone in the house could have put them there.”

“Don’t be absurd!” Basil said savagely. “Who in the devil’s name would put such things there?”

“Anyone wishing to implicate him—and thus remove suspicion from themselves,” Monk replied. “A natural act of self-preservation.”

“Who, for example?” Basil said with a sneer. “You have every evidence that it was Percival. He had the motive, heaven help us. Poor Octavia was weak in her choice of men. I was her father, but I can admit that. Percival is an arrogant and presumptuous creature. When she rebuffed him and threatened to have him thrown out, he panicked. He had gone too far.” His voice was shaking, and deeply as he disliked him, Monk had a moment’s pity for him. Octavia had been his daughter, whatever he had thought of her marriage, or tried to deny her; the thought of her violation must have wounded him inwardly more than he could show, especially in front of an inferior like Monk.

He mastered himself with difficulty and continued. “Or perhaps she took the knife with her,” he said quietly, “fearing he might come, and when he did, she tried to defend