The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [271]
“What is it, Mr. Monk?” she said quietly, ignoring Evan, who waited silently by the door. “I believe you have found the knife—in one of the servants’ bedrooms. Is that so?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kellard.” He did not know how she would react to this visual and so tangible evidence of death. So far everything had been words, ideas—terrible, but all in the mind. This was real, her sister’s clothes, her sister’s blood. The iron resolution might break. He could not feel a warmth towards her, she was too distant, but he could feel both pity and admiration. “We also found a silk peignoir stained with blood. I am sorry to have to ask you to identify such a distressing thing, but we need to know if it belonged to your sister.” He had been holding it low, half behind him, and he knew she had not noticed it.
She seemed very tense, as if it were important rather than painful. He thought that perhaps it was her way of keeping her control.
“Indeed?” She swallowed. “You may show it to me, Mr. Monk. I am quite prepared and will do all I can.”
He brought the peignoir forward and held it up, concealing as much of the blood as he could. It was only spatters, as if it had been open when she was stabbed; the stains had come largely from being wrapped around the blade.
She was very pale, but she did not flinch from looking at it.
“Yes,” she said quietly and slowly. “That is Octavia’s. She was wearing it the night she was killed. I spoke to her on the landing just before she went in to say good-night to Mama. I remember it very clearly—the lace lilies. I always admired it.” She took a deep breath. “May I ask you where you found it?” Now she was as white as the silk in Monk’s hand.
“Behind a drawer in Percival’s bedroom,” he answered.
She stood quite still. “Oh. I see.”
He waited for her to continue, but she did not.
“I have not yet asked him for an explanation,” he went on, watching her face.
“Explanation?” She swallowed again, so painfully hard he could see the constriction in her throat. “How could he possibly explain such a thing?” She looked confused, but there was no observable anger in her, no rage or revenge. Not yet. “Is not the only answer that he hid it there after he had killed her, and had not found an opportunity to dispose of it?”
Monk wished he could help her, but he could not.
“Knowing something of Percival, Mrs. Kellard, would you expect him to hide it in his own room, such a damning thing; or in some place less likely to incriminate him?” he asked.
The shadow of a smile crossed her face. Even now she could see a bitter humor in the suggestion. “In the middle of the night, Inspector, I should expect him to put it in the one place where his presence would arouse no suspicion—his own room. Perhaps he intended to put it somewhere else later, but never found the opportunity.” She took a deep breath and her eyebrows arched high. “One requires to be quite certain of being unobserved for such an act, I should imagine?”
“Of course.” He could not disagree.
“Then it is surely time you questioned him? Have you sufficient force with you, should he prove violent, or shall I send for one of the grooms to assist you?”
How practical.
“Thank you,” he declined. “But I think Sergeant Evan and I can manage. Thank you for your assistance. I regret having to ask you such questions, or that you should need to see the peignoir.” He would have added something less formal, but she was not a woman to whom one offered anything as close or gentle as pity. Respect, and an understanding of courage, was all she would accept.
“It was necessary, Inspector,” she acknowledged with stiff grace.
“Ma’am.” He inclined his head, excusing himself, and with Evan a step behind him, went to the butler’s pantry to ask Phillips if he might see Percival.
“Of course,” Phillips said gravely. “May I ask, sir, if you have discovered something in your search? One of the upstairs maids said that you had, but they are young, and inclined to be