Page 60 of A Dangerous Mourning (William Monk 2)

“Good morning,” he replied, and without preamble started to ask her about the days since he had last seen her, his manner more curt than he would have chosen, simply because she was so similar to her sister-in-law, Imogen, and yet so different, so lacking in mystery and feminine grace.

She was recounting her duties and all that she had seen or overheard.

“All of which tells me only that Percival is not particularly well liked,” he said tartly. “Or simply that everyone is afraid and he seems the most likely scapegoat.”

“Quite,” she agreed briskly. “Have you a better idea?”

Her very reasonableness caught him on a raw nerve. He was acutely aware of his failure to date, and that he had nowhere else to look but here.

“Yes!” he snapped back. “Take a better look at the family. Find out more about Fenella Sandeman, for one. Have you any idea where she goes to indulge her disreputable tastes, if they really are disreputable? She stands to lose a lot if Sir Basil throws her out. Octavia might have found out that afternoon. Maybe that was what she was referring to when she spoke to Septimus. And see if you can find out whether Myles Kellard really did have an affair with Octavia, or if it is just malicious gossip among servants with idle tongues and busy imaginations. It seems they don’t lack for either.”

“Don’t give me orders, Mr. Monk.” She looked at him frostily. “I am not your sergeant.”

“Constable, ma’am,” he corrected with a sour smile. “You have promoted

yourself unwarrantably. You are not my constable.”

She stiffened, her shoulders square, almost military, her face angry.

“Whatever the rank I do not hold, Mr. Monk, I think the main reason for suggesting that Percival may have killed Octavia is the belief that he either was having an affair with her or was attempting to.”

“And he killed her for that?” He raised his eyebrows in sarcastic inquiry.

“No,” she said patiently. “Because she grew tired of him, and they quarreled, I suppose. Or possibly the laundrymaid Rose did, in jealousy. She is in love with Percival—or perhaps love is not the right word—something rather cruder and more immediate, I think, would be more accurate. Although I don’t know how you can prove it.”

“Good. For a moment I was afraid you were about to instruct me.”

“I would not presume—not until I am at least a sergeant.” And with a swing of her skirt she turned and went out.

It was ridiculous. It was not the way he had intended the interview to go, but something about her so frequently annoyed him, an arbitrariness. A large part of his anger was because she was in some degree correct, and she knew it. He had no idea how to prove Percival’s guilt—if indeed he was guilty.

Evan was busy talking to the grooms, not that he had anything else specific to ask them. Monk spoke to Phillips, learning nothing, then sent for Percival.

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.