The following day Lovat-Smith called further witnesses as to the unblemished character of the general, his fine nature and heroic military record. Once again Hester went to court to watch and listen on Major Tiplady's behalf, and Monk went first to the house of Callandra Daviot, where he learned from her, to his chagrin, that she had been unable to find anything beyond the merest whisper to indicate that General Carlyon had ever formed any relationships that were anything but the most proper and correct. However, she did have extensive lists of names of all youths who had served with his regiment, both in England and in India, and she produced it with an apology.

“Don't worry,” he said with sudden gentleness. “This may be all we need.”

She looked at him with something close to a squint, disbelief plain in her face.

He scanned down the list rapidly to see if the name of the Furnivals' bootboy was there. It was on the second page, Robert Andrews, honorable discharge, owing to wounds received in action. He looked up, smiling at her.

“Well?” she demanded.

“Maybe,” he answered. “I'm going to find out.”

“Monk!”

“Yes.” He looked at her with a sudden awareness of how much she had done for him. “I think this may be the Furnivals' bootboy,” he explained with a lift of hope in his voice. “The one who dropped all the laundry when he came face-to-face with the general on the night of the murder. I 'm going to the Furnivals' house now to find out. Thank you.”

“Ah,” she said with a touch of satisfaction creeping into her expression at last. “Ah-well… good.”

He thanked her again and bade her good-bye with a graceful kiss to the air, then hurried out to find a hansom to take him back to the Furnivals' house.

He reached it at a quarter to ten, in time to see Maxim leave, presumably to go into the City. He waited almost an hour and a half, and was rewarded by seeing Louisa, glamorous and quite unmistakable in a richly flowered bonnet and skirts so wide it took very great skill for her to negotiate the carriage doors.

As soon as she was well out of sight, Monk went to the back door and knocked. It was opened by the bootboy, looking expectant. His expression changed utterly when he saw Monk; apparently he had been anticipating someone else.

“Yes?” he said with a not unfriendly frown. He was a smart lad and stood very straight, but there was a watchfulness in his eyes, a knowledge of hurt.

“I was here before, speaking to Mrs. Furnival,” Monk began carefully, but already he felt a kind of excitement. “And she was kind enough to help me in enquiring into the tragedy of General Carlyon's death.”

The boy's expression darkened, an almost imperceptible tightening of the skin around his eyes and mouth, a narrowing of the lips.

“If you want Mrs. Furnival, you should 'ave gone to the front door,” he said warily.

“I don't, this time.” Monk smiled at him. “There are just a few details about other people who have called at the house in the past, and perhaps Master Valentine could help me. But I need to speak with one of your footmen, perhaps John.”

“Well you'd better come in,” the bootboy said cautiously. “An' I'll ask Mr. Diggins, 'e's the butler. I can't let you do thatmeself.”

“Of course not.” Monk followed him in graciously.

“Wot's your name, then?” the boy asked.

“Monk-William Monk. What is yours?”

“Who, me?” The boy was startled.

“Yes-what is your name?” Monk made it casual.

“Robert Andrews, sir. You wait 'ere, an' I'll see Mr. Diggins for yer.” And the boy straightened his shoulders again and walked out very uprightly, as if he were a soldier on parade. Monk was left in the scullery, pulse racing, thoughts teeming in his mind, longing to question the boy and knowing how infinitely delicate it was, and that a word or a look that was clumsy might make him keep silence forever.

“What is it this time, Mr. Monk?” the butler asked when he returned a few minutes later. “I'm sure we've all told you all we know about that night. Now we'd just like to forget it and get on with our work. I'll not 'ave you upsetting all our maids again!”

“I don't need to see the maids,” Monk said placatingly. “Just a footman would be quite sufficient, and possibly the bootboy. It is only about who called here frequently.”

“Robert said something about Master Valentine.” The butler looked at Monk closely. “I can't let you see him, not without the master's or the mistress's permission, and they're both out at the present.”

“I understand.” Monk chose not to fight when he knew he could not win. That would have to wait for another time. “I daresay you know everything that goes on in the house anyway. If you can spare the time?”

The butler considered for a moment. He was not immune to flattery, if it were disguised well enough, and he certainly liked what was his due.

“What is it you wish to know, in particular, Mr. Monk?” He turned and led the way towards his own sitting room, where they could be private, in case the matter should be in any way delicate. And regardless of that, it created the right impression in front of the other staff. It did not do to stand around discussing presumably private business in full view of everyone.

“How often did General Carlyon come here to visit, either Mrs. Furnival or Master Valentine?”

“Well, Mr. Monk, he used to come more often in the past, before he had his accident, sir. After that he came a lot less.”

“Accident?”

“Yes sir-when he injured his leg, sir.”

' “That would be when he was hurt with the knife. Cleaning the knife, and it slipped and gashed him in the thigh,” Monk said as levelly as he could.

“Yes sir.”

“Where did that happen? In what room?”

“I'm afraid I don't know, sir. Somewhere upstairs, I believe. Possibly in the schoolroom. There is an ornamental knife up there. At least there was. I haven't seen it since then. May I ask why you need to know, sir?”

“No reason in particular-just that it was a nasty thing to happen. Did anyone else visit Master Valentine regularly? Mr. Pole, for example?”

“No sir, never that I know of.” The first question remained in the butler's face.

“Or Mr. Erskine?”

“No sir, not as far as I know of. What would that have to do with the general's death, Mr. Monk?”

“I'm not sure,” Monk said candidly. “I think it's possible that someone may have… exerted certain… pressures on Master Valentine.”

“Pressures, sir?”

“I don't want to say anything more until I know for certain. It could malign someone quite without foundation.”

“I understand, sir.” The butler nodded sagely.

“Did Master Valentine visit the Carlyon house, to your knowledge?”

“Not so far as I am aware, sir. I do not believe that either Mr. or Mrs. Furnival is acquainted with Colonel and Mrs. Carlyon, and their acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Erskine is not close.”

“I see. Thank you.” Monk was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. He did not want it to be Peverell Erskine. But he needed to find out who it was, and time was getting desperately short. Perhaps it was Maxim after all- the most obvious, when one thought about it. He was here all the time. Another father abusing his son. He found his stomach clenching and his teeth ached with the tightness of his jaw. It was the first time he had felt even the briefest moment of pity for Louisa.

“Is there anything else, sir?” the butler said helpfully.

“I don't think so.” What was there to ask that could be addressed to this man and yield an answer leading to the identity of whoever had so used Valentine? But however slender the chance of hearing any admission of a secret so desperately painful, and he loathed the idea of forcing the boy or tricking him, still he must at least attempt to learn something. “Have you any idea what made your bootboy behave so badly the night the general was killed?” he asked, watching the man's face. “He looked like a smart and responsible sort of lad, not given to indiscipline.”