Chapter 8

Monk’s sense of elation was short-lived. When he returned to Queen Anne Street the next day he was greeted in the kitchen by Mrs. Boden, looking grim and anxious, her fece very pink and her hair poking in wild angles out of her white cap.

"Good morning, Mr. Monk. I am glad you've come!"

"What is it, Mrs. Boden?" His heart sank, although he could think of nothing specific he feared. "What has happened?"

"One of my big kitchen carving knives is missing, Mr. Monk." She wiped her hands on her apron. "I could have sworn I had it last time we had a roast o' beef, but Sal says she thinks as it was the other one I used, the old one, an' now I reckon she must be right." She poked her hair back under her cap and wiped her fece agitatedly. "No one else can remember, and May gets sick at the thought. I admit it fair turns my stomach when I think it could've been the one that stabbed poor Miss Octavia."

Monk was cautious. "When did this thought come to you, Mrs. Boden?" he asked guardedly.

"Yesterday, in the evening." She sniffed. "Miss Araminta sent down for a little thin-cut beef for Sir Basil. He'd come in late and wanted a bite to eat." Her voice was rising and there was a note of hysteria in it. "I went to get my best knife, an' it weren't there. That's when I started to look for it, thinking as it had been misplaced. And it in't here-not anywhere."

"And you haven't seen it since Mrs. Haslett's death?"

“I don't know, Mr. Monk!'' Her hands jerked up in the air. "I thought I 'ad, but Sal and May tell me as they 'aven't, and when I last cut beef I did it with the old one. I was so upset I can't recall what I did, and that's the truth."

"Then I suppose we'd better see if we can find it," Monk agreed. "I'll get Sergeant Evan to organize a search. Who else knows about this?"

Her face was blank; she understood no implication.

"Who else, Mrs. Boden?" he repeated calmly.

"Well I don't know, Mr. Monk. I don't know who I might have asked. I looked for it, naturally, and asked everyone if they'd seen it."

"Who do you mean by 'everyone,' Mrs. Boden? Who else apart from the kitchen staff?"

“Well-I 'm sure I can't think.'' She was beginning to panic because she could see the urgency in him and she did not understand. "Dinah. I asked Dinah because sometimes things get moved through to the pantry. And I may have mentioned it to 'Arold. Why? They don't know where it is, or they'd 'ave said."

"Someone wouldn't have," he pointed out.

It was several seconds before she grasped what he meant, then her hand flew to her mouth and she let out a stifled shriek.

"I had better inform Sir Basil." That was a euphemism for asking Sir Basil's permission for the search. Without a warrant he could not proceed, and it would probably cost him his job if he were to try against Sir Basil's wishes. He left Mrs. Boden in the kitchen sitting in the chair and May running for smelling salts-and almost certainly a strong nip of brandy.

He was surprised to find himself shown to the library and left barely five minutes before Basil came in looking tense, his face creased, his eyes very dark.

"What is it, Monk? Have you learned anything at last? My God, it is past time you did!"

"The cook reports one of her kitchen carving knives missing, sir. I would like your permission to search the house for it."

"Well of course search for it!" Basil said. "Do you expect me to look for it for you?''

"It was necessary to have your pennission, Sir Basil,"

Monk said between his teeth. "I cannot go through your belongings without a warrant, unless you permit me to."

"My belongings." He was startled, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Is not everything in the house yours, sir, apart from what is Mr. Cyprian's, or Mr. Kellard's-and perhaps Mr. Thirsk's?"

Basil smiled bleakly, merely a slight movement of the corner of the lips. "Mrs. Sandeman's personal belongings are her own, but otherwise, yes, they are mine. Of course you have my permission to search anywhere you please. You will need assistance, no doubt. You may send one of my grooms in the small carriage to fetch whomever you wish-your sergeant…" He shrugged, but his shoulders under the black barathea of his coat were tense. "Constables?"

"Thankyou," Monk acknowledged. "That is most considerate. I shall do that immediately."

"Perhaps you should wait for them at the head of the male servants' staircase?" Basil raised his voice a little. "If whoever has the knife gets word of this they may be tempted to move it before you can begin your task. From there you can see the far end of the passage where the female servants' staircase emerges." He was explaining himself more than usual. It was the first real crack in his composure that Monk had seen. "That is the best position I can offer. I imagine there is little point in having any one of the servants stand guard-they must all be suspect." He watched Monk's face.

"Thank you," Monk said again. "That is most perceptive of you. May I also have one of the upstairs maids stay on the main landing? They would observe anyone coming or going on other than an ordinary duty-which they would be used to. Perhaps the laundrymaids and other domestic staff could remain downstairs until this is over-and the footmen of course?"

"By all means." Basil was regaining his command. "And the valet as well."

"Thank you, sir. That is most helpful of you."

Basil's eyebrows rose. "What on earth did you expect me to do, man? It was my daughter who was murdered." His control was complete again.

There was nothing Monk could reply to that, except to express a brief sympathy again and take his leave to go downstairs, write a note to Evan at the police station, and dispatch the groom to fetch him and another constable.

The search, begun forty-five minutes later, started with the rooms of the maids at the far end of the attic, small, cold garrets looking over the gray slates towards their own mews, and the roofs of Harley Mews beyond. They each contained an iron bedstead with mattress, pillow and covers, a wooden hard-backed chair, and a plain wood dresser with a glass on the wall above. No maid would be permitted to present herself for work untidy or in an ill-kept uniform. There was also a cupboard for clothes and a ewer and basin for washing. The rooms were distinguished one from another only by the patterns of the knotted rag rugs on the floor and by the few pictures that belonged to each inhabitant, a sketch of family, in one case a silhouette, a religious text or reproduction of a famous painting.

Neither Monk nor Evan found a knife. The constable, under detailed instructions, was searching the outside property, simply because it was the only other area to which the servants had access without leaving the premises, and thus their duty.

“Of course if it was a member of the family they Ve all been over half London by now," Evan observed with a crooked smile. "It could be at the bottom of the river, or in any of a million gutters or rubbish bins."

"I know that." Monk did not stop his work. "And Myles Kellard looks by far the most likely, at the moment. Or Ara-minta, if she knew. But can you think of a better thing to be doing?"

"No," Evan admitted glumly. "IVe 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