Anne Perry - The Twisted Root

"Did he move her?" Monk asked. It would have been a natural enough thing to do.

"He says he half picked her up." Robb’s voice tightened as if his throat was too stiff to let him speak properly. "Sort of cradled her in his arms. I suppose for a moment he half hoped she wasn’t dead." He swallowed. "But it’s a pretty terrible wound. Looks like one very hard blow. The croquet mallet’s still there, lying on the floor beside her. At least, that’s what they told me it was. I’ve never seen one before."

Monk tried not to visualize it, and failed. His mind created the crumpled figure and the broken bone and the blood.

"He says he laid her back where she was," Robb added miserably.

"What was she wearing?" Monk asked.

"Er…"

"A nightgown or a dress?" Monk pressed.

Robb colored faintly. "A long, whitish sort of robe. I think it could be a nightgown." He was transparently uncomfortable discussing such things. They belonged in the realms where he felt a trespasser.

"Where was she lying, exactly?" Monk asked. "What do you think she was doing when she was struck? Was it from behind or in front?"

Robb thought for a moment. "She was lying half on her side about six feet away from the bed. Looked as if she had been talking to someone and turned away from them, and they struck her from behind. At least that’s what I would guess. It fits."

"She had her back to them? You’re sure?"

"If the major didn’t move her too much, yes. The wound is at the back on one side a bit. Couldn’t hit someone like that from the front." His eyes widened a little. "So considering it was in her bedroom, she would hardly turn her back on anyone she was frightened of." His lips pulled tight. "Not that I ever held out hope it was a burglar. There’s no sign of anyone forcing their way in. Nothing broken. Too early for burglars anyway. Nobody breaks into a house when half the household is still up and about. It was one of them, wasn’t it?" That was less than half a question.

"Looks as if the local police worked that out," Monk said dryly. "Not surprised they wanted to be rid of this. Have you asked where everyone in the house was yet?"

"Only Major Stourbridge. He seems to have a good command of himself, but he’s as white as a ghost and looks pretty poorly to me. He said he was in bed. He’d dismissed his man for the night and was about to put out the light when he remembered this cousin who’s coming. Seems Mrs. Stourbridge wasn’t very fond of him. He was wondering whether to write tomorrow morning and say it wasn’t convenient."

"What time was Mrs. Stourbridge last seen alive?"

"I don’t know. Her maid is being looked after by the housekeeper, and I haven’t spoken with her yet:’ He glanced around the spacious room where they were talking. Even in the dim light of one lamp there was a warmth to it. The glow reflected on silver frames and winked in the faceted crystal of a row of decanters. "I’m not used to this kind of people having to do with violence," he said miserably. "Questioning them. It’s more often a matter of burglary, and asking the servants about strangers being by, and not locking up properly."

"This kind of thing doesn’t happen very often in anybody’s house," Monk replied. "But it’s best to ask now, before they have time to forget-or talk to each other and think up any lies:’

"Only one of them’s going to lie …" Robb began.

Monk snorted. "People lie for all sorts of reasons, and about things they think have nothing to do with the case. You’d better see the maid, hysterics or not. You need to know what time Mrs. Stourbridge was left alone and alive, or if she was expecting anyone. What she said, how she seemed, anything the woman can tell you."

"Will you stay?"

"If you want."

The maid was sent for, and came, supported by the butler and looking as if she might buckle at the knees any moment. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she kept dabbing her face with a handkerchief, which was now little more than a twisted rag.

She had been guided to one of the armchairs, and the butler was permitted to remain. Robb began his questions. He was very gentle with her, as if he himself was embarrassed.

"Yes sir." She gulped. "Mrs. Stourbridge went to bed about ten o’clock, or a little after. I laid out ’er clothes for tomorrow. A green-an’-white dress for the morning. She was going to visit a picture gallery." Her eyes filled with tears.

"What time did you leave her?" Robb asked.

She sniffed fiercely and made an attempt to dab her cheeks with the wet handkerchief. "About quarter to eleven."

"Was she already in bed?" Monk interrupted.

She looked at him with surprise.

"I’m sure you’ll remember, if you think for a moment," he encouraged. "It’s rather important."

"Is it?"

"Yes. It matters whether she was expecting someone to call on her or not."

"Oh. Yes. I see. No, I don’t. She wouldn’t hardly expect a thief who’d break in an’ kill her!"

"No one broke in, Pearl."

"What are you saying?" She was aghast. Her hands tightened in her lap till the handkerchief tore.

Robb took charge of the situation again.

"We are saying it was someone already in the house who killed Mrs. Stourbridge."

"It … it never is!" She shook her head. "No one ’ere would do such a thing! We in’t murderers!" Now she was both frightened and affronted.

"Yes, it was," Robb insisted. "The local police and your own butler and footman have made a thorough search. No one broke in. Now, tell me all you know of everyone’s comings and goings from the time you left the dinner table until now."

She replied dutifully, but nothing she had to say either incriminated anyone or cleared them.

The maid assigned to Miriam was of no greater help. She had seen Miriam to her bed even earlier, and had no idea whether she had remained there or not. She had been excused and gone up to her own room in the attic. Mrs. Gardiner was extremely easy to work for, and she could not believe any ill of her, no matter what anyone said. People who couldn’t speak well shouldn’t speak at all.

Nor could any of the other servants swear to the movements of any of the family. However, the maids knew the time of each other’s retiring. The cook, whose room was nearest the stairs down, was a light sleeper, and the second stair creaked. She was certain no one had passed after she had gone up at a quarter to eleven.

At last Monk forced himself to go and look at the body. A local constable was on duty on the landing outside the door. He was tired and unhappy. He showed them in without looking past them.

Verona Stourbridge lay as if eased gently onto her back, halfway between the chest of drawers and the bed. It must have been where her husband had laid her when he realized he could do nothing more for her and at last let her go. The carpet was soaked dark with blood about a foot away from her head. It was easy to see where she had originally fallen.

Her hands were limp, and there was nothing in either of them. She was wearing a robe over her nightgown. It looked like silk, and when Monk bent to touch it he knew instantly that it was: soft, expensive and beautiful. He wondered if he would ever be able to buy Hester anything like that. This one would be thrown away after the case was closed. No one would ever want to wear it again.

He stood up and turned to Robb.

"Member of the family?" Robb said hoarsely.

"Yes," Monk agreed.

"Why?" Robb was bewildered. "Why would any of them kill her? Her husband, do you think? Or Lucius?" He took a deep breath. "Or Miriam Gardiner? But why would she?"

"We’ll look for the reason afterwards," Monk answered. "Let’s go and speak to Major Stourbridge."

Robb turned reluctantly and allowed Monk to lead the way.