Part 1 (2/2)
Evan shut the door behind them and moved closer to the bed, his young face twisted with pity.
”She died some time during the night,” Faverell replied bleakly. ”From the stiffness of the body I should say at least seven hours ago.'' He took his watch out of his pocket and glanced at it. ”It's now ten past nine. That makes it well before, say, three a.m. at the very outside. One deep, rather ragged wound, very deep. Poor creature must have lost consciousness immediately and died within two or three minutes.”
”Are you the family physician?” Monk asked.
”No. I live 'round the corner in Harley Street. Local constable knew my address.”
Monk moved closer to the bed, and Faverell stepped aside for him. The inspector leaned over and looked at the body. Her face had a slightly surprised look, as if the reality of death had been unexpected, but even through the pallor there was a kind of loveliness left. The bones were broad across the brow and cheek, the eye sockets were large with delicately marked brows, the lips full. It was a face of deep emotion, and yet femininely soft, a woman he might have liked. There was something in the curve of her lips that reminded him for a moment of someone else, but he could not recall who.
His eyes moved down and saw under the torn fabric of her nightgown the scratches on her throat and shoulder with smears of blood on them. There was another long rent in the silk from hem to groin, although it was folded over, as if to preserve decency. He looked at her hands, lifting them gently, but her nails were perfect and there was no skin or blood under them. If she had fought, she had not marked her attacker.
He looked more carefully for bruises. There should be some purpling of the skin, even if she had died only a few moments after being hurt. He searched her arms first, the most natural place for injury in a struggle, but there was nothing. He could find no mark on the legs or body either.
”She's been moved,” he said after a few moments, seeing the pattern of the stains to the end of her garments, and only smears on the sheets beneath her where there should have been a deep pool. ”Did you move her?”
”No.” Faverell shook his head. ”I only opened the curtain.” He looked around the floor. There were dark roses on the carpet. ”There.” He pointed. ”That might be blood, and there's a tear on that chair. I suppose the poor woman put up aright.”
Monk looked around also. Several things on the dressing table were crooked, but it was hard to tell what would have been the natural design. However a cut gla.s.s dish was broken, and there were dried rose leaves scattered over the carpet underneath it. He had not noticed them before in the pattern of the flowers woven in.
Evan walked towards the window.
”It's unlatched,” he said, moving it experimentally.
”I closed it,'' the doctor put in. ”It was open when I came, and d.a.m.ned cold. Took it into account for the rigor, though, so don't bother to ask me. Maid said it was open when she came with Mrs. Haslett's morning tray, but she didn't sleep with it open normally. I asked that too.”
”Thank you,” Monk said dryly.
Evan pushed the window all the way up and looked outside.
”There's creeper of some sort here, sir; and it's broken in several places where it looks as if someone put his weight on it, some pieces crushed and leaves gone.” He leaned out a little farther. ”And there's a good ledge goes along as far as the drainpipe down. An agile man could climb it without too much difficulty.”
Monk went over and stood beside him. ”Wonder why not the next room?” he said aloud. ”That's closer to the drainpipe, easier, and less chance of being seen.”
”Maybe it's a man's room?” Evan suggested. ”No jewelry-or at least not much-a few silver-backed brushes, maybe, and studs, but nothing like a woman's.”
Monk was annoyed with himself for not having thought of the same thing. He pulled his head back in and turned to the doctor.
”Is there anything else you can tell us?”
”Not a thing, sorry.” He looked hara.s.sed and unhappy. ”I'll write it out for you, if you want. But now I've got live patients to see. Must be going. Good day to you.”
”Good day.” Monk came back to the landing door with him. ”Evan, go and see the maid that found her, and get her ladies' maid and go over the room to see if anything's missing, jewelry in particular. We can try the p.a.w.nbrokers and fences. I'm going to speak to some of the family who sleep on this floor.”
The next room turned out to be that of Cyprian Moidore, the dead woman's elder brother, and Monk saw him in the morning room. It was overfurnished, but agreeably warm; presumably the downstairs maids had cleaned the grate, sanded and swept the carpets and lit the fires long before quarter to eight, when the upstairs maids had gone to waken the family.
Cyprian Moidore resembled his father in build and stance. His features were similar-the short, powerful nose, the broad mouth with the extraordinary mobility which might so easily become loose in a weaker man. His eyes were softer and his hair still dark.
Now he looked profoundly shaken.
”Good morning, sir,” Monk said as he came into the room and closed the door.
Cyprian did not reply.
”May I ask you, sir, is it correct that you occupy the bedroom next to Mrs. Haslett's?”
”Yes.” Cyprian met his eyes squarely; there was no belligerence in them, only shock.
”What time did you retire, Mr. Moidore?”
Cyprian frowned. ”About eleven, or a few minutes after. I didn't hear anything, if that is what you are going to ask.”
”And were you in your room all night, sir?'' Monk tried to phrase it without being offensive, but it was impossible.
Cyprian smiled very faintly.
”I was last night. My wife's room is next to mine, the first as you leave the stair head.'' He put his hands into his pockets. ”My son has the room opposite, and my daughters the one next to that. But I thought we had established that whoever it was broke into Octavia's room through the window.”
”It looks most likely, sir,” Monk agreed. ”But it may not be the only room they tried. And of course it is possible they came in elsewhere and went out through her window. We know only that the creeper was broken. Was Mrs. Haslett a light sleeper?”
”No-” At first he was absolutely certain, then doubt flickered in his face. He took his hands out of his pockets. ”At least I think not. But what difference does it make now? Isn't this really rather a waste of time?” He moved a step closer to the fire. ”It is indisputable someone broke in and she discovered him, and instead of simply running, the wretch stabbed her.” His face darkened. ”You should be out there looking for him, not in here asking irrelevant questions! Perhaps she was awake anyway. People do sometimes waken in the night.''
Monk bit back the reply that rose instinctively.
”I was hoping to establish the time,” he continued levelly. ”It would help when we come to question the closest constable on the beat, and any other people who might have been around at that hour. And of course it would help when we catch anyone, if he could prove he was elsewhere.”
”If he was elsewhere, then you wouldn't have the right person, would you!” Cyprian said acidly.
”If we didn't know the relevant time, sir, we might think we had!” Monk replied immediately. ”I'm sure you don't want the wrong man hanged!”
Cyprian did not bother to answer.
The three women of the immediate family were waiting together in the withdrawing room, all close to the fire: Lady Moidore stiff-backed, white-faced on the sofa; her surviving daughter, Araminta, in one of the large chairs to her right, hollow-eyed as if she had not slept in days; and her daughter-in-law, Romola, standing behind her, her face reflecting horror and confusion.
”Good morning, ma'am.” Monk inclined his head to Lady Moidore, then acknowledged the others.
None of them replied. Perhaps they did not consider it necessary to observe such niceties in the circ.u.mstances.
”I am deeply sorry to have to disturb you at such a tragic time,” he said with difficulty. He hated having to express condolences to someone whose grief was so new and devastating. He was a stranger intruding into their home, and all he could offer were words, stilted and predictable. But to have said nothing would be grossly uncaring.
”I offer you my deepest sympathy, ma'am.”
<script>