Do you want me to keep on looking for the jewelry?" Evan asked, his face puckered with doubt. Obviously he believed there was no purpose to it at all.

Monk agreed with him. In all probability it had been thrown away, or even destroyed. Whatever the motive had been for the death of Octavia Haslett, he was sure it was not robbery, not even a greedy servant sneaking into her room to steal. It would be too stupid to do it at the one time he, or she, could be absolutely sure Octavia would be there, when there was all day to do such a thing undisturbed.

"No," he said decisively. "Much better use your time questioning the servants." He smiled, baring his teeth, and Evan made a grimace back again. He had already been twice to the Moidore house, each time asking the same things and receiving much the same brief, nervous answers. He could not deduce guilt from their fear. Nearly all servants were afraid of the police; the sheer embarrassment of it was enough to shadow their reputations, let alone suspicion of having any knowledge of a murder. "Someone in that house killed her," he added.

Evan raised his eyebrows. "One of the servants?" He kept most of the surprise out of his voice, but there was still a lift of doubt there, and the innocence of his gaze only added to it.

"A fer more comfortable thought," Monk replied. "We shall certainly find more favor with the powers in the land if we can arrest someone below stairs. But I think that is a gift we cannot reasonably look for. No, I was hoping that by talking with the servants enough we might learn something about the family. Servants notice a great deal, and although they're trained not to repeat any of it, they might unintentionally, if their own lives are in jeopardy.'' They were standing in Monk's office, smaller and darker than Runcom's, even in this bright, sharp, late autumn morning. The plain wooden table was piled with papers, the old carpet worn in a track from door to chair. "You've seen most of them," he went on. "Any impressions so for?"

"Usual sort of complement," Evan said slowly. "Maids are mostly young-on the surface they look flighty, given to giggles and triviality." The sunlight came through the dusty window and picked out the fine lines on his face, throwing his expression into sharp relief. "And yet they earn their livings in a rigid world, full of obedience and among people who care little for them personally. They know a kind of reality that is harsher than mine. Some of the girls are only children." He looked up at Monk.''In another year or two I'll be old enough to be their father." The thought seemed to startle him, and he frowned. "The between-stairs maid is only twelve. I haven't discovered yet if they know anything of use, but I can't believe it was one of them.''

"Maids?" Monk tried to clarify.

"Yes-older ones I suppose are possible." Evan looked dubious. "Can't think why they would, though."

"Men?"

"Cant imagine the butler." Evan smiled with a little twist. "He's a dry old stick, very formal, very military. If a person ever stirred passion of any sort in him I think it was so long ago even the memory of it has gone now. And why on earth would an excruciatingly respectable butler stab his mistress's daughter in her bedroom? What could he possibly be doing there in the middle of the night anyway?"

Monk smiled in spite of himself. "You don't read enough of the more lurid press, Evan. Listen to the running patterers sometime."

"Rubbish," Evan said heartily. "Not Phillips."

"Footmen-grooms-bootboy? " Monk pressed. "And what about the older women?"

Evan was half leaning, half sitting on the windowsill.

"Grooms are in the stables and the back door is locked at

night," Evan replied. "Bootboy possibly, but he's only fourteen. Can't think of a motive for him. Older women-I suppose it is imaginable, some jealous or slight perhaps, but it would have to be a very violent one to provoke murder. None of them looks raving mad, or has ever shown the remotest inclination to violence. And they'd have to be mad to do such a thing. Anyway, passions in servants are far more often against each other. They are used to being spoken to in all manner of ways by the family.'' He looked at Monk with gravity beneath the wry amusement. "It's each other they take exception to. There's a rigid hierarchy, and there's been blood spilled before now over what job is whose."

He saw Monk's expression.

"Oh-not murder. Just a few hard bruises and the occasional broken head," he explained. "But I think downstairs emotions concern others downstairs."

"What about if Mrs. Haslett knew something about them, some past sin of thieving or immorality?" Monk suggested. "That would lose them a very comfortable position. Without references they'd not get another-and a servant who can't get a place has nowhere to go but the sweatshops or the street."

"Could be," Evan agreed. "Or the footmen. There are two-Harold and Percival. Both seem fairly ordinary so far. I should say Percival is the more intelligent, and perhaps ambitious."

"What does a footman aspire to be?" Monk said a little waspishly.

"A butler, I imagine," Evan replied with a feint smile. "Don't look like that, sir. Butler is a comfortable, responsible and very respected position. Butlers consider themselves socially far superior to the police. They live in fine houses, eat the best, and drink it. I've seen butlers who drink better claret than their masters-"

"Do their masters know that?"

"Some masters don't have the palate to know claret from cooking wine." Evan shrugged. "All the same, it's a little kingdom that many men would find most attractive."

Monk raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "And how would knifing the master's daughter get him any closer to this enjoyable position?"

"It wouldn't-unless she knew something about him that would get him dismissed without a reference."

That was plausible, and Monk knew it.

“Then you had better go back and see what you can learn,'' he directed. "I'm going to speak to the family again, which I still think, unfortunately, is far more likely. I want to see them alone, away from Sir Basil.'' His face tightened. “He orchestrated the last time as if I had hardly been there."

"Master in his house." Evan hitched himself off the win-dowsill. "You can hardly be surprised."

"That is why I intend to see them away from Queen Anne Street, if I can," Monk replied tersely. "I daresay it will take me all week."

Evan rolled his eyes upward briefly, and without speaking again went out; Monk heard his footsteps down the stairs.

It did take Monk most of the week. He began straightaway with great success, almost immediately finding Romola Moi-dore walking in a leisurely fashion in Green Park. She started along the grass parallel with Constitution Row, gazing at the trees beyond by Buckingham Palace. The footman Percival had informed Monk she would be there, having ridden in the carriage with Mr. Cyprian, who was taking luncheon at his club in nearby Piccadilly.

She was expecting to meet a Mrs. Ketteridge, but Monk caught up with her while she was still alone. She was dressed entirely in black, as befitted a woman whose family was in mourning, but she still looked extremely smart. Her wide skirts were tiered and trimmed with velvet, the pergola sleeves of her dress were lined with black silk, her bonnet was small and worn low on the back of the head, and her hair was in the very fashionable style turned under at the ears into a lowset knot.

She was startled to see him, and not at all pleased. However there was nowhere for her to go to avoid him without being obvious, and perhaps she bore in mind her father-in-law's strictures that they were all to be helpful. He had not said so in so many words in Monk's hearing, but his implication was obvious.