They were at the library. Phillips opened the door and announced them, then stepped back to allow them in.
The room was traditional, lined with shelves. One large bay window let in the light, and green carpet and furnishings made it restful, almost gave an impression of a garden.
But there was no time now to examine it. Basil Moidore stood in the center of the floor. He was a tall man, loose boned, unathletic, but not yet running to fat, and he held himself very erect. He could never have been handsome; his features were too mobile, his mouth too large, the lines around it deeply etched and reflecting appetite and temper more than wit. His eyes were startlingly dark, not fine, but very penetrating and highly intelligent. His thick, straight hair was thickly peppered with gray.
Now he was both angry and extremely distressed. His skin was pale and he clenched and unclenched his hands nervously.
“Good morning, sir.” Monk introduced himself and Evan. He hated speaking to the newly bereaved—and there was something peculiarly appalling about seeing one’s child dead—but he was used to it. No loss of memory wiped out the familiarity of pain, and seeing it naked in others.
“Good morning, Inspector,” Moidore said automatically. “I’m damned if I know what you can do, but I suppose you’d better try. Some ruffian broke in during the night and murdered my daughter. I don’t know what else we can tell you.”
“May we see the room where it happened, sir?” Monk asked quietly. “Has the doctor come yet?”
Sir Basil’s heavy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Yes—but I don’t know what damned good the man can do now.”
“He can establish the time and manner of death, sir.”
“She was stabbed some time during the night. It won’t require a doctor to tell you that.” Sir Basil drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze wandered around the room, unable to sustain any interest in Monk. The inspector and Evan were only functionaries incidental to the tragedy, and he was too shocked for his mind to concentrate on a single thought. Little things intruded, silly things; a picture crooked on the wall, the sun on the title of a book, the vase of late chrysanthemums on the small table. Monk saw it in his face and understood.
“One of the servants will show us.” Monk excused himself and Evan and turned to leave.
“Oh … yes. And anything else you need,” Basil acknowledged.
“I suppose you didn’t hear anything in the night, sir?” Evan asked from the doorway.
Sir Basil frowned. “What? No, of course not, or I’d have mentioned it.” And even before Evan turned away the man’s attention had left them and was on the leaves wind whipped against the window.
In the hall, Phillips the butler was waiting for them. He led them silently up the wide, curved staircase to the landing, carpeted in reds and blues and set with several tables around the walls. It stretched to right and left fifty feet or more to oriel windows at either end. They were led to the left and stopped outside the third door.
“In there, sir, is Miss Octavia’s room,” Phillips said very quietly. “Ring if you require anything.”
Monk opened the door and went in, Evan close behind him. The room had a high, ornately plastered ceiling with pendant chandeliers. The floral curtains were drawn to let in the light. There were three well-upholstered chairs, a dressing table with a three-mirror looking glass, and a large four-poster bed draped in the same pink-and-green floral print as the curtains. Across the bed lay the body of a young woman, wearing only an ivory silk nightgown, a dark crimson stain slashing down from the middle of her chest almost to her knees. Her arms were thrown wide and her heavy brown hair was loose over her shoulders.
Monk was surprised to see beside her a slender man of just average height whose clever face was now very grave and pinched in thought. The sun through the window cau
ght his fair hair, thickly curled and sprinkled with white.
“Police?” he asked, looking Monk up and down. “Dr. Faverell,” he said as introduction. “The duty constable called me when the footman called him—about eight o’clock.”
“Monk,” Monk replied. “And Sergeant Evan. What can you tell us?”
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 a fight.”