"I'm afraid I don't know, sir. Somewhere upstairs, I believe. Possibly in the schoolroom. There is an ornamental knife up there. At least there was. I haven't seen it since then. May I ask why you need to know, sir?"
"No reason in particular - just that it was a nasty thing to happen. Did anyone else visit Master Valentine regularly? Mr. Pole, for example?"
"No sir, never that I know of." The first question remained in the butler's face.
"Or Mr. Erskine?"
"No sir, not as far as I know of. What would that have to do with the general's death, Mr. Monk?"
"I'm not sure," Monk said candidly. "I think it's possible that someone may have . . . exerted certain . . . pressures on Master Valentine."
"Pressures, sir?"
"I don't want to say anything more until I know for certain. It could malign someone quite without foundation."
"I understand, sir." The butler nodded sagely.
"Did Master Valentine visit the Carlyon house, to your knowledge?"
"Not so far as I am aware, sir. I do not believe that either Mr. or Mrs. Furnival is acquainted with Colonel and Mrs. Carlyon, and their acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Erskine is not close."
"I see. Thank you." Monk was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. He did not want it to be Peverell Erskine. But he needed to find out who it was, and time was getting desperately short. Perhaps it was Maxim after all - the most obvious, when one thought about it. He was here all the time. Another father abusing his son. He found his stomach clenching and his teeth ached with the tightness of his jaw. It was the first time he had felt even the briefest moment of pity for Louisa.
"Is there anything else, sir?" the butler said helpfully.
"I don't think so." What was there to ask that could be addressed to this man and yield an answer leading to the identity of whoever had so used Valentine? But however slender the chance of hearing any admission of a secret so desperately painful, and he loathed the idea of forcing the boy or tricking him, still he must at least attempt to learn something. "Have you any idea what made your bootboy behave so badly the night the general was killed?" he asked, watching the man's face. "He looked like a smart and responsible sort of lad, not given to indiscipline."
"No sir, I don't, and that's a fact." Diggins shook his head. Monk could see no evasion or embarrassment in him. "He's been a very good boy, has young Robert," he went on. "Always on time, diligent, respectful, quick to learn. Nothing to explain except that one episode. You had it right there, sir, he's a fine lad. Used to be in the army, you know - a drummer boy. Got wounded somewhere out in India. Honorable discharge from the service. Come 'ere very highly recommended. Can't think what got into him. Not like him at all. Training to be a footman, 'e is, and very likely make a good one. Although 'e's been a bit odd since that night. But then so 'ave we all - can't 'old that against 'im."
"You don't think he saw something to do with the murder, do you?" Monk asked as casually as he could.
Diggins shook his head. "I can't think what that might be, sir, that he wouldn't have repeated it, like it would be his duty to. Anyway, it was long before the murder. It was early in the evening, before they even went in to dinner. Nothing untoward had happened then."
"Was it before Mrs. Erskine went upstairs?"
"Now that I wouldn't know, sir. I only know young Robert came out of the kitchen and was on his way up the back stairs on an errand for Mrs. Braithwaite, she's the housekeeper, when he crossed the passage and near bumped into General Carlyon, and stood there like a creature paralyzed and let all the linens he'd fetched fall in a heap on the floor, and turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen like the devil was after him. All the linens had to be sorted out and some o' them ironed again. The laundress wasn't best pleased, I can tell you." He shrugged. "And he wouldn't say a word to anyone, just went white and very quiet. Perhaps he was took ill, or something. Young people can be veiy odd."