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?"
Chapter Nine
"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 hi 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.
Harry Stourbridge met them in the library. He was fully dressed in a dark suit. His fair hair was poking up in tufts, and his eyes were sunken into the bones of his head as if the flesh no longer had life or firmness. He did not speak, but looked from Robb to Monk and then back again.
"Please sit down, Major Stourbridge," Robb said awkwardly. He did not know whether the man was a bereaved husband with whom he should sympathize, or a suspect