"Rose," Hester spoke again, urgently, to draw Rose's attention away from the apron of Dinah's she was smoothing with the flatiron. "It is about Miss Octavia-"
"What about her?" Rose was uninterested, and her hand moved back and forth with the iron, her eyes bent on her work.
"You cared for her clothes, didn't you? Or was it Lizzie?"
“No.'' Still Rose did not look at her. ' "Lizzie usually cared for Lady Moidore's and Miss Araminta's, and sometimes Mrs. Cyprian's. I did Miss Octavia's, and the gentlemen's linens, and we split the maids' aprons and caps as the need came. Why? What does it matter now?"
"When was the last time you laundered Miss Octavia's peignoir with the lace lilies on it-before she was killed?"
Rose put down the iron at last and turned to Hester with a frown. She considered for several minutes before she answered.
"I ironed it the morning before, and took it up about noon. She wore it that night, I expect-" She took a deep breath. "And I heard she did the night after, and was killed in it."
"Was it torn?"
Rose's lace tightened. "Of course not. Do you think I don't know my job?"
“If she had torn it the first night, would she have given it to you to mend?"
"More probably Mary, but then Mary might have brought it to me-she's competent, and pretty good at altering tailored things and dinner gowns, but those lilies are very fine work. Why? What does it matter now?" Her face screwed up. "Anyway, Mary must have mended it, because I didn't-and it wasn't torn when the police gave it to me to identify; the lilies and all the lace were perfect.''
Hester felt a sick excitement.
"Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure-to swear someone's life on?"
Rose looked as if she had been struck; the last vestige of blood left her face.
"Who is there to swear for? Percival's already dead! You know that! What's wrong with you? Why do you care now about a piece of lace?''
"Are you?" Hester insisted. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"Yes I am." Rose was angry because she did not understand Hester's insistence and it frightened her. "It wasn't torn when the police showed it to me with the blood on it. That part of it wasn't stained, and it was perfectly all right."
"You couldn't be mistaken? Is there more than one piece of lace on it?"
“Not like that.'' She shook her head.”Look, Miss Latterly, whatever you may think of me, and it shows in your hoity-toity manners-I know my job and I know a shoulder from a hem of a peignoir. The lace was not torn when I sent it up from the laundry, and it was not torn when I identified it for the police-for any good that does anyone."
“It does a lot,'' Hester said quietly. "Now would you swear to it?"
"Why?"
"Would you?" Hester could have shaken her in sheer frustration.
"Swear to who?" Rose persisted. "What does it matter now?'' Her face worked as if some tremendous emotion shook her. "You mean-" She could hardly find the words. "You mean-it wasn't Percival who killed her?"
"No-I don't think so."
Rose was very white, her skin pinched. "God! Then who?"
"I don't know-and if you've any sense at all, and any desire to keep your life, let alone your job, you'll say nothing to anyone."
“But how do you know?'' Rose persisted.
"You are better not understanding-believe me!"
“What are you going to do?'' Her voice was very quiet, but there was anxiety in it, and fear.
"Prove it-if I can."
At that moment Lizzie came over, her lips tight with irritation.
"If you need something laundered, Miss Latterly, please ask me and I will see it is done, but don't stand here gossiping with Rose-she has work to do."
"I'm sorry," Hester apologized, forcing a sweet smile, and fled.
She was back in the main house and halfway up the stairs to Beatrice's room before her thoughts cleared. If the peignoir was whole when Rose sent it up, and whole when it was found in Percival's room, but torn when Octavia went to say goodnight to her mother, then she must have torn it some time during that day, and no one but Beatrice had noticed. She had not been wearing it when she died; it had been in Beatrice's
room. Some time between Octavia leaving it there and its being discovered, someone had taken it, and a knife from the kitchen, covered the knife in blood and wrapped the peignoir around it, then hidden them in Percival's room.
But who?
When had Beatrice mended it? Surely that night? Why would she bother after she knew Octavia was dead?
Then where had it been? Presumably lying in the workbas-ket in Beatrice's room. No one would care about it greatly after that. Or was it returned to Octavia's room? Yes, surely returned, since otherwise whoever had taken it would realize their mistake and know Octavia had not been wearing it when she went to bed.
She was on the top stair on the landing now. It had stopped raining and the sharp, pale winter sun shone in through the windows, making patterns on the carpet. She had passed no one else. The maids were all busy about their duties, the ladies' maids attending to wardrobe, the housekeeper in her linen room, the upstairs maids making beds, turning mattresses and dusting everything, the tweeny somewhere in the passageway. Dinah and the footmen were somewhere in the front of the house, the family about their morning pleasures, Romola in the schoolroom with the children, Araminta writing letters in the boudoir, the men out, Beatrice still in her bedroom.
Beatrice was the only one who knew about the torn lily, so she would not make the mistake of staining that peignoir-not that Hester had ever suspected her in the first place, or certainly not alone. She might have done it with Sir Basil, but then she was also frightened that someone had murdered Octavia, and she did not know who. Indeed she feared it might have been Myles. Hester considered for only an instant that Beatrice might have been a superb actress, then she abandoned it. To begin with, why should she? She had no idea Hester would repeat anything she said, let alone everything.
Who knew which peignoir Octavia wore that evening? She had left the withdrawing room fully dressed in a dinner gown, as did all the women. Whom had she seen after changing for the night but before retiring?
Only Araminta-and her mother.
Proud, difficult, cold Araminta. It was she who had hidden
her sister's suicide, and when it was inevitable that someone should be blamed for murder, contrived that it should be Per-cival.
But she could not have done it alone. She was thin, almost gaunt. She could never have carried Octavia's body upstairs. Who had helped her? Myles? Cyprian? Or Basil?
And how to prove it?
The only proof was Beatrice's word about the torn lace lilies. But would she swear to that when she knew what it meant?
Hester needed an ally in the house. She knew Monk was outside; she had seen his dark figure every time she had passed the window, but he could not help in this.
Septimus. He was the one person she was sure was not involved, and who might have the courage to fight. And it would take courage. Percival was dead and to everyone else the matter was closed. It would be so much easier to let it all lie.
She changed her direction and instead of going to Beatrice's room went on along the passage to Septimus's.
He was propped up on the bed reading with the book held far in front of him for his longsighted eyes. He looked up with surprise when she came in. He was so much better her attentions were more in the nature of friendship than any medical need. He saw instantly that there was something gravely concerning her.
“What has happened?'' he asked anxiously. He set the book down without marking the page.
There was nothing to be served by prevarication. She closed the door and came over and sat on the bed.
"I have made a discovery about Octavia's death-in fact two."
"And they are very grave," he said earnestly. "I see that they trouble you. What are they?"