“Were his wallet and keys on his bedside table?”
Grimal nodded.
“How much was in the wallet?”
“A couple of hundred. None of the credit cards were missing.”
I sat back and thought. So whoever did this got access to a very well-protected mansion, got into Sir Edmund’s room, and killed him in his bathroom in the wee hours of the morning. Grimal started showing me crime scene photos. The mansion was a big one, elegantly furnished. The walls were of brick with oak flooring. The servants’ quarters were on the floor above the master bedroom. With the two servants fast asleep at that hour, it was quite possible that they would not have heard a scuffle or even the victim getting stabbed. There was only one wound, and that would have killed him instantly.
There probably wasn’t much of a struggle. Sir Edmund’s knuckles were scuffed, perhaps from punching his assailant. Given the strength of the attacker, I doubt that would have slowed him or her down. The fight would have been a quick one.
Did the victim scream? Perhaps he was too surprised or frightened to scream. That often happened when people faced mortal danger. I’d seen that in the field all too many times.
So the servants might have slept through the whole thing. They might have woken to the unusual sound of running water in the early hours of the morning, but there would be no reason why they would investigate that.
But what about the burglary alarm? And the locks? And the dogs?
As if reading my thoughts, Grimal said, “It had to be an inside job. Only the servants could have gotten through the security system. The outside servants, the gardener and the two maids, don’t have the security codes for the alarm system. They have to be let in every morning by the butler or the cook, or by Montalbion himself. One or both of them crept downstairs, killed him, washed his body, and disposed of his bloody pajamas. We still haven’t found those. Then they went to SerMart, got in somehow, and dumped the body.”
“Did either servant have any bruises?”
“You mean from the victim punching someone? No, they didn’t, but the guy wasn’t exactly Muhammad Ali.”
True enough. “What have you learned from the butler and the cook?”
Grimal shrugged. “Not much. They both claim they didn’t hear anything that night, and when the butler knocked on Montalbion’s bedroom door at eight o’clock in the morning to announce breakfast was served, he didn’t get a response. He waited half an hour then knocked again. When he didn’t get a response a second time, he opened the door and found Montalbion missing.”
“But he didn’t report him missing.”
“He claimed that he assumed his master went out for a walk, which he did sometimes, although it was odd for him not to say anything to them first. The butler called around to various neighbors, who hadn’t seen him. We checked on that with the neighbors and found that was true, but of course that could have been a dodge. I think the butler did it.”
Well, that was an original conclusion.
“Did he call the police to report a missing person?”
Grimal sat up, a proud look on his face. “No, he did not.”
“He must have noticed the wallet and keys on the nightstand and wondered why his boss would go out without them.”
“Yeah, that’s even more proof! He slipped up with that one.”
The eagerness with which Grimal leapt on this idea showed he hadn’t thought of it himself.
“What about the cook?” I asked.
“The knife used in the murder was identical to a set from the kitchen. That one was missing, so it’s obviously the same one. I don’t think the cook did it, though. Oh, she might be an accomplice, but she’s not the murderer. She’s a little old lady. No way she… could…”
Grimal’s voice trailed off when he saw how I was looking at him.
“How strong is the butler?” I growled.
“He’s in his thirties, a healthy thirties. Hardly gargantuan, but he looks strong enough.”
“Strong enough to put a knife through a man’s skull?”
“Maybe in a fit of rage. Adrenaline can do a lot for a man.”
“Like you’d know,” I muttered.
“I’ll have you know I was quite fit in my earlier days,” he grumbled, fishing around for the last of his lemon chicken.
“Did you know the security video was altered?” I asked.
That got him to look up.
“Really? And how would you know that?”
“I know an employee who was there the night before Sir Edmund made his dramatic appearance. He went through that door in the back room and up to the catwalk. I didn’t see him in the tape. They must have replaced the real footage with footage from a previous night.”
“Maybe you need a new prescription,” Grimal said. “And don’t call it tape. It’s all computerized now. Nobody uses videotape anymore.”
“A figure of speech, like saying you’re reading the newspaper when you’re reading online.”
“Nobody says that either. Just say you’re reading the news.”
I frowned. “If I wanted a lecture on modern English usage, I’d ask my grandson. In any case, we have to figure out who altered that tape.”
“Computer file.”
“Stop. The murderer is obviously an employee, or has an accomplice who is an employee. What I don’t understand is how they managed to drop the body on me and get away unseen.”
“That’s a strange one,” the police chief admitted. “The butler is the obvious culprit. We’re holding both servants for questioning. Maybe we can get them to confess who they were working with
