Mrs Huxley became the bane of my existence, and I wanted nothing more than to snap back. Forcing me to do the same job several times was nothing but torture. And yet every time I thought I was at the end of my rope, I carried on. If I didn’t have this job, what did I have? All I could do was grit my teeth and get on with it.
On Wednesday morning, I decided enough was enough. I asked Mrs Huxley for a break so I could speak to Lord Bertie about his investigation into the dioramas.
The two black marbles in her head glared at me. She put her hands on her hips. “He’ll tell you if he has any important information. The banisters need polishing.” When she turned around, I considered doing nothing, but then I changed my mind.
“Mrs Huxley,” I said. “Ten minutes. Please. I have a right to know what’s going on.”
She stopped, just for a moment, and then she continued walking, the burgundy skirt disappearing around the next corner. I sighed, picked up my caddy of cleaning materials and made my way to the main staircase. But once I was there, I left my caddy on the fifth step and found myself walking up to the next floor. In fact, I carried on until I reached Lord Bertie’s office. Then I paused and knocked.
“Come in.”
I hesitated before opening the door, trying not to think about the conversation I’d overheard between him and Mrs Huxley. The one that had confirmed he didn’t care about my circumstances at all.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said tentatively, worried I should say “sir” or “Lord.”
“That’s quite all right.” He smiled and gestured for me to sit on the chair opposite his desk. The Labrador—Leo—sniffed my shoes before settling next to Bertie’s chair. It took me a moment to notice the dioramas positioned on the desk between us, the boxes closed. Had he been looking at them? He watched me as I eyeballed them, and then he reached over and opened one of them so that I could see the scene one more time. I’d forgotten the bright red of the blood.
“Did you come about this?” he asked.
I nodded my head.
“I was going to call for you today anyway. I had a private investigator check things over when the police proved to be useless. You’ve got nothing to be worried about.” He leaned back in his chair, placed his arms behind his head. “It’s a bad prank, that’s all. My friend is an excellent investigator, so you can trust him. I found out this morning that the sender was an ex-employee of ours.”
“An ex-employee? Was it Chloe?”
Lord Bertie didn’t react for a moment, and then he bunched his eyebrows together as though trying to remember. “No, he didn’t say her name was Chloe. Who is that? The girl you replaced?”
I nodded.
“I don’t remember much about her. Chloe wasn’t here for long. Some maids aren’t.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Anyhoo, the police have had a word with the culprit, and she won’t be bothering us again.”
How do you know that? I thought. But I didn’t say it, because I didn’t want to challenge him. “Do you know why she’s doing it?”
“She stole some money from us,” Bertie said. “Not a large amount. It was the petty cash Mrs Huxley kept in her office. Poor girl was suffering from addiction. But she did have an artistic talent, and I suppose this is her way of lashing out. Such a shame.” He spun the diorama around. “She’s talented.”
“What was her name?” I asked. I wondered if it was the same maid Lottie had fired about a decade ago. The way Lord Bertie talked made me think she was young, but I could be mistaken.
“I’d rather not say,” he replied, leaning forward again, placing his arms on the desk.
I opened my mouth to ask why, but again found my resolve softened. I had a right to know who had sent me a nasty message through the post, but Lord Bertie was the one person standing between me and sleeping in a cardboard box.
“Look,” he said, reading my hesitant expression, “I know she’s done a terrible thing, but I want to keep her anonymity. The girl’s troubled, but she’s not dangerous. She wanted to scare you off, that’s all. If I tell you her name, it’ll spread around the staff and probably through the village too.”
“I wouldn’t say anything.”
He raised his eyebrows. I’m sure he thought that all women talk. The womenfolk can’t help but gossip; it’s in their blood.
“How long ago did she work here?” I asked.
“Oh, a few years ago.”
“Are you sure she’s harmless? The scene sent to me is quite violent.”
He laced his fingers together and lowered his chin. “It’s certainly unpleasant, and I am sorry you had to deal with that on your first day. Have you talked to anyone about it?”
“Some of the staff here. Roisin, Ade, and Pawel mostly.”
“What about outside the hall?”
“No.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Not even family? Friends?”
I cleared my throat. “To be honest, I don’t talk to my family much and I… Well, I don’t have many friends.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Aside from the rather odd first couple of weeks, have you settled in well enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And you’re getting along with everyone?”
“Yes.”
“That’s excellent. Huxley told me that you and Roisin went to the pub in the village on Saturday night.”
“Yes,” I said. “It was just a little staff get-together.”
“Oh, of course,” he replied. “Nothing wrong with that. But I thought I’d check in and make sure your sobriety was still on track.”
“It is.”
“Good.” He smiled. “Well, I have no complaints. Things seem to be going… quite well. I hope you stay at Highwood for many years to come.” He clapped his hands together. “Now. I think it’s time for coffee. Could you ask Mrs Huxley to bring me a pot?”
I made my way out of his office, glad to be away from the dioramas. Relieved to not have to smile and nod and seem appreciative. In the corridor outside Bertie’s office, I stopped and took a breath. Now I had to tell Mrs Huxley I’d been to see him. If I didn’t ask Huxley for the coffee, Lord Bertie would be annoyed I didn’t pass on the message, and if I did tell her, Huxley would know I defied her orders.
On the way down to the kitchen, I pondered over the conversation I’d just had with the Lord. He’d protected the identity of the ex-employee sending the parcels. Why? He’d said that the police went to talk to her, but he hadn’t told me the consequences of that. I didn’t know what counted as an arrestable offence, but he hadn’t even mentioned if she’d been cautioned. I thought back to his smiling face and decided that he was holding something back, and I was sure it was important.
Chapter 26
Later, after an afternoon of polishing banisters, Roisin and I unpacked the conversation I’d had with Lord Bertie.
“It wasn’t Chloe?” she asked.
“He didn’t even remember Chloe,” I said. “Unless he acted that way on purpose to throw me off.”
“Well, at least you know it’s going to end now.” She climbed into bed, her baggy Smiths T-shirt riding up her thighs, and flopped down on her pillow. Then she rolled over to face me and waggled her eyebrows like she had some juicy information to reveal. “Alex comes back tomorrow.”
“Oh cool.”
Roisin burst into laughter. “You can pretend like you don’t care all you like, but I know better.”
She was still grinning at me as I turned out the light, and once we were plunged into darkness, she made kissing noises and then giggled.
“Whatever, lassie,” I said. “I know that’s not your T-shirt. Whose is it? Pawel’s?”
She laughed. “Maybe.”
It took us another thirty minutes to settle down and go to sleep, and during that time, I kept imagining Mrs Huxley standing outside our room, waiting for an opportunity to scold us for staying up past our bedtime, not that we had a bedtime.
The next morning, we served breakfast as
normal, for once everything went smoothly. Even Margot was fine with her eggs and Hollandaise sauce. Then we had a quick breakfast in the kitchen before splitting off to do our jobs. I went to the entrance hall to dust the paintings and soon found myself lost in my thoughts. Behind me, I heard a chiming sound and realised someone was at the front gates. I waited a moment for Mrs Huxley to come out from the kitchen, but no one emerged. When the bell sounded out the second time, I hesitantly approached and asked who it was through the speaker.
“Got a delivery for you.”
I opened the gates and waited by the door, wondering where Mrs Huxley was. She usually stayed on the ground floor in the morning, taking Lord Bertie pots of tea and coffee whenever he requested it, organising the lunches, writing out menus and making phone calls to suppliers. She was the one who opened the gates and took produce from the drivers. Then I realised that I was waiting at the wrong door. The postman always came to the servants’ door. I hurried around the side of the house to meet him, pulling open the door just as he was about to knock.
“Just the one parcel today.” The postie thrust the box into my hands, and I gripped it tightly, fearful that if I didn’t, I’d drop it. He then handed me some envelopes and made his way back to his van. I walked over to the security box system for the gate and watched the black-and-white screen until his van disappeared down the road, and then I shut the gate behind him with a flick of a switch. My heart pounded against my ribs. I looked down at the cardboard box in my arms addressed to Margot. Its size unnerved me. I stared at it for so long that I hardly heard the clicking of Mrs Huxley’s heels on the tiles.
“What have you got?” She held out her hand expectedly. I passed her the box, my hands shaking, and Mrs Huxley stared down at it with a frown. “We don’t know it’s one of them.”
“I… It’s for Margot. The postman…” I cleared my throat in an attempt to pull myself together. Why were these dioramas unsettling me so much? “Lord Bertie said he’d sorted it out. He said it was some ex-employee. Why are they still coming?”
“We haven’t opened it yet.” Mrs Huxley frowned and then sighed, sounding more frustrated than disturbed. She turned sharply and strode through the hall. I followed, not sure what else to do but also aware of a strong desire pulling me forwards. I wanted to know what was inside. I wanted to know what this person had sent to Margot and why.
We found her in the morning room, curled up on a sofa with a paperback on her knee, a lit cigarette in an ashtray on the side table, and a half-eaten chocolate eclair balanced precariously on a cushion. Margot jutted out a chin as we approached.
“The help is here,” she said, lifting the corner of her mouth. “What could you possibly want, dears? Are we not paying you enough? Has one of you broken some ugly figurine Bertie’s ancestors stole from Africa or Taiwan or somewhere? Oh, I have a parcel. Open it, Huxley.”
“Yes, madam,” Huxley said, placing the box on the coffee table in the centre of the room. She ripped the Sellotape from the outside, opened the top flaps and then paused. I took a step forward, eager to know and yet dreading the answer. After her moment of hesitation, Huxley removed the white box wrapped with a red bow.
“Aha,” Margot said. “So it seems my son-in-law is not the great detective he thinks he is. It’s my turn, is it? Come on then, let’s get it over with.”
Mrs Huxley placed the box down on a footstool and pulled open the bow. Quietly, I moved so that I stood behind the sofa and therefore behind Margot. I wanted to see the scene for myself so that I could use that image to compare it with the others. The cardboard front dropped down to reveal the painted miniatures and the backdrop to the scene. This one made me gasp, and my hand flew up to my mouth. Margot froze. I heard a sound escape from her that I never imagined her to make. A whimper. She whispered to herself, and then she scrunched her eyes closed.
This miniature depicted the dining room in its usual exquisite detail. Even down to the cherubs and angels painted across the wood panels. Above the dining table was a tiny doll, a lot like the one illustrating my fall down the stairs. It hung from a well-sculpted version of the chandelier made out of miniscule plastic beads. The doll swung slightly, still unbalanced from its journey into the morning room. I didn’t recognise the doll, but it was dressed in what appeared to be regular, modern clothing. She had on jeans, socks, a white shirt. The hair was long and hung down to the doll’s waist. It was beautifully created, with pockets and buttons stitched into the fabric. But my gaze was drawn to not the doll’s clothes or the delicately painted make-up on her face or the pretty portraits around the room, but to the rope around the doll’s neck. She swung, along with the chandelier, from side to side on a simple hessian string shaped into a noose. The doll’s legs were slightly pulled apart and purple bruising painted carefully around the face and neck.
Margot opened her eyes and shook her head in disgust. “Close it then. Close the damn thing before I have you fired.”
Mrs Huxley did what she was told, tying the bow around the top. “I’ll take it to Lord Bertie.”
“Go on then. Get it out of here.”
I forgot to move when Mrs Huxley walked out of the room with the box in her hands. I remained there, watching the normally steely Margot crumple into a ball. Instinctively I grabbed some tissues from a dispenser in the dresser and sat down next to her.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She blew her nose loudly and shook her head. “This person has a sick sense of humour. Sick.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“They should be strung up themselves,” she said fiercely.
I handed her another tissue. “Can I ask who it was? The doll?”
She dabbed her eyes once more and then let out one long sigh as though expelling the pain. “My daughter.”
Chapter 27
I waited for a moment, confused by her answer. I’d thought Margot’s daughter—Lord Bertie’s late wife—had died falling down the stairs. It wasn’t a story I would easily forget, not when I’d heard that Alex had possibly seen the fall himself, hiding in the secret nook behind the painting.
“It happened a year before she died,” Margot said, continuing her explanation. “She wasn’t well, you know. I suppose it was depression or whatever it is you young people call it, but I hadn’t grown up with those labels. I’m an old dinosaur, and I didn’t know how to help her.”
“I’m sure you did the best you could,” I replied.
Margot placed her hands on her knees. Frail hands with long red nails, blue veins and mottled skin. “Bertie cut her down before she could do any real damage, but she was never the same afterwards.” Her hands gripped her knees tightly. “She was so sad. So very sad, and there was nothing I could do.”
Tentatively, I placed a hand on her shoulder. I wasn’t sure what else to do. It felt like crossing a line between two people who shouldn’t touch. She’d seemed untouchable to me until she broke down. Now she sniffed and trembled as she cried, just like anyone else would.
“Do me a favour, would you, dear? Go to the cupboard by the television. There are some leather-bound photograph albums. I’d like to look at them.”
I found the albums stacked up on a shelf and brought the lot over to her on the sofa, balancing them under my chin. When I’d spread them out on the footstool and the sofa, she picked one of them up and thumbed through them.
“Most of these are Bertie’s,” she said, flicking the pages. “Look.” She held the book out, and it wobbled unsteadily as she clasped it with her thin hands. I saw two distinguished Victorians sitting tight-lipped. A bearded man in uniform and a corseted moon-faced woman with beautiful curly hair. “Some duke in the family, I suppose. Most of them lived here at Highwood. It’s been in his family since the Tudor times. Anne Boleyn stayed here on more than one occasion.” She closed the album and handed it to me.
“It’s a beautiful home. It’s a shame no one else gets to see it,” I blurted out, regarding her caut
iously. Would she chastise me for my opinions?
“It is,” she said. “It’s selfish to keep this place locked away, but that’s Bertie. He does what he wants, not what’s right. Ah, now this one is mine.” She opened the album and spread it out on her knee. “I used to be an actress, you know.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I met all kinds of people. Here’s me with Marilyn.”
“Monroe?”
“Look at the picture, dear.” She rolled her eyes.
The photograph was clearly Marilyn Monroe next to a brunette woman who competed, if not eclipsed, Marilyn’s beauty. “Is that you?”
“Well, it isn’t Liberace is it? Yes, it’s me.”
“You’re more beautiful than Marilyn there.”
She smiled. “I was younger.” Then she flipped more of the pages, and I saw her black-and-white frame standing next to the people I’d seen in old movies when I was off school with a cold, laid out on the sofa watching Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly. Part way through, Margot appeared in white lace, beaming next to a tall, attractive man, and a few pages later she had a baby in her arms. “Ah, there’s my Laura. She was a beautiful baby and so calm. All the other women complained about their children all the time, but I didn’t have to.”
“She’s lovely.”
“Yes, she is.” Margot touched the picture with two fingertips. Her voice was shaky after she withdrew them and turned the page. “Robert and I tried for more children. We lost two in the first few months, and then…” She lifted her empty hands. “Then nothing. Laura was all I had, and I never… I never expected to outlive her.” She brushed away a few tears. “I’m glad Robert didn’t get to see her like that.”
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