The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

  Margot’s usually steely expression crumpled momentarily. She took a long drag of her cigarette. “I know you’ll think I’m lying, but I honestly thought he harassed them and they ran off. I thought that was the end of it.”

  “You never went in the north wing?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying,” I said. It was obvious to me then. I didn’t say the words in order to start an argument or to aggravate her. I just knew.

  She closed her eyes tightly.

  “How dare you say that?” Lottie said on the edge of tears. “Mo-mo wouldn’t lie.”

  “Lottie, honey. You need to get some rest. Why don’t you have a lie-down?”

  “But—”

  “Please, darling.”

  Sulkily, and with one cardigan-wrapped hand over her mouth, she stumbled away to one of the bedrooms. We waited until the door clicked, the silence dragging. Finally she was gone and the truth could come out.

  “You’ve no idea how many lies I’ve been told over the years,” Margot spat out. “As far as I understood back then, my daughter was due to marry an upstanding citizen. A mild-mannered man who had no known vices. He wasn’t known as a drinker. He was kind enough to the people around him. There’d been no complaints, not even in business, which is where the claws usually come out and the masks are removed. And then about a year after they married, my daughter started turning up to our house in tears. He was having affairs, she said. With the maids. They could never keep a maid for longer than a few months because Bertie couldn’t keep his hands off them. A few weeks before, she’d gushed about how kind he was for hiring troubled young women.” Margot paused to pour herself a second martini. When her hand trembled, Ade reached over and helped her. She thanked him and continued. “I didn’t know he was hitting my daughter until several years after that. That’s what it’s like in these kinds of marriages. She hid the marks he left. And he was careful not to beat her face.” She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them and carried on. “The maid turnover remained high, but I didn’t know things had gone that far.” Her lips pursed together. “I didn’t know he killed them. My daughter was sad. She was my priority back then. You see, Laura would never leave him even though I implored her to. She was far more religious than I ever was and felt it against her beliefs to leave her husband.”

  “Did she ever find out what Bertie was doing?”

  “Bertie and his father,” Margot said. “They lived together at the time. Of course, Bertie’s mother was dead by then.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Another accident.”

  “Car crash.”

  I nodded slowly.

  Margot’s chin wobbled. “I’m sure you think I’m stupid for not seeing all the signs, but the mind never goes to serial killer does it? I suppose even Ted Bundy had a mother-in-law.”

  “When did you first find out?”

  “After Laura died,” Margot said. She let out a small gasp, clamping a hand over her mouth. I saw her working hard to fight back her tears. “Though I should’ve picked up on it sooner. The children did. When Lottie was a child, she once told me that Daddy kept disappearing into the north wing. Alex would talk about women like… like they were less than him. Even as a child. They were to be told what to do, he said. It was disturbing. But still, I didn’t think serial killer. Would you?” She fumbled with the stem of her martini glass, and her eyes dropped to the carpet. “Laura sent me a note on the day she died…”

  “What did the note say?”

  “It said, ‘I can’t call, Mummy, because he’ll know. He listens. I married a monster. He takes the maids.’” She leaned forward, still struggling with her tears, spilling some of her drink on the carpet. I removed the glass from her hand.

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Again, I knew she was lying. “Yes, you do.”

  “My husband had died of a heart attack the year before, and I was living alone,” she said slowly. “And… I’d run out of money. The note struck me as something an unhinged person would write, and I was concerned my daughter had become increasingly unstable over time.”

  “That’s because she was married to a serial killer,” I said coldly.

  “Yes,” Margot admitted. “I know that now. I… I think deep down it made sense to me, but I pushed it away. The thought. I buried it deep down. I still moved in with him because I wanted to make sure Lottie would be safe. By then I…” She stared up at the wall with unfocused eyes.

  “Say it,” I demanded. “Whatever it is you’re about to admit, say it.”

  “I realised there was something very wrong with the men in that family. I thought that if I lived there, I could keep Lottie safe and perhaps try to stop it happening to Alex, though it turns out I was too late. Every time a maid left, I thought to myself, at least it wasn’t Lottie.”

  “You stayed for the money,” I said. I got to my feet, so angry that I needed to move. I needed to pace the length of that room to stop myself from hitting her and never stop hitting her until she was a crimson puddle on the beautiful white carpet.

  “No,” she gasped. “That isn’t true.”

  “Yes, it is, and you should admit it to yourself.” I walked back and forth near the huge flat-screen television on the wall. I wanted to smash it into smithereens, but I didn’t.

  “It was for my family. I didn’t want them to know what their father was.”

  “Yeah, because who cares about maids. Who cares about those drug-addled little sluts who bring you martinis and organise your wardrobe? You were kind to me, but it was all an act to distract me from the sacrificial offering you were providing him. Fuck you.”

  Margot nodded her head. Mascara smeared in the corners of her eyes as tears ran down her face. Her bottom lip wobbled. She melted before my eyes, turning into a pool of her own misery. The Wicked Witch of the West unspooling onto the floor.

  “How can I make things right?” she begged.

  “If Bertie and Alex go to prison, will you be put in charge of Bertie’s estate?” I asked. “You and Lottie?”

  “I’d imagine so,” Margot said.

  I sighed. “Well, you could tell the police that you knew all along and pay for your crime in a prison cell. But you won’t do that. Instead, you’re going to write me a list of all the places you think Alex might be, and then you’re going to pay for Mrs Huxley’s son’s care home fees for the rest of his life and make sure he lives a life of luxury. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And if this trial goes badly... If there’s any glimmer of hope for Bertie Howard, well then you’ll come forward and you’ll tell the police everything you knew, and you’ll provide the note from your daughter because there’s zero percent chance you destroyed it. And you’ll make sure justice is served.”

  “All right,” she said. “And you? What do you both want? Money?”

  “I want my mother back,” I snapped. “I want twenty-one years with her.”

  Margot’s eyes fell to the floor.

  Chapter 48

  There was a fundamental shift in my world—in the air around me—as we made our way out of the hotel. Like oxygen had been replaced by soup. It hit me all at once. The grief, the fear, the mother I missed whom I’d never known. Was it possible to miss a person you’d never met? I longed to feel better, to press fast-forward and skip ahead to waking up peacefully rested, my life ahead of me and full of opportunity. Always the addict, I longed for the convenient methods of reaching that peaceful feeling, and my mind raced with possibilities.

  “Are you all right?” Ade asked. He helped me away from the photographers, gently guiding me with a hand on my lower back.

  All warmth fled my body. It was impossible to breathe, and I hyperventilated with the tight bud of panic ready to blossom inside my chest. I tried to stay calm as I had my first anxiety attack since coming off drugs. But instead, my body fought against it, making everyth
ing harder. Every breath, every unsteady step, every tear dribbling down the bridge of my nose. Ade guided my hunched body down the rest of the street. The slick pavement reflected streetlights and headlights that danced beneath my feet. I couldn’t lift my gaze from the ground.

  “Keep breathing,” he said. “One breath at a time.”

  I leaned on him, forgetting his bad shoulder, thinking only of my greedy need for human warmth and strength. But Ade never complained. A little down the street we found a restaurant, and I managed to pull myself together enough not to make a scene. It was late, and I wasn’t hungry, but we still went in, sat at the bar and ordered Diet Cokes.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t say sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Better now, thank you.” I lifted my glass, cocking it slightly as though toasting to us. The cold, sweet fizz was just what I needed to calm down.

  “That was intense,” Ade said. “And hugely impressive. I can’t believe you said that to her.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But it needed to be said.” He shook his head. “She won’t be punished, will she?”

  “Nope.” I sipped my Coke. “I wonder how many girls she could have saved but didn’t.” Then I sighed. “I wonder what it’s like to live with a monster like that. Would you keep pushing down your suspicions? Would you freeze up in terror? Jesus, Ade, I came to Highwood Hall because of my mum’s letters, but I also worked there and made friends. I started some sort of strange romantic relationship with the son of the man I thought might’ve hurt my mother. I mean, I didn’t know. I knew she’d had a relationship with Bertie and that she’d been afraid at times, but I didn’t know he’d killed anyone. Not until Roisin died. I certainly didn’t know he’d been doing this for decades. I didn’t even suspect it until Mrs Huxley sat me down, and told me everything she knew. And…” I glanced up at Ade before looking away.

  “What?”

  “I was connected to him. Alex. It wasn’t love, or even like, but I was drawn to him. What does that say about me?”

  Ade laughed. “It says you can be charmed by an attractive, rich man. Big whoop.”

  “No, it’s more than that,” I said. “I was attracted to his games, not him. What if there’s something wrong with me?”

  “There isn’t. You went to Highwood to solve a mystery, and you got pulled into another mystery.”

  I drained half my Coke. “The dioramas messed with my head.”

  “It’s understandable,” Ade said. “Come on. Let’s finish these and go home.” He gulped down his drink. “Damn, I wish I had my truck with me. Not that I can drive, I guess.”

  “Your truck’s still at the hall. I completely forgot.”

  He shrugged. “The police searched and released it yesterday. They said I could collect it as long as I didn’t go inside the house.”

  “My mum’s letters are there too. And her portrait.” I couldn’t stand thinking of her on that dining room wall.

  We walked together out into the drizzle. Ade turned up his jacket collar and hunched his shoulders, eyes roaming the street. I did the same, shivering against the sudden cool air, searching for taxi lights. Across the street, I thought I saw someone watching us. Someone tall, broad-shouldered. A photographer? But then the taxi pulled up, obscuring the view. Once I was inside, I glanced out of the window and the figure was gone.

  Ade gave his address to the driver, and we set off for Paxby, but the whole time I thought about that figure watching us from across the street.

  I’d thought confronting Margot and Lottie would bring me the peace I needed to go on, but it didn’t. Ade made sweet, warm porridge again that morning, but I still had no appetite. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Howards and what they’d been able to get away with. I was sure that Alex had left the country and would never see justice. The Highwood Hall search was still ongoing, but so far, no bodies had been found. Someone had made a meme based on the live stream of me in the red room. When you spent $150 on dinner and your girl won’t put out. Take her to the red room. “Take her to the red room” was trending on Twitter. Torturing girls is funny now apparently.

  On the other end of the scale, someone had set up a GoFundMe for me and Ade, which had already passed one hundred thousand pounds. I was floored. But neither I nor Ade had talked about it. I didn’t think we could face the surrealness of our own situation. Every hour someone tried to call me to get a comment on Alex’s disappearance or Margot Pemberton in the penthouse or the GoFundMe money. Networks wanted us on television. Newspapers wanted an interview. There were online debates about the live-stream video. One expert said it was doctored, another said it wasn’t. The “comments” section had exploded with vitriol from people on both sides.

  An online petition for Mrs Huxley’s freedom had ten thousand signatures. They claimed she was a victim, and because she was ill, she should be released. A counter online petition claiming Mrs Huxley should never see daylight again also reached ten thousand signatures. All I knew was that she’d been arrested for accessory to murder. In the madness it was impossible to process how I felt about that.

  I was exhausted. I scrolled, and I watched, and I read. The day passed by, and I remained in pyjamas, unclean, without focus, thinking of what it might take to stop my mind from spiralling out of control. Sometimes I sat on Ade’s sofa, imagining I walked down the grand hall at Highwood with the wood panels on either side, the grinning Cavaliers staring down at me. Mrs Huxley gliding along with her burgundy dress swooshing. At least then I felt connected to my mother. I saw her picture on the wall. I knew she’d been there, knew she’d once breathed and lived, however short that time might’ve been.

  “Ruby.” Ade placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go out, shall we? It’s stuffy in here. You need fresh air.” He pushed me, just enough, to get me up. To force me to shower and change.

  It was a bright day. A sunglasses day, but I didn’t have any at Ade’s house. I realised, as we left the house, that I didn’t know what day it was. And then I wondered whether Mrs Huxley knew too. I didn’t even know where she was detained, whether she was in a prison cell somewhere. I felt completely left out in the dark, despite the bright sunshine.

  We walked to a pub in Paxby and ordered fish and chips even though I still wasn’t particularly hungry. If I’d been slim before, I was skeletal now.

  “Rubes.” Ade hooked a finger underneath my chin. “Talk to me.”

  Were we more than friends? Through all this stress, I couldn’t quite decide.

  “I’m not doing well,” I admitted. “I can’t stop thinking about her. My mother. She’s still stuck in the hall. They painted her on the walls and left her there as a trophy for everyone to see, and I can’t… I can’t stand it. Their sick, sadistic secret. I recognised her on the first day, and I didn’t understand then. I don’t know how I worked in that place, setting up the table, serving food, and all the while she was there, looking at me. It’s sick. I can’t… I can’t stand it. I feel like they’ve won. Don’t you feel like they’ve won?”

  “No,” he said. “We won’t let them win.”

  “Alex is gone. He’s probably on some beach somewhere.” Bitterness slipped into my voice, drops of vinegar in water. “I wish he was dead.”

  “I know it’s hard, but we have to believe the police will find him.”

  “You mean the same police who handcuffed you after Huxley told them about two white serial killers?” I shook my head.

  He grimaced. “Yeah, well… They have to find him. The world is watching them.”

  “And us too,” I said. “I’m so tired.”

  A teenage waitress served us two huge plates of fish and chips. My mouth should’ve watered, but instead my stomach cramped. I picked up a fork, ready to force down some chips.

  “Let’s get her back,” Ade said. “I need to collect my truck from the house. There are tools in there that should be able to take a wood panel off the wall. You can get your mum’s let
ters too.”

  I sighed. “We can’t. It could compromise the evidence.”

  He shook his head. “I think you need this. Don’t you? To move on?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But the court case—”

  He shrugged. “I don’t see what harm it would do. It’s not like we’re outsiders. Your DNA, my DNA, it’s all there anyway.”

  “I’ll be the first suspect. They’ll come for us both.”

  “Who cares?” Ade said. “We didn’t murder anyone. Fuck the Howards and fuck the police. Let’s do something for us.”

  “No,” I said. “We can’t. I can wait. I don’t want anything messing up the evidence.” I put down my fork. “I wish we could though.”

  “The police will be done soon.” He reached across the table, placing his hand on my forearm. “Then we’ll get her back. I promise.”

  The warmth of his hand, the gentleness in his brown eyes, it released the cramp in my stomach. I nodded, picking up my fork. I needed to believe him. I longed to. And finally, I allowed myself to believe everything would be okay.

  Chapter 49

  A couple of days after our pub dinner, Ade woke me up excited. He placed a cup of tea down on the bedside table and clapped his hands together like he had big news.

  “The detective dude just called. There’s been a sighting of Alex.”

  I sat bolt upright in the bed. “Where?”

  “Spain.”

  “Spain?”

  He nodded. “They’re working with Spanish police to find him.” Ade rubbed his palms together again. “They’re going to get the bastard. I can feel it.”

  I reached for my tea, waiting for that release to come. That unfurling of the tight coil inside my abdomen. Maybe when they had him in custody. Or after the court case when he’s behind bars.

  Ade noticed my subdued expression and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s a great development. It feels legit. The police are following through on this.”