The Maid’s Secret

by Emily Organ

  Mr Glenville shook his head. “No, Camilla. Sophia would never have done that. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t...”

  “If she had intended to do such a thing, she would have done it privately,” said Mrs Lombard. “People who commit such a heinous crime rarely do it in full view of others. I know it is terribly distressing for you to hear us discuss it in this manner, Alexander and Camilla, but I’m sure you’d agree that this dreadful event requires frank and honest discussion if we are to discover the truth. The girl would never have taken her own life.”

  “In which case we’re investigating a murder,” said Inspector Trotter.

  Everyone glanced around the room at one another. Suddenly, each person had become a suspect.

  “Perhaps it was an accident.”

  The words came out of my mouth before I had time to consider whether or not it was appropriate for me to speak up. I felt all eyes in the room on me.

  “An accident?” Mrs Glenville snapped. “How could poison have found its way into Sophia’s glass by accident?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know, my lady. My thought was that everything should be considered, no matter how preposterous it may sound.”

  “It is a fair point,” said Inspector Trotter with a nod. “No possibilities should be dismissed at this stage.” He checked his watch. “The hour is late and everyone is in need of a rest, I am sure. Myself included! I shall return in the morning and commence my interviews. Is there a suitable room in the house I can occupy tomorrow, Mr Glenville?”

  “You may use the library, Inspector.”

  “Thank you. I would like to request that your guests remain here for the night, Mrs Glenville. Do you have room to accommodate them?”

  “Yes, we do. Mrs Craughton and Mr Perrin will look after them quite well.”

  “Thank you. I don’t wish to detain anyone here any longer than is necessary, but if we allow the guests to leave it becomes significantly more troublesome to arrange interviews with them. I would like to speak to everyone as quickly as possible, as I’m sure you can all appreciate.”

  Chapter 20

  “I can’t sleep Flo,” said Maisie, who sat red-eyed on my bed. “I dunno ’ow I’ll ever sleep again.”

  “You will, Maisie.”

  “We saw ’er die! She just died right in front of us. She didn’t deserve it, Flo. It ain’t right. I don’t believe it’s ’appened.”

  I gave Maisie a hug and we sat there until the grey daylight brightened the curtain at the little window.

  We were given black uniforms and caps to wear. They were old-fashioned and smelt rather musty from their time in storage. Maisie and I covered the mirrors with black crepe, and the curtains remained closed. We were instructed to stay out of the drawing room until Inspector Trotter had examined it.

  A casket was brought for Sophia during the night, and flowers were delivered the following morning. Mrs Craughton helped Mrs Glenville wash and dress her daughter, and then we visited her in the morning room. Sophia lay in the satin-lined casket with her arms folded across her chest. Her porcelain face was peaceful, and her hair had been pinned far more neatly than I had ever seen it before. The bodice of her cream dress was swathed with light silk and trimmed with pale pink roses in the same fabric. Bouquets of flowers had been placed in and around her casket, filling the air with a heady scent.

  Maisie sobbed as we stood by the casket, but I felt overcome by a strange numbness. I stared at poor Sophia and couldn’t stop thinking about her last few moments of life. The memory looped around in my mind, and I wished I could push it away. My limbs felt oddly numb, as if they were somehow disconnected from my body. I didn’t feel part of this scene; I felt as though I were an observer.

  We moved about the house as quietly as possible, speaking only in whispers. There was little noise to suppress the dreadful sound of Mrs Glenville sobbing behind closed doors.

  Inspector Trotter arrived shortly after breakfast and promptly installed himself in the library. Mrs Craughton took him coffee and toast, and Mr Glenville was the first to be interviewed. He wore a black shirt and tie, and there were large, dark circles under his eyes.

  “Good morning, Flo,” he said when he saw me.

  “My deepest condolences, sir,” I replied. “I’m struggling to believe that it can be true.”

  “Me too.” He managed a slight smile, then opened the door to the library.

  Staff from the Lombard and Wyndham households brought mourning clothes and other personal belongings to the house. At breakfast, Lady Wyndham and Mary Lombard cried into their handkerchiefs, and poor Dudley Lombard looked bereft. Sophia might not have cared much for him, but he looked distraught at her loss.

  I did my best to wait on everyone, and offer a sympathetic glance or word when required. The whole group seemed upset, but there was a possibility that, for one individual, the grief was a mere pretence. I watched everyone carefully, wondering if I could find any lack of conviction in their conduct.

  I knew there was no need for me to stay in the Glenville household any longer. Sophia’s death surely meant that Mr Conway’s investigation would have to be postponed. The book I had taken from Mr Glenville’s drawer still lay locked away in the trunk under my bed. I had lost all interest in its contents. Mr Glenville’s business affairs were of little importance now that such tragedy had struck.

  I wanted to leave my employment, but I was worried about leaving Maisie, who seemed reliant on me for consolation. I hoped the shock would lift in a day or two, presenting me with an opportunity to quit the house. I comforted myself with the thought that I could remain in contact with her, but this also presented a problem. Would she forgive me when she discovered I had been lying about who I truly was?

  A telegram was delivered to me that morning. The envelope was addressed to Florence Parker, but no attempt had been made by Mr Sherman to disguise my identity in the message. The instruction was for me to write about Sophia’s death for the Morning Express, complete with the assurance that a boy would call at the house early that evening to collect the article.

  Fortunately, Mrs Craughton, normally an inquisitive lady, was far too distracted to ask me any questions about the telegram. I resolved to find some time that afternoon to quickly write down what had happened. Mr Sherman would have to edit it into something more coherent when he received it.

  Several news reporters called at the door, and Mr Perrin hurriedly shooed them away. I mindlessly dusted and swept. As I passed the library in the course of my chores, Mary Lombard’s voice drifted through the door.

  “Marriage is what the girl needed!” she exclaimed.

  I paused close to the door and continued to listen as I attended to a mark on the floor.

  “She was an intelligent girl. I suppose you could say the brains went to her instead of her brother. Unfortunately, she was a little too intelligent for her own good. She became one of these ‘free thinkers’. Instead of conforming to the conduct expected of her, she excited herself with thoughts and ideas beyond the realm of a lady. I suspect she became bored. It’s not uncommon in girls with lively minds.”

  The dog gave a few short yaps. “Quiet, Tipsy! I shan’t be much longer now. Mother’s speaking to the inspector. Where was I? Oh yes, marriage and motherhood would have occupied her, and there would have been little time for her to distract herself with matters that didn’t concern her. She would have been the lady of the house with responsibility for staff, children, meals, furnishings, entertaining and socialising. Had she been married sooner, none of this would have happened. I did ask for the date to be brought forward, but Alexander found some excuse not to. I don’t think he understood her. The Glenvilles are good friends of ours, but I hope you will be discreet if I say that they didn’t know how to manage her at all. It’s odd when you consider it. They could care for an idiot, but not a daughter! There’s something rather strange about that, if you ask me.”

  I heard footsteps approaching, so I rose to my feet and continued
on past the library.

  “Flo!” came a harsh whisper from behind me.

  “Yes, Mrs Craughton?”

  I turned toward the housekeeper, remembering with a sickening turn in my stomach that I hadn’t yet returned the key for Mr Glenville’s desk to her office.

  “The drawing room will require tidying after...” Her eyes dampened. “I can’t bring myself to go in there. The inspector has finished examining the room now.”

  “I’ll see to it, Mrs Craughton,” I replied, relieved that she hadn’t asked me about the missing key.

  I took an oil lamp into the drawing room, which was as dark as a tomb with the heavy velvet curtains pulled across the windows. The air felt close, harbouring a mixture of perfume and perspiration. Mingled with it was another smell which I couldn’t quite identify. Was it the scent of bitter almonds? I shivered and told myself it couldn’t be so.

  It was considered profligate to light the gasolier to clean a room; however, I could see so little by the light of my oil lamp that I had to pull one of the curtains open slightly to reveal an inch-wide gap. Weak daylight seeped in and I peered out, expecting to see the street. Instead, a thick, grimy fog the colour of tea caressed the windowpane. I let out a small cry. Was there even another world out there any more?

  My throat and chest began to tighten. I was trapped in this house. Would I ever get out and return to my normal life?

  My breath felt shallow, and I tried to calm myself by inhaling more deeply. I told myself I could walk out of the front door any time it suited me. I was only staying for Maisie. Besides, I had a news article to write. I knew that my work at the house would soon be complete, and then I would be free to leave. I could go back to my garret room with the temperamental stove and my stripy cat. I would see James again.

  Everything would be normal again soon.

  I comforted myself with these thoughts as I cleaned the fireplace and grate, and lay a new fire. Then I swept the floor and dusted the plates on the mantelpiece.

  I was standing in the same room in which Sophia had died.

  My skin prickled and I felt conscious of every move I made, as if someone were watching me. I stopped and looked over my shoulder once or twice, convinced I had felt someone’s eyes resting upon me. But there was no one else here and everything was silent.

  My last remaining task was to straighten the cushions on the chairs. Before I began, I stood in the place I had taken up the previous night. I looked at each of the chairs and remembered who had sat in which. The shaft of light from the curtains rested on the chair that had been Sophia’s. Next to it was the table upon which her glass of champagne had stood. The only person I had seen near her glass was Mr Perrin.

  Sophia had sat in that very chair during the last few moments of her life. She hadn’t known what was about to happen to her, but I felt sure someone in the room had. Whoever it was had managed to conceal his or her true thoughts extremely well.

  How had the culprit managed to remain so calm? How had they managed to feign grief?

  I went to each chair and patted every cushion into shape. Particles of dust floated in the ray of grey daylight. As I was replacing the cushion on the third chair, I noticed a small square of white tucked down the side of the seat.

  It appeared to be a square of paper. As I retrieved the item, I realised it was a little packet, which had been torn open along its top. There was writing on one side of it, accompanied by a skull and crossbones. It read:

  Cyanide. POISON.

  The packet fell from my hand back onto the seat of the chair. I took a step back, hurriedly wiping my hands on my apron.

  My heart thudded in my throat. I couldn’t take my eyes off the small packet that had once contained the poison which had killed Sophia.

  The murderer must have hidden the packet behind the cushion after he or she had carried out the terrible deed. Still keeping my eyes on it, I walked past the chair and towards the door. Then I dashed quickly through it and ran along the corridor to find Inspector Trotter in the library.

  I paused at the door before knocking.

  “I’d been looking forward to her birthday party for weeks,” I heard Dudley Lombard say through the thin wood.

  I waited impatiently for a natural pause in the conversation. “She looked beautiful, of course,” he continued. “Truly beautiful. And I could scarcely believe that she was to be my wife. What had I done to deserve her? I felt flattered and honoured, and I couldn’t wait for our wedding day to arrive. She was to choose the furnishings for our house in Barnes. The wallpaper, the curtains… the furniture.” His words were interrupted by a brief choking noise, and then his voice returned, more plaintive than before. “But what of our home now? I cannot possibly live there. I suppose Pa will have to sell it, but what a thought. I had been looking forward to such happiness.”

  I decided I could wait no longer. I hammered sharply on the door.

  “Who is it?” Inspector Trotter called out.

  I stumbled into the room without answering. My voice was breathless when I spoke.

  “Yes?” He removed his pipe from his mouth, and gave me a quizzical look.

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Inspector, but I’ve found something which I think you should come and have a look at.”

  Chapter 21

  Word soon spread throughout the household, and before long almost everyone was in the drawing room looking at the chair upon which the cyanide packet had been found. The large gasolier in the centre of the ceiling had been lit, but with everyone dressed in black the room still felt gloomy.

  Inspector Trotter held the packet of paper between his gloved thumb and forefinger.

  “There is no doubt about it. This is the empty paper for the potassium of cyanide which has been used to poison Miss Sophia Glenville. We should have conducted a more thorough search of this room.”

  “Yes, you should,” said Mr Glenville, scowling at the detective.

  I had already explained how I had found the packet, and the position in which it had been discovered. The inspector agreed that the murderer had made attempts to conceal it, most likely while everyone else was distracted by Sophia being taken unwell.

  “Who sat on this chair yesterday evening?” asked Inspector Trotter, looking around the group.

  I could remember who it was, but decided I would only speak if no one else did. I had no wish to cast empty aspersions.

  Everyone glanced about them, their brows furrowed.

  “Why, it was Wyndham!” exclaimed Dudley Lombard.

  “Me?” replied Viscount Wyndham incredulously. “I didn’t sit there! I was on the chair next to it.” His chest was puffed up even more broadly than usual, straining at the buttons on his shirt.

  “No, that’s where Mrs Glenville sat. You were on this chair here,” said Dudley Lombard.

  Viscount Wyndham moved closer and surveyed the two chairs. Then he shook his head.

  “Have any of the chairs been moved since yesterday evening?” asked the inspector.

  “No,” said Mr Perrin. “And I agree with the young man. It was Viscount Wyndham who sat on that chair yesterday evening. I remember refilling his glass, which was placed on the table just in front of the chair.”

  Viscount Wyndham glared at the butler, but said nothing.

  “I must add that, after Miss Sophia was taken ill, the chair was occupied by Mrs Lombard,” the butler said.

  We all turned to look at Mrs Lombard, whose face began to colour from the attention.

  “Now careful, everyone,” said Ralph Lombard, stepping closer to his wife as if to protect her from the implications of Mr Perrin’s words. “We can’t be slinging accusations at one another, now. That would be very dangerous indeed. The detective must continue to gather as much information as he can. And that includes understanding where each of us was sitting last night. We must all do what we can to assist him, but we should avoid pointing the finger of blame at anyone until the inspector has finished his work.”

&n
bsp; He took his wife’s arm and I saw that her violet eyes were watery. She looked frightened.

  “Well said, Lombard,” added Wyndham.

  Dudley Lombard nodded in agreement, but Mr Glenville’s scowl grew even deeper.

  “Easily said when you haven’t just lost your daughter,” he muttered.

  “Please rest assured that I will catch the culprit, Mr Glenville,” said Inspector Trotter.

  “You need to, and fast,” replied Mr Glenville. “I will not tolerate speculation among my guests here. It will only result in people upsetting each other. Are you certain you’re capable of managing this case on your own? You examined this room after my daughter’s death, and yet you missed a crucial clue which my maid was able to discover! I want more men working on this, Inspector. How about we call in Scotland Yard?”

  “With all due respect, Mr Glenville, there is no need to have the Yard involved,” replied the inspector. “I am quite confident in my ability to conduct this investigation. It is, indeed, regrettable that such a crucial piece of evidence was missed. May I commend you on your attentive and helpful staff, sir. Please trust that I will find the culprit for you. It is likely that he or she stands before me at this very moment.”

  Lunch in the kitchen was cold leftovers from the dinner the night before. I struggled to eat any of the cold ham or mutton, with the terrible memories from the previous night weighing heavily on my mind.

  “My lady of the house won’t eat a thing,” said Mrs Craughton. “She had no breakfast, nor would she take any pie just now. She won’t even eat a piece of bread.”

  “Quite natural after a sudden death in the house,” said Mr Perrin. “Her appetite will return in due course. Do you have a bottle of Dr Cobbold’s Remedy?”

  “No. Is it an effective remedy?”

  “You should always have some in the house for times such as these. Four doses a day will see her right.”