by Mary Vee
“Yes. I made it myself. Set the creamery and sugar cups with a spoon on the tray next to the teapot, cup, and saucer. Handles facing the correct direction. Was there a problem with it, sir?”
“Not that I understand. Do you know if anyone from the staff went to Mrs. Duvet’s room to collect the tray that night?”
He looked toward the ceiling for a moment then said, “Yes. Cook asked a servant to fetch it. She wanted the kitchen tidy for cooking breakfast the next morning.”
“I assume the service was returned or something would have been said by Cook.”
“Yes. It were. She don’t like dishes left strewn about the house.”
“Do you recall what time the servant returned to the kitchen?”
The calculation took a bit of time before he answered. “Yes. It were about fifteen minutes before the end of my shift. 11:45 PM.”
“Was there any mention whether Mrs. Duvet was in her room at the time or not?”
“None. But I can ask.”
“Better yet. Is the servant still here?”
“Yes. I can fetch her.”
“Thank you.”
Within five minutes a woman appeared at the door. “Please, come in and have a seat. I won’t keep you from your work long.”
She did as he instructed.
“I only have a few questions. First, what is your name?”
“Lynette, sir. Davis told me you wanted to know what time I picked up the tea service from Mrs. Duvet’s room the night she went missing.”
“That’s correct.”
“Cook sent me to get it at 11:30 pm. On the way to the upper floor, I were distracted. I already apologized to cook. Please don’t ask her to fire me.”
“You aren’t in trouble. Please go on.”
“I softly knocked on Mrs. Duvet’s door. When she didn’t answer, I assumed she were asleep. I opened the door and found the lights off. Servants are expected to walk about invisibly, and I know my way around every room of the house. I went to her writing table, picked up the tray, and walked out, quietly closing the door. The service were in the kitchen by 11:50 pm.”
“Was Mrs. Duvet in her room?”
“That I cannot say. With the room dark, she could have laid under the bundles of bedding. I don’t know if she happened to get up at the same time to relieve herself. In truth, I don’t know where she were at the time.”
He quickly scanned his notes from her interview. “You said earlier that something distracted you on the way to Mrs. Duvet’s room. What was it?”
“Through an opened door, I saw a light flicker out the window.”
“Which direction does that window face?”
“The back of the house over where the servants enter.”
“Can you describe the light?”
“It wasn’t like a car headlight. It were a strange shape and yellowish, green. I suppose that were why I got distracted. I don’t really know what that light were.” She gasped. “You don’t suppose it were a ghost?” She raised her hand and covered her mouth. Her eyes widened with sudden fear. “The house is haunted.”
Although Branson wanted to go straight away to the mysterious window Lynette mentioned, he chose to wait until she calmed a bit. “No, I don’t believe a ghost moved about the backyard. I’m sure there is an explanation for the light you saw. When I find it, I will gladly tell you.”
“You will?” She relaxed.
“Yes. Would you mind taking me to the window?”
“I won’t go into the room.” She edged back.
“You won’t have to. Simply point out the location where you stood.”
“Yes, Mr. Carhill. I…I can do that.” She turned toward the door. “If you’ll just follow me.”
They walked through the corridors and up the stairs to the hall and four rooms before Mrs. Duvet’s. She turned the knob, gave the door a push, but remained in the hall. “It’s the window to the left.”
“If you wouldn’t mind waiting here. I’ll only be a moment and don’t want to raise suspicion for being in the room.”
“I suppose I could, as long as I don’t have to go in there.” She rubbed her upper arms and took another step away from the open door.
Not wanting to call any more attention to the supposed ghosts, Branson walked inside. The late morning light brightened the room. He pulled the curtain aside and gazed out at the grounds below. This view of the back of the house differed tremendously from Mrs. Duvet’s bedroom window.
The servants’ driveway wove out to a back entrance. A gate prevented unwelcomed guests or delivery personnel from freely driving onto the property. Closer to the home, a limousine sat parked outside the garage. The gardener’s shed stood barely visible beyond that structure. And under a willow whose branches draped like an umbrella was a picnic table. He assumed it was placed there for the workers.
A room with such a view would not be given to special guests.
“Ms. Lynette,”
“Yes, Mr. Carhill?”
“Tell me again about the light you saw from this window.”
“Yes, sir. It were small, not like a car headlight, and it bobbled across the yard, just floating in the air.”
“So, you didn’t see anyone?”
“I think I would be half scared out of my wits if I had. Isn’t it bad enough a ghost came that night? Who knows what other night it came? I don’t think we’re safe here.” Her hands trembled. The woman worked herself into such a state of fright.
“Please, Lynette. I assure you the whole house is safe.” He steepled his fingers. “Can you trust me?”
“I suppose so, Mr. Carhill.” She cowered back another step bumping into the wall. She braced her hands against the surface and closed her eyes.
“Then rest your mind. I will find the reason for the light and restore your confidence in the safety of the house.”
She opened her eyes. “I’ll try.” A smidgeon of a smile raised the corner of her lips. A good first effort.
“Good. Now if you please, deliver me back to the sunroom then summon Ms. Holloway.”
“Very well.” She escorted him back to his interview station in the sunroom and remained outside the door after he walked inside. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Carhill, I’ll go find Ms. Holloway as you requested.”
“Thank you.” He walked back to the chair where he’d previously sat and pulled out his notebook, opening to the last recorded pages.
About five minutes later, Jeanie walked into the room. “Have you discovered anything new, Mr. Carhill?”
“I have. But now I have questions for you.”
She smiled and practically danced to the chair across from him. “Dear me, Mr. Carhill, you make it sound as if you have some great intrigue. I’m dying to hear more about it.”
“Well, you’ll have to restrain yourself. Please have a seat.”
Her enthusiasm didn’t drain for one moment. “By the way, I’ve requested lunch to be delivered. It will be here any moment.”
“That was very kind of you.” He feebly attempted to ignore her passion to weasel an update from him by clearing his throat. “Since you’ve worked closely with Mrs. Duvet for so many years, have you learned who the artist LEB is? His initials are on the—”
“The painting of the cottage window looking out at the terrace and on to a field? The one hanging in the drawing room?”
“Yes.”
“That has been Mrs. Duvet’s favorite painting since she bought it.”
“And when was that?”
“I think it was seven years ago. I’ve only heard stories from my mother. I hardly paid attention back then.”
“What did she tell you about the painting?”
She leaned forward as if to divulge a great secret. “One day, long ago, Mrs. Duvet met an artist in a gallery. This strikes me as such a romantic story.” She rested her chin on her hands. The sigh that followed reminded him of smitten women, so deeply in love…in the movies. “My mother said, Mrs. Duvet walke
d into the shop and saw him sitting on a bench, sketching the paintings on display. He sat in a corner of the room with his left foot resting on his right knee. If she hadn’t moved backwards to view one of the works better and accidentally stepped on his other foot, she might have never noticed him.” She dramatized another sigh. “Who could plan such a dreamy meeting? She spent more than an hour in the gallery looking at the paintings and talking with him and the owner. It took him that long to figure out he should ask her to accompany him on a walk.
“They strolled the city streets, stopped at a café, looked at the Eiffel.”
“Hold on. Did you say the Eiffel? As in the one in Paris?”
“That’s the one.”
“Okay, I understand. This trip to the gallery took place during the French Club Immersion trip in high school. What happened? Did they marry?” Charles Duvet could have been a second marriage.
“No, they never did. My mother said something about him dedicating his life to painting. Doomed to a happy life of poverty. Then one day she married Charles Duvet, and became Mrs. Duvet, high society woman, fulfilling the role for which her parents had groomed her.”
“Was she happy?”
“Do you mean, did she love Charles? Oh, intensely. Theirs was a marriage for the fairytale books. He understood her love for travel, especially to Europe. They went to Venice, Rome, Amsterdam, Basil, Salzburg, Tel Aviv, the list is endless. Mrs. Duvet could talk for hours about her travels. The walks through the narrow city streets. Hand in hand. Sipping tea at a sidewalk café in the shopping district along the river. I could listen to her stories for hours and hours and dream one day of doing the same.”
“Then after Charles died?”
“She nearly became a recluse. Hardly ever smiled. Rarely laughed except the days she received a letter from one of her French Club friends. The only other time I saw her smile was while gazing at this painting. Apparently, the Cinq Amis traveled to France not long after Charles died. While there, she met LEB and told him her story of the young painter she met so long ago. Taken with her love story, he painted that cottage view for her as a memory of the love she never had.” She sighed. “So romantic.”
The story had swept her not only off her feet, but far from his investigation. “Ms. Holloway?”
She blinked and sat up. “Sorry.”
“Tell me about the last two weeks before she disappeared.”
“We were so busy. Rushing about with thirty-six-hours’ worth of work to do in twenty-four. I guess I hadn’t noticed before you asked. She did look a bit brighter in spirit despite the intense schedule. She spoke more often to the staff and her words had such a cheery disposition. I don’t recall her limping hardly at all as she bustled around the house overseeing and delegating work. You’d almost think we were having guests.”
“Ms. Holloway, where do you think she is?”
She looked around the room where the greenery and blooms resembled a countryside. “I remember reading in the society magazine about a new designer who planned to visit the States around this time. He was to arrive a week ago. I wonder if she went to see him. It would be just the thing to lift her spirits for Christmas. Although I still don’t know how or why she left without any of us knowing.”
He opened Mrs. Duvet’s planning book to a page with the two different types of handwriting. He pointed to a hairdresser appointment. “Most everything in this book is recorded with this handwriting. I’m assuming it is yours.”
“Yes, that is mine.” She touched an entry.
He turned to another page. “Then there are these random few book club notations and shopping notations with a different style of writing. I assume Mrs. Duvet wrote them?”
“Yes, she did.” She nodded.
“Was there a reason why Mrs. Duvet recorded these activities?”
Jeannie leaned a bit forward toward the book. “It wasn’t because she didn’t trust me, you know.”
He nodded and waited for her to continue.
“You probably noticed the book club meetings didn’t happen regularly. If they had, I could have easily filled them in for weeks ahead.” She paused. “I have a feeling she didn’t attend a traditional book club meeting.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I never saw a book with a bookmark on her bedside table, in the library, or any other room of the house.”
“Then where did she go and what did she do?”
“That is a very good question. What say we have Thomas come back for a chat? I’ll go find him.” She opened the door to leave as the lunch arrived. “Thank you, Lynette. Please set up the meal on the table over there.” Jeannie pointed then left the room.
Lynette delivered the tray to the table, served a covered bowl of soup before him along with a baguette on the plate to the side. She set another where Jeanie sat. Between the chairs, she set a platter of half sandwiches. “The soup is butternut squash. Cook likes to highlight the season in foods. We also have shrimp salad sandwiches.” She poured tea then left the room.
Thomas must not have been far away because he practically stumbled into Lynette on the way into the room. He regained his composure, all except fingering his hat from one hand to the other. “You asked to see me, Mr. Carhill?”
Jeannie held the door for Lynette then entered the room.
Branson turned the appointment book to face Thomas. “Mrs. Duvet periodically recorded book club meetings in her book.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you drive her to them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where were these meetings held?”
“I weren’t supposed to tell anyone. Mrs. Duvet made me promise. She said to say she were going to a book club meeting. I promised her and can’t break my word.”
Jeannie scowled and rightly so. Such impertinence was not allowed by a lower ranking servant. “Will you help us find Mrs. Duvet or not? I’ll see to it that you won’t be in trouble if you answer Mr. Carhill’s question.”
He turned his hat around and around in his hand. “I can’t. She’ll dismiss me. You don’t understand. An employer has to count on the loyalty of her employees.”
Branson looked at Jeanie and shook his head. “Thomas, your dedication to Mrs. Duvet is honorable.”
The chauffeur held his hat still but kept his head lowered.
“Thomas.” Branson picked up his notepad and flipped through the pages. “You see these notes of mine? All clues to help find Mrs. Duvet, yet not one tells me where she is. It sure would be nice to have her here again, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she is?”
He shook his head. “No, Mr. Carhill. I speak the truth. I have no idea. I only pray she is safe.”
“Yes, we all want her safe, but I can’t help her more than what I’ve noted already, and as you can see, I’ve not yet found her. She isn’t here.” He motioned to the whole room.
Thomas finally raised his head and looked at Branson. “I…I…I know.”
“You could be credited with saving her life. What if she were in danger? She’d have you to thank.”
“She would? I only want her to be safe. You must believe me.”
“Then tell me where you took her for the book club meetings. Ms. Holloway and I promise you will not be dismissed for speaking the truth.”
“Very well. I took her to a gallery on the shore.”
That was a surprising answer. “Did you notice many others there?”
“I didn’t stay around too long, but there were a few who stepped out of their vehicles around the same time and went inside the gallery.”
“Were any of them holding books?”
“No.”
“Curious. What was the address?”
Thomas rattled off the number and street name as fast as Branson could write. “Thank you. You have been a great help. Now, if you’d like to leave, you may. Good day.”
Thomas nodded. “Good day, Mr. Carhill.” Then
he left.
Branson texted Mrs. Spinnaker: Contact the Gallery at the following address and find out what meeting was held on Tuesday, February 20th of this year. He included the address and pressed send.
He picked up the spoon, and after Ms. Holloway said a blessing for the food, sank the utensil into the golden creamy hot soup with pecan shavings on the top.
Jeannie blew on her soup then tasted the squash flavor. “This is so good.” She ate a second spoonful. “I don’t think she went to a book club meeting at the gallery.”
“Me either.”
Chapter Thirteen
Branson dipped his spoon into the creamy soup. “Why do you think she went to the gallery so often?”
“I think she took some form of art class, like sketching or maybe an academic class about painters.” Jeanie pressed her napkin to her lips.
“I suppose if she wanted to keep her mission a secret, she’d lean towards sketching, painting, or developing a similar talent. Due to having a less than elementary skill, she chose to hide the fact and avoid embarrassment.”
“It’s never too late to learn a skill.” Jeanie picked up a sandwich and took a bite.
Branson’s phone buzzed. He keyed in his password, opened his messages, and read Mrs. Spinnaker’s reply. The gallery had a sketching class that night. He set his phone down.
The artwork in Sylvia Duvet’s home did not indicate she had a desire to paint. No. She cherished the work of others. Perhaps LeBlanc in particular. Maybe she secretly met with someone at the gallery. But who and why?
He picked up his phone and typed a text to Mrs. Spinnaker: Find French designer of purses currently visiting NYC. He pressed send.
Branson picked up a shrimp salad sandwich and took a bite. Delicious, fresh and moist shrimp in a tasty sauce. “Ms. Holloway, you never gave me the name of the painter with the initials LEB.”
“Come now. You’ve already guessed the last name. I see it brewing in your head. The first, I was never told.”
“Leblanc? Hmm. Unusual way of signing the painting.”
As he finished the sandwich, his phone buzzed with a message from Mrs. Spinnaker: Call.