by Joan Smith
“He’ll have Robinson, like his first wife did,” Mrs. Steyne thought. “He always likes to give the work to local people when he can. I wonder he didn’t have himself painted when Robinson was here.”
“He was busy with something or other. It was in the spring, and he’s always busy around the estate to shore up after the winter.”
When this discussion was done, Molly told the women her plans for a new gown. “Maybe you’ll look in your sewing basket for some trim, Mrs. Steyne,” she said.
“Go get it now if you like, my dear. You know where it is, in my room.”
When she came back, Bess was with her. While the two girls rooted through an enormous straw basket, I took a peek for other signs of Rosalie’s gowns, but there was so much—literally hundreds of buttons—that I could not make positive identification. One plain white or even mother-of-pearl button is much like another.
“I suppose Molly was showing you Darby and Joan?” Bess asked, turning to me with a bright, curious look in her eyes.
“Yes, frightening, aren’t they?” I asked.
“As ugly as sin.”
“That’s all we looked at,” Molly said, in a defensive way, “so if you were running to madame to tell her where we were, I hope you didn’t tell her we were into her papers.”
“Oh, I don’t fancy you’ll try that stunt again,” Bess said. “Our little Molly got her face slapped, you know, the last time she went spying where she was not supposed to, Jane.”
Molly’s cheeks were stained bright-red with shame, or perhaps anger. Tears were not far from trickling down her cheeks. At that moment, I felt a strong urge to return the compliment, lay a hand across madame’s own cheek, or Bess’s. Even while I quelled my wrath, it struck me that madame was very much concerned about her papers, those papers that Rosalie had looked into. Was that why she had been got rid of?
Mrs. Steyne asked Molly to take her basket back, did it out of kindness to change the subject, and give Molly privacy for her tears.
“I must go and get Bobby now,” I said, wishing to escape the unpleasant atmosphere myself. As the weather was raw and windy, we did not go for a walk. I was eager to get back to the nursery for more lessons. When Bobby began looking to the doorway at about six o’clock, then asked, “Papa come now?” I assumed this was the regular hour for Mr. Palin’s visit.
“He is away today. He’ll come tomorrow evening.”
“Bad Papa,” he said, with his lower lip jutting out to show his displeasure. Soon I had beguiled him into a happier mood. He became affectionate as bedtime rolled around. I think I liked Bobby best in his tired mood. He was quieter, docile.
“Miss Bingie sing Bobo?” he asked, with a coaxing smile.
“Yes, I shall sing you a lullaby,” I promised.
“Rock-a-bye,” he chanted. I sang “Rock-a-bye Baby” a few times, noticing his eyelids becoming heavier as he tried valiantly to stay awake.
“Good Tummy,” he muttered at the end.
“Good Bobby,” I replied, patting his little tousled head. In his fatigue, he reverted to his pet name for my sister. I had a strong feeling the soft-hearted Rosalie had sat on this bed, singing him to sleep. A strong, strange feeling pervaded me that she was here still, in spirit, looking over my shoulder. I have never had any interest in ghosts, but were I a believer, I could easily have convinced myself she was present, an invisible force, there with us. Where was she? What had happened to her? Why were the buttons from her best tweed suit in Martin’s dustbin?
A hot tear scalded my cheek as I sat in the dim room, lit only by a shaft of light from the doorway. The tear reminded me of poor Molly, with her Bible wrapped up in silver paper, too good to read. Who could bring herself to slap such a sweet, innocent girl?
I arose softly and went to my own room, to sit in the gloom, not wanting any light, in my worried, sorrowful mood. I was not making the swift progress I had hoped for. What had I really discovered? That Bess had entered my room, and removed the hairpin. That Bess was madame’s spy, that Rosalie was intrigued by the cartons in the attic, and madame wished no interference with them, that madame had slapped Molly for looking, and that madame had offered my sister the ring. That I had known when I came, but I now knew the ring was a family heirloom, not really madame’s to give. She only gave it to be able to accuse Rosalie of theft, and turn her off. I knew Rosalie walked on the moors, perhaps to meet Mr. Rupert, and I knew madame rode on the moors, in the same direction, toward the hut Molly had mentioned.
Maybe that was not a small number of items to have discovered in two days. I lay down and closed my eyes, to sort and sift my discoveries. The buttons in the wastebasket bothered me most of all. I pictured the stiff-backed Martin sitting alone in a room, snipping the silver buttons off and throwing them out. Theft was not the reason for removing them. Why then? If she had wished, for some reason, to dispose of the suit, why not throw the buttons away with it? But why throw away a perfectly good suit? One would only do that if there were no further use for it. If Rosalie had left, she would have taken her good tweed suit with her. She had not left anything else behind, except one tortoiseshell hairpin.
Had they taken her away somewhere, against her will? I pictured her locked up.... But it was absurd. Who would be guarding her, over two months now she had been gone? If she had such dangerous information as that, she must always be a menace, for fear of escaping, but no one in the house seemed worried about that. She would have escaped long ago; Rosalie was a fighter. She was not locked up, and she had not packed up her own bags and left here. So where was she? My next thought was so horrible it left me panting on my bed, as my heart hammered against my ribs in deep distress.
She wasn’t anywhere. Not alive—she was dead. They had killed her. Rosalie would not sit still for madame’s accusations of theft. She would talk, tell the world whatever it was she had learned, here at Palin Park. So they killed her. Cleaned out her room and let on Mr. Palin had driven her to the stage in Widecombe, but in fact they had disposed of her belongings in some other manner, burned them probably. The silver buttons took on a new significance. Silver will not burn.
If one wished to hide all traces of something, one burned it. The gowns had been burned, and the buttons tossed into the wastebasket for throwing out. It had not occurred to Martin that the scavenging housekeeper would go through the wastebasket when she knew there had been “wardrobe renovations” that day. She had not suspected that the incriminating buttons had been given to Molly.
It was odd Molly had not recognized them. But Rosalie had come in April, left in mid-September—warmish weather all the time. The buttons were on a thick tweed suit only worn in the colder months. That was why no one had seen them.
I lifted my hand to rub my aching head. It came away wet. I was bathed in perspiration, feeling very cold all over. The trembling that shook me might have been aggravated by panic. I knew Rosalie had not run off with some man, I feared for her fate, but my worst fears had never included murder. I could conceive of no knowledge awful enough to make that drastic step necessary. If such knowledge were in the cartons in the attic, madame would have been rid of them long ago.
Once the premise of murder was taken, however, the subsequent happenings fell into logical place with tragic ease. The letter to me in London first, telling me she had left, then later the intimation she had gone to America, so far away there was no fear I would try to follow her. Had they claimed some innocent death for her, I might have come pouncing down on them, asking why, how, and other embarrassing questions.
No, much safer to say she had left, and that they were as much mystified as I was myself. Hope of hearing from her must eventually fade, and it would be forgotten. Meanwhile, they were sure of being asked no questions by appearing offended about her untimely departure.
So I had discovered more than I had first thought. I had discovered Rosalie had been murdered. The two prime things to be ferreted out now were why, and by whom. Clearly Mrs. Palin was involved,
Martin as well. Was Mr. Palin a part of the conspiracy? He was thoroughly devoted to his wife; he might be protecting her, but I felt he was not involved in any other way. He seemed a gentle man, so tender with his son, and with such sorrowful eyes. And so handsome!
Fool! This was no time for sentiment. Of Bobby’s innocence, at least, there was no question. I would not cease my efforts to help him, an innocent child. With such people in the house, he needed all the help he could get.
There was a tap at my door. I sat up stock straight, shivering harder than ever. Was it them, come to get me? I said nothing, while the inside of my chest tightened painfully in fright. “Jane, are you awake?” Molly called in. The relief was palpable.
“I have a little headache, Molly. I’ll be down in half an hour.”
“That’s too bad. I’ll ask Cook to make a cup of tea.”
Tea, the sovereign remedy, would do little for my condition, but I must go on with my investigations. Now more than ever it was necessary to continue with my plan. I would be the friendliest nursemaid who ever stepped foot in a gentleman’s house, till I had got everyone’s secrets out of them. If they were all as easy as Molly, my job would be easy.
Oh, but they would not be! Regina Palin, for example, I knew would be a perfect sphinx under my deferential questions. No matter. Water will wear away stone. If I had to stay till I was old and gray, I would learn the truth, and someone would pay for Rosalie’s life.
My panic subsided after speaking to Molly. I was becoming fanciful. The only real evidence suggesting death—murder—was six silver buttons. They were memorial buttons, probably produced in quantity when Victoria came to the throne. It was possible Regina possessed some of them. But six of them?
Exactly the same number as had been on Rosalie’s tweed suit, and thrown out at the time Rosalie disappeared? Circumstantial evidence, I believed, was the word for it. I would see what other circumstances added themselves to the case.
Chapter Ten
Mr. Palin returned late on Friday evening, too late to see his son. He came to the nursery Saturday morning. I was tempted to tell him of my discovery, to show off the progress we had made, but resisted, in order to surprise him with a very marked improvement later on.
“How are you making out, Miss Bingham? You are not letting my son run you ragged, I hope?”
“Not in the least. We rub along very well, sir.”
“That’s good. Excellent. It relieves my mind considerably to know we have found someone trustworthy to look after him.”
I noticed the furrows in his brow, the concern in his eyes as he looked at his son. “Shall I leave you alone?” I asked.
“Yes, please.” Before I left, Bobby was hopping up on his father’s knee. I wondered what they did there, alone together, the man and strange little boy. In what manner did they communicate? I wondered too if the father would notice already some slight improvement in the child.
When I returned half an hour later, they were on their hands and knees on the floor, playing with a set of trains, the object of which game appeared to be for Bobby to knock his father’s cars from the tracks by main force, then laugh exultantly at his accomplishment. It was hard treatment for an expensive and well-made toy, but no doubt the father thought it the only sort of game his son could understand, or enjoy. I had seen Bobby play more intelligently with this same set of trains when he was alone, backing the cars up carefully, unhooking others to form another train.
In the afternoon, Molly drove Bobby and myself to Widecombe in the trap. Huck, the dog-cat, I had forcibly ejected from the nursery in the interest of accomplishing some work there. He lurked at the stable, and was highly incensed when he was not given a seat in the trap. He ran after us down to the road, just like a dog.
I took a close grip on Bobby’s hand once we reached the village, as there were a good number of carriages and horses on the main street, and I did not wish him to bolt on me. The boy did not have much pleasure from the trip. Molly was a dallier. For a good forty-five minutes she fingered bolts of material in the drapery shop, trying to decide what color best suited her. When at last I nudged her toward a pretty forest green shade, which suited her better than the gaudy scarlet she had in her eye, we were faced with a nearly insurmountable problem of whether three or three and a half yards were required.
“I would like a few pleats in the skirt,” she worried, mentally toting up shillings and pence to determine whether she wanted them badly enough to pay the price.
“You won’t have the expense of buttons, Molly, as you have those pretty silver ones,” I reminded her.
“That’s true. Genuine silver buttons deserve a pleated skirt, don’t you think, Jane?”
“Certainly I do. There is no question of it.” I nearly said “indubitably,” in the mock-haughty way Rosalie would have done. I was making some progress in my masquerade.
“I’ll take the three and a half yards then,” she finally concluded.
We made our compulsory tour of the everything store to admire the latest magazines and books, the cheap bits of costume jewelry, the toys and games and crockery. Bobby helped himself to a handful of sugarplums from an open container on the counter. I tried to pay the proprietor for them, but he brushed my offer aside.
“That’s all right, miss. The wee chap don’t know what he is about. Mr. Palin is a good customer.”
I resented the implication that my charge was not bright enough to realize he could not take things that did not belong to him. How was he ever to learn, if no one told him? There was more than the half of his problem. “No, he must pay,” I insisted, counting the pennies into Bobby’s hands, one for each sweet.
“You’re daft, Jane,” Molly told me as we walked away.
I made my stop at the post office to mail my letter to Aunt Harriet. After careful considering, I had not written to her about my fears for Rosalie’s life. In the cheerful light of morning, the case did not seem so desperate. I was by no means sure I had been led by logic, and not emotion.
It was upsetting to me, my first sojourn away from home. I was lonesome, distraught, worried, and painting things the darkest possible color. Perhaps I was right, but I would not worry Aunt Harriet yet. It was at the post office that Bobby discovered an object that interested him greatly.
There was a sporting carriage outside, the reins being held by a street urchin. Harnessed up to it was a smart pair of grays, trim and lithe. I do not know whether it was the horses or carriage that intrigued him more, for he was extremely fond of both. The carriage was a jaunty yellow with black-and-gilt trim, a black leather calash top and leather upholstered seats, the whole affair shiny and new.
“My, isn’t that grand!” Molly sighed.
Bobby darted forward to stroke the team, then to walk all around the carriage, staring with fixed attention at the lamps, the rather low wheels, the interesting swan-neck shape of the body. Before I realized what he had in his mind, he had stepped on the footstep and bolted into the driver’s seat. I ran after him, afraid the owner would come and complain of this misdemeanor. He was by no means easy to pull away from the rig. His little fingers reached for the reins. I struggled to restrain him. While I was at this, the owner approached, smiling at my predicament.
It was a fashionable young gentleman, tall and athletic. He wore a low-crowned hat, what Aunt Harriet called, with great distaste, a “wide-awake,” a dark frock coat and plaid trousers, which tended to set him apart from the country men on the street of Widecombe, who wore corded breeches. The hat was removed, revealing his dark hair, curled close to his head. His eyes were bright blue, laughing.
“If Master Robert succeeds in wrestling the reins of those grays, I shall have him drawn and quartered,” he said, as his eyes slid over me in an interested way. I am sure I blushed. My looks were not of that kind that elicited keen interest from young gentlemen. When I walked down the street with Rosalie, I had often noticed how all eyes turned to admire her, hardly even noticing I was with her.
/>
I was surprised that he recognized Bobby, as Molly claimed no familiarity with the carriage. She spoke up just then. “Oh, Mr. Rupert, I didn’t know it was your rig. How fine it is. Is it new?”
“Hello, Molly,” he said, looking toward her. “Yes, just picked her up in Exeter yesterday. How do you like it?”
“It’s lovely!” she declared, her gap-toothed smile just peeping out.
“I hoped to impress all the girls with it. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
It was his carefree manner that reminded me of Cousin Jerome, rather than his actual appearance, though they were of the same general type—tall, dark and not bad-looking, without quite reaching the heights of “handsome.”
“This is Miss Bingham. She’s the new nursemaid at Palin Park.”
“So I assumed, when I saw this little monkey trying to steal my rig,” he said, tweaking Bobby’s ear. Bobby scowled at him and climbed down from the carriage to put his hand in mine. He began tugging at me, indicating a desire to leave. I was eager to remain, not only because Mr. Rupert was rather good-looking, but because I knew him to have been my sister’s friend.
“Just a minute, Bobby,” I said.
“Bingie go now,” he ordered.
“Afraid of the competition, eh, my good man?” Mr. Rupert laughed. “A jealous tyrant, like his father,” he told me. “You must stay long enough for me to say good day, at least. I only get to flirt with the girls from Palin Park on Saturday and Sunday, you must know. Their employers keep them locked up like the treasures they are all the rest of the week. How are you liking it there, Miss Bingham?”
“Very much.”
“Molly is so stunned by my new carriage she forgot to tell you my name. I am Ronald Rupert, at your service, ma’am.” He bowed gracefully. “Should you decide to leave Palin Park and buy your own mansion, be sure to contact me. I am the local real estate agent. I even sold a house once, about a year ago.”