A Murderous Malady

by Christine Trent

  “You answered a situations vacant column?” I asked.

  This time her head bent toward the other shoulder. “Mmm, not exactly. Mrs. Herbert found me through Mrs. Birtles’s servant agency. She wanted an entirely different staff here in London than what she had at Wilton.”

  Hmm. I could understand that, for staff such as parlor maids, cooks, and the like, as a family would have one set of servants continuing on at the family manor and another set tending to the family during the London Season. However, personal servants, such as the valet and the lady’s maid, would frequently travel with the family, for they had no job to do within a household without the master and mistress there.

  How Liz managed her household was none of my business. And perhaps her previous lady’s maid—whom I recalled as having been of advanced age—had not wished to come to London, given that the Herberts were planted here for longer than just the Season each year.

  I must have been quiet for too long, for Nichols said, “I came with excellent references, you know. I have a particular talent for dressing hair.” At this, she pantomimed brushing and then braiding hair on an invisible head in front of her. Despite the fact that the maid was using only her hands, I understood exactly what she was demonstrating for me.

  “I’m also skilled with a needle.” Now it was no surprise to me that she portrayed the threading of a needle and making stitches on invisible fabric.

  Alice Nichols was probably quite entertaining to Liz on long rainy days when Sidney was locked away in his office.

  “And with a paintbrush?” I asked, nodding toward the oil painting on the wall.

  She slowly turned to look at the painting, as if she wasn’t aware of its presence. She turned back to face me and bit her lip. “That was, er, a gift to me from a dear friend.” Nichols nodded, curls bouncing against her shoulders, and I had the distinct sense that she wanted me to nod as well, as if to indicate my agreement that the picture was, indeed, a gift. Why did she feel a need to do that?

  Instead, I simply stared at her, then walked to the head of her bed to examine the painting more closely. It truly was well done. I felt I could almost walk onto the dusty street and peer into a shop window.

  I glanced in the corners of the painting. In the lower left corner, it was signed “C.H.W. à Court.” À Court? That was a family name of Liz’s. It looked as though it really had been just a gift from the Herberts to a favored servant. I did have other questions for Nichols, though. She might have insight into what the other servants—

  “Please, miss,” Nichols entreated, putting the back of her hand to her forehead as if she might faint. “I haven’t told the mistress that it didn’t mean anything, but it truly doesn’t. I shouldn’t like there to be any trouble.”

  Now she clasped her hands in front of her and shook them together, as if pleading for her life. Whatever was she talking about?

  “Pardon me?” I said, waving my hand so she would stop the dramatics. “What sort of trouble?”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip again. I think she suddenly realized that I hadn’t discovered any sort of wrongdoing of hers.

  “Mrs. Nichols,” I said gently. “Surely you didn’t steal this painting from your mistress, did you?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, never. It was truly a gift. I thought you had figured out—I thought you knew that—oh.” Nichols sat down on her bed, both hands to her cheeks, which were flaming up almost in competition with her mass of hair.

  Well, at least now I had an opportunity to sit down myself. I joined her on the bed.

  “Are you hiding something from Mrs. Herbert?” I asked quietly.

  Seconds ticked by. In the distance, I heard the wail of William Reginald, who was now all of three months old, followed by heavy steps and cooing noises. The crying ceased.

  Nichols rose from the bed and crossed the small room, turning again to face me. She kept her arms clasped around her waist, as if she were holding a cracked marble statue together. “Not such that she would know it. Please, I would be dismissed without a character reference if she knew, and it would cause all sorts of bother with the family.”

  Was I already to be led astray from my burgeoning investigation? “Why don’t you tell me the story of this painting?” I suggested kindly.

  A single tear, impossibly large, rolled down her face and ended precisely at the corner of her lips. She brushed it away prettily and swallowed. “Not many people are aware, Miss Nightingale, that I have dreams of becoming a great actress.”

  I was fairly certain that anyone spending more than ten minutes with Alice Nichols and her antics would realize that. I said nothing.

  “Mrs. Herbert’s brother, Charles Henry, was rather fond of me.” She glanced at me tentatively, gauging my reaction to this news.

  Charles Henry à Court was Liz’s only sibling. I vaguely recalled having seen him from afar once, although Liz had mentioned him affectionately on numerous occasion. In fact, she had held a wedding breakfast for him in March. I had not been invited to the small affair but had been aware of it.

  “Exactly how fond of you was he?” I asked evenly. “And did his fondness extend beyond his wedding day?”

  Nichols blushed furiously. “No, of course not. It is a truth that all of the world’s great love affairs must always end in disappointment. I, alas, am no different from all of the mortal women on this earth.”

  Now she spread her hands out in supplication to her audience of one.

  “A woman’s love goes where her heart leads her, whereas a man’s love is led by his family’s approval,” she said in a loud stage whisper.

  What twaddle.

  “Men and women have always been guided by their families, Mrs. Nichols,” I reminded her firmly. Certainly I had battled my own over the past few years and counted myself fortunate that I had managed to secure my own path in life. “And they have also always allowed their hearts to muck up their lives.” Of this, too, I had nearly been a victim. “Did you … muck up Mr. à Court’s life?”

  I could hardly believe I was having such a conversation. I had barely started this investigation and already felt as if my skirts were mired in river mud.

  “Quite the opposite, Miss Nightingale.” She sighed and melodramatically put a slender hand over her heart. I was struck by how odd I found it that Liz would continue to keep Nichols on. Her entertainment worth had already plummeted in mere minutes for me. Surely Liz was far too astute to be taken in by this.

  “Charles Henry—Mr. à Court, I mean—and I met at Wilton during the May Day celebrations last year. My poor mistress had just had little Sidney here at Herbert House and was not completely recovered, but she insisted on returning briefly to the family home to be present for May Day.

  “I assisted her in handing out pennies to the girls carrying their garland sticks. It was a lovely time, so peaceful and informal, what with Mr. Herbert and the children remaining here in London. It was as if I were her companion, not just her lady’s maid.” Another sigh and a glance to the ceiling, from which dangled a modest iron gasolier. One of the jets didn’t work, so only two of the three were sending flames up behind their glass globes.

  “Mrs. Herbert contracted a mild cold, though, and was in no condition to attend Wilton Fair the following week. She bade me go on my own, and Charles Hen—Mr. à Court—offered to let me ride in his carriage.”

  I probably could have finished the tragic story for her at this point but let her continue.

  “We spoke of so much on our trip back and forth. He was such a gentleman, and he asked me many questions about myself. He was so interested in what I had to say. I even worked up the nerve to tell him about my dreams of acting. He didn’t mock me at all. He said I was a beauty and would have wonderful stage presence.”

  I had no doubt he had said all that.

  “He confessed to me that he was an artist—and acting is an art too, you see—so that we were kindred spirits. He had painted a considerable number of works, some of which hang
inside the family home. But his father doesn’t think it a suitable pastime for the man who is intended to carry on the family name. There are no children other than Mrs. Herbert and her brother, you know.”

  I nodded impatiently. “Yes, Mrs. Herbert and I have been friends for many years, Mrs. Nichols.”

  She seemed unaware of my irritability and continued the story in her own dreamy state. “After Mrs. Herbert and I returned to London, Mr. à Court found reasons to come to town—meetings with the family banker, museum trips, and the like—and he always stayed at Herbert House so we might find some time together.”

  Another advantage of Nichols having quarters on the guest room floor. Surely Liz had had no idea what was happening above her head.

  “He had started to talk of long-term plans with me. Finding our own lodgings together, maybe even running off to America. There is an important school of painters in upstate New York, and Manhattan has many theaters. We would have been so happy.” Nichols smiled and stopped talking, caught up in her own reverie.

  “But it was not to be …?” I prompted.

  She shook her head. “No. General à Court had already seen Mrs. Herbert married off in 1846, and Charles Henry was three years her senior. He needed to be married, and his father wanted the marriage to be as brilliant as his sister’s.”

  “And a brilliant match was not to be had in his sister’s lady’s maid,” I said flatly.

  Nichols’s eyes glimmered, but this time tears did not spill down her cheeks. “No. It’s not as though the à Courts are aristocrats, are they? Did Charles Henry have to marry outside of his desires?”

  “But your mistress married an up-and-comer, and the General has already made a name for himself. It wasn’t unreasonable for the family to have expectations,” I pointed out.

  She sniffed and her eyes were clear again. “No, I suppose not. So the next thing I know, Mrs. Herbert is telling me in March of this year that her brother is engaged to a Miss Emily Currie.”

  “When did he marry?”

  “Miss Currie had the nerve to plan her wedding right around the time Mrs. Herbert was due to deliver little William Reginald. Thoughtless little …” Nichols drifted off for a moment before coming around to finish her tale.

  “Well, anyway, Mr. à Court was so kind and gentle about it all. He came to me before the wedding and explained about how he couldn’t disappoint his father and, despite his great tenderness for me, he had to follow his father’s wishes and marry Miss Currie, who came from a good background and had a yearly income. She isn’t artistic at all, though.”

  It was such a typical story of a servant falling under the spell of someone upstairs, despite Nichols’s fancy that it had only ever happened to her. I thought to tell her so, but why put her in more pain? Besides, I had my own tale of woe with Richard, even if he and I were social equals.

  “The Herberts hosted a reception for Mr. à Court and his wife. You can’t imagine what it took for me not to break down in hysterics.”

  Unfortunately, I could.

  It would have been unthinkable for me to have had to endure Richard’s wedding breakfast two floors below me. I repressed a shudder. Nevertheless, Alice Nichols was not as upstanding as Liz believed her to be. But I was not about to insert myself into it, for I had other work to do, and I had no idea how helpful Nichols might eventually be.

  “As for the painting?” I asked, prompting her again.

  Her face cleared at this remembrance, and her smile was genuine. “It was so clever of Mr. à Court. Mrs. Herbert admired her brother’s abilities with a paintbrush, even if her father did not esteem them well. He told his sister that he would likely be giving up his art entirely once he married, and as such he wanted to give her two paintings: one for herself and one for her favorite servant, whoever that might be. He knew, you see, that I would be the recipient.”

  I shook my head. “And Mrs. Herbert didn’t find this idea to be odd?”

  “Oh no, Mrs. Herbert thought it a splendid idea. So it was his way of giving it to me without Mrs. Herbert questioning it hanging on my wall.”

  “I see,” I said, thinking that perhaps I didn’t wish to know any more.

  “Mr. à Court left me a message in the painting,” Nichols continued with a flippant toss of her red curls. “Do you see it?”

  I rose to approach the painting once more, and she joined me on the other side of her bed. I could see no words in the picture other than his scrawled signature in the corner. “No,” I said, continuing to study the picture in vain.

  “Here,” she directed, pointing to a portion of the street scene where a couple walked arm in arm, facing each other. “This represents Mr. à Court and me.”

  I squinted at the place she indicated. I had to admit, the two figures did resemble Liz’s brother and Nichols. As sad and sordid as the maid’s story was, though, I couldn’t see that it had any relevance to my investigation, and it really only served to dredge up my own past hurts. And I was balancing on a very fine line between keeping the maid’s confidence and having a responsibility to my friend. It was time to change the subject.

  “Thank you for being forthright with me,” I said to conclude our conversation. I was careful not to commit to keeping her secrets, something I wasn’t sure I could do, depending on how things unfolded. “However, I am more interested in the conduct of other people in the household.”

  Now we stood facing each other across her bed. I felt a little foolish conversing with her across her mattress but hid my discomfort behind an encouraging smile.

  Her expression was one of disappointment. “Oh, of course. About whom are you curious?”

  Now I wished I had Mary Clarke at my side to take notes about this conversation. Why had I told her not to accompany me?

  “Well, have you noticed anything odd among the servants in the household?” I said.

  “What do you mean? Mrs. Herbert is a good mistress and keeps the staff in line.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she is,” I said soothingly. “For example, is there anyone new on the staff? Have there been new delivery people at the rear entrance?”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, Miss Nightingale. Those are questions for the housekeeper. I take most of my meals alone up here and don’t frequent the kitchens. In truth, I don’t know the other staff very well. I have to make myself available for Mrs. Herbert, so there’s no time for consorting with others.”

  But there had been plenty of time for Charles Henry à Court. I kept that sharp retort bitten under my tongue and tried another tack.

  “Perhaps a stranger has been in the house?” I suggested. “Someone you didn’t recognize, who may have behaved abnormally in your estimation?” I was truly grasping for a short quill inside a plump feather pillow, but I was at a loss as to how to proceed on this investigation for Sidney.

  Nichols formed another exaggerated expression on her face, this time one of great thought. I repressed a sigh of annoyance until finally she said, “I suppose you mean the General.”

  I stilled. “Mrs. Herbert’s father? I know he has been staying here over the past few months while working with Mr. Herbert. Does he have peculiar visitors?”

  Nichols considered this. “Not peculiar themselves, exactly. It’s just that I can hear people coming and going at odd hours. Early in the morning before the staff arises, or late after everyone has gone to bed. His visitors don’t ring the bell, of course. He must be on the watch for them, for it’s as if it is quiet in the house one moment, and the next I hear whispering.”

  This was far more relevant information to me than her unrequited passion for the General’s son. “Is the whispering that of a man or a woman?”

  “I cannot say for certain. The noise floats up through the floor grate, but it is quite muffled by the time it reaches me.”

  I almost laughed aloud. I would have bet the Nightingale family fortune and home that Alice Nichols spent considerable hours on her knees with her ear to the grate, straining for goss
ip.

  “What makes you certain that it is the General receiving guests, and not Mr. or Mrs. Herbert, or even one of the servants?”

  Alice Nichols smiled again, this time condescendingly, and began ticking off the reasons on the fingers of one hand. “Because, my dear Miss Nightingale, there were never any mysterious visitors until my mistress’s father came to stay. Not only that, the master and mistress never leave their rooms during the night, other than to visit each other. And we servants are far too tired to be traipsing about the house once we’re done with our day’s duties. A process of elimination, as they say.”

  What she said might or might not have been true. Servants were known to do plenty in the middle of the night while their employers lay slumbering. For the moment, though, I accepted her explanation.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me about the goings-on here at Herbert House over the past few weeks?” I asked, ready to terminate the conversation as unfruitful.

  “I’m sure I don’t think so. All I could possibly know is what Mrs. Herbert knows, since I am with her almost round the clock. Is there a way to reach you should I remember something?”

  I dug out a card from my reticule and handed it to her.

  She read aloud: “Miss Florence Nightingale, Superintendent. The Establishment for the Temporary Illness of Gentlewomen. Number One Harley Street.” She frowned. “Are you … a nurse, miss?”

  “Yes, I run a small hospital in Marylebone.”

  I almost burst into laughter again at the look of distaste that openly passed across Nichols’s face. Here was the actress lifting her nose at the nurse. I was used to dripping contempt from society members, but not from house staff. “You can see me there should you have anything more to add. Now, I should like to talk to the tiger who drove Mrs. Herbert’s carriage to safety.”

  I could see that Nichols wasn’t sure whether to keep my card or hand it back to me with two fingers. Manners finally prevailed, and she tucked it into her dress pocket. “You must mean Isaac Bent. He was the one on the carriage with Mr. Pagg.”