Bertie and the Seven Bodies

by Peter Lovesey

  CHAPTER 18

  Now, a small confession from me.

  Sweeney’s theory had impressed me mightily—more than I cared to show. I would have been proud to have thought of it my­self, which was awfully galling, considering that he was supposed to be a duffer fit for nothing more intelligent than bodyguarding duties. He had convinced me utterly that Pelham was our man, and if only I’d worked it out for myself I would have said by all means put the murderous blackguard through the mangle.

  Instead, I sounded the cautious note that you heard at the end of the last chapter, because—here’s the confession—I wanted to salvage some credit for myself. The grand unmasking of the culprit would have to be delayed. I had my growing reputation as a detective to consider. Now that we could pin the murders on Pelham, I reckoned I could put together some impressive evidence to show that my investigations had led triumphantly to the right conclusion.

  Poor old Sweeney: you should have seen his stricken look when I said, “Well, have you finished? Don’t you have some­thing else to report?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “The proof—the clincher. Out with it, man.”

  “I’ve told you all I know, sir.”

  “Come, come,” I protested amiably. “You’ve saved it up for last, haven’t you? You were keeping watch in the corridor all night. You must have seen Pelham come out of his bedroom and enter Amelia’s room. And you must have seen him returning after the deed was done.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You didn’t? But you were there.”

  “I was there, sir, and I wasn’t,” he said as only an Irishman could. “It’s true that I kept watch on Sir George’s room, but I wasn’t in the corridor. That would have been too conspicuous. I spent the night in the linen cupboard opposite. I had the door ajar to keep an eye on Sir George’s door, but I couldn’t see along the corridor.”

  “That’s a confounded nuisance. I thought you must have seen Pelham enter Amelia’s room.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you telling me that your splendid theory is entirely supposition? We need a witness—at least one witness.”

  “There were no witnesses, sir,” he said flatly.

  “Sweeney, you are mistaken. Depend upon it, someone saw the murderer this morning.”

  He hesitated. “Was it you, sir?”

  What neck! But it was no use denying where I had passed the night. I gave him my most frigid stare and said, “I was asleep at the time.”

  For that, I was subjected to a stare almost as frigid. In Sweeney’s opinion, if anyone had some questions to answer, it was me. All this must have added to his festering resentment, but I really preferred not to go into the story of how I had swal­lowed the chloral.

  He said, “All the others were asleep as well, sir, or so they claimed.”

  “So they claimed.”

  We seemed to have reached an impasse, so I started think­ing aloud, which is worth trying when all else seems to have failed. “Not everyone could have been in bed when the murder was committed. There must have been people up and about between the hours of six and seven: the servants, Sweeney, the servants!”

  “True,” he said without animation.

  “How easy it is to overlook them!” I said, since the bril­liance of my reasoning seemed to have passed him by.

  He didn’t so much as nod his head. His night in the linen cupboard had left him thoroughly out of humor.

  I continued, “Why didn’t we think of it before? The housemaids who brought the morning tea—let’s have them up and hear what they have to say. I’ll see them at once.”

  He lingered. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Well?”

  “Leave the maids to me, sir. They’ll be too scared of you to say a blessed word.”

  “My dear Sweeney, I can state without fear of contradic­tion that I have more experience of coaxing tongue-tied females to speak than any man in the kingdom. The secret is to put them at their ease. Sympathy and understanding do the trick—and my sympathy and understanding are unequaled. Now jump to it, blast you!”

  I took his point, to a degree. Housemaids aren’t used to being spoken to by anyone above the station of housekeeper. In certain houses they are expected to turn and face the wall if they happen to meet one of the family in the corridors. To be sum­moned upstairs to answer questions was daunting enough. To appear before me was another thing again. However, it couldn’t be ducked. If there was a scrap of decent evidence to be unearthed, I wanted it.

  The maid who was ushered in presently was no more than fifteen years of age by my estimate, a dumpy, black-haired child who curtseyed awkwardly and kept her head bowed. Her name, Sweeney announced, was Sarah.

  “Step closer, Sarah. I won’t eat you. How long have you worked here?”

  She took a short step towards my chair, watching the car­pet as if it were a cliff edge.

  Sweeney said smugly, “She’s nervous, sir.”

  “That is evident. Did you understand my question, Sa­rah?”

  Sarah moved her head slightly and said nothing.

  “Let’s try something more simple. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Sir,” Sweeney prompted her at once, and her mouth clamped shut, not from insolence, but sheer panic.

  I turned to Sweeney and asked whether he had succeeded in finding any other servants.

  “I did, sir. There’s another maid outside the door. Shall I ask her to step in?”

  “No. Be so good as to join her, would you?”

  There was a stunned pause. “As you wish, sir.” He turned and made his way to the door, reddening noticeably around the back of the neck.

  “So you are fifteen, my dear?” Without Sweeney’s petri­fying presence, Sarah the maid would soon respond to my charm.

  She gripped the lace edge of her apron and managed to agree that she was, indeed, the age she had said.

  “And at what hour did you rise this morning?”

  “Half past five, sir.”

  “That’s early. I expect it was quiet. Was anyone else up and about?”

  “The kitchen maids, sir. They get up at five, to clean and light the range.”

  At least a dozen words! “And what are you exactly—a chambermaid?”

  “An under housemaid, sir.”

  “What is your first task each morning?”

  “Cleaning grates.”

  “How many?”

  “Twelve, sir.”

  “And when the grates are cleaned?”

  “I make the morning tea.”

  “What time is that?”

  “Quarter past six.”

  “So early?”

  “Tea for the housekeeper, sir.”

  “Of course. Did you take tea to anyone else this morning?”

  “Yes, sir. St. George.”

  “St. George, you say?” I didn’t correct the girl. I rather enjoyed the notion of Holdfast as one of the company of saints. Lady Moira, I privately decided, was his dragon. “What time was that?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “And did you take tea to anyone else?”

  “Only Mr. Pelham, sir, just after.”

  “Mr. Pelham. Is that your daily duty, taking tea to Sir George Holdfast and Mr. Pelham?”

  “And bread and butter, thinly sliced, sir.”

  “At the same time each day this week—about seven o’clock?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Splendid. This isn’t so agonizing, is it? Now, Sarah, I want you to think carefully about this morning. When you entered Mr. Pelham’s room with the tray, did you knock first?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And he called you to come in, I expect. Did he answer at once?”

  “
I think so.”

  “So you went in. Was he sitting up in bed?”

  “No, sir. Lying down.”

  “Then what did you do with the tray?”

  “I waited for him to sit up. Then I handed it to him.”

  “Was anything said?”

  “I wished the gentleman good morning. He didn’t speak, sir.”

  “Did you happen to notice anything irregular in the room?”

  Creases of mystification appeared around the bridge of her nose.

  “Things out of place,” I explained. “Anything suggesting he might have got up in the night.”

  Just when the answers had been coming freely, she turned scarlet and stared at the floor again.

  Reading her thoughts, I said, “I don’t wish to know if he used his chamber pot. I want to know whether he had left the room, possibly only a short time before you entered. Is it light by seven these mornings?”

  “Yes, sir. Sunrise is half past six.”

  “Did you notice whether the curtains were still drawn?”

  “They was, sir.”

  “Was there, perhaps, the smell of a candle?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Did you happen to notice his dressing gown?”

  “It was hanging on the back of the door, sir.”

  “Bedroom slippers?”

  She shook her head.

  It was evident that this avenue of inquiry was leading nowhere, so I tried another. “When you brought the tea to these gentlemen, you passed Lady Drummond’s door, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you, by any chance, see anyone go in or out of that door?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you meet anyone in the corridor?”

  “Only servants, sir.”

  “No gentlemen or ladies?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you hear anything from inside Lady Drummond’s room—a shout or a scream or even the sound of people talking?

  “It’s more than my job is worth, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Listening at doors.”

  “Oh, indeed. I’m sure you wouldn’t do such a thing. But you might have overheard something as you were passing.”

  She shook her head. But she made clear her wish to help by adding, “You could ask Singleton.”

  “Who is he?”

  “It isn’t a man, sir. She’s waiting outside.”

  “Doesn’t she have a Christian name?”

  “I don’t know, sir. She’s the lady’s maid.”

  The social distinctions below stairs are every bit as rigid as our own. “Then would you ask Singleton to step in here? You are dismissed. It goes without saying that none of what we have discussed should be repeated to a living soul. I mean that, Sarah. Do you know what will happen if you gossip?”

  “The Lord will find out, sir, and I will surely burn in hell.”

  There was nothing I could profitably add. The interview had been pretty unproductive, but I suppose you can’t expect a fifteen-year-old to supply the entire case for the prosecution.

  I looked more hopefully at Singleton as she entered, a fig­ure of more poise, at least twice the age of Sarah, with pleasing­ly mature proportions, and reddish-gold curls kept tidy by a white ribbon. She had a neatly proportioned face. A little pow­der over the shiny parts and she could well have passed for a lady.

  Sweeney sidled up to me and asked stiltedly whether I wished him to remain.

  “Provided that you don’t interfere,” I told him in confi­dence. “Simply observe. Leave this entirely to me and you will see how diplomatic one has to be in coaxing them to tell what they know.” Then I bestowed a broad, disarming smile on Singleton. “Thank you for waiting. I believe you are the lady’s maid.”

  She answered, “Yes,” and immediately covered her face with her apron and burst into convulsive sobs.

  “Oh, my hat!” I said. “What on earth is the matter?”

  She didn’t respond. I doubt if she heard me, the wailing was so terrific.

  Now, if there’s one thing I cannot cope with, it’s a female who pipes her eyes. Having fathered three daughter’s I ought to be equal to the challenge by now, but I am still at a loss each time it happens. I sprang up to offer Singleton my handker­chief and she ignored it and howled even more loudly. I walked around her once and put my hand on her elbow and mur­mured what I thought were consoling words. As those didn’t work, I told her sharply to pull herself together, whereupon she turned and fled.

  Then I became aware of Sweeney’s malignant eye on me. “Don’t just stand there, damn you!” I thundered. “Go after her. Calm her down and bring her back in a better state of mind.”

  Fully fifteen minutes passed before he returned with the wretched woman. The tears had stopped, thank heaven, but her face was fearfully puffed up.

  “What do you think?” I asked Sweeney.

  “I think she can take it now, sir.”

  “All I did was mention her job,”

  “That was the trouble, sir. She’s lost it.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, she’s the lady’s maid and the Lady is no more.”

  “Ah.” There was undeniable logic in what he said. I made a second start with Singleton. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about your personal prospects, but I’m sure that every effort will be made to find you another position, if that is what distresses you.”

  For a moment I thought we were in for a repeat perfor­mance. The eyes glistened again. She said, “I’m dreadfully sorry, Your Royal Highness. I wasn’t crying for myself. I was crying for my mistress, God rest her soul. It’s horrible . . . so cruel. Lady Drummond treated me so kindly always. Three years, I’ve been her lady’s maid.”

  “And you can render her a final service by helping me to discover exactly what happened,” I said.

  “I would if I could. I know nothing, sir.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. I have some simple questions. What time did you rise this morning?”

  “Half past six, sir.”

  “And what are your duties in the morning?”

  “I take tea on a tray to my Lady’s room at half past seven, sir, and a jug of hot water for washing twenty minutes after. This week I have done the same for Miss Dundas.”

  “Do you mean that you go into their bedrooms?”

  “No, sir. Not into my Lady’s room. I was instructed to knock and leave the tray and the jug on the floor outside the door.”

  “That was the arrangement this morning?”

  She modestly lowered her eyelids. “All the week, sir.”

  Poor Amelia—her secret hopes laid bare. “So you had no reason to enter the room this morning? Did you hear anything when you knocked?”

  “There was no answer, sir.”

  “Did that strike you as peculiar?”

  “No, sir. I supposed that it was not convenient for my Lady to respond at that minute.”

  Discreetly expressed. “Now tell me, did you happen to see any other person in the corridor?”

  “Nobody except servants, sir.”

  Virtually identical to the answer I had got from Sarah the housemaid.

  Singleton added, “The corridors are fairly swarming with servants at that time, delivering the tea and the jugs of water and clean shoes.”

  “People you know?”

  “Not all of them, sir. We’ve had so many extra below stairs this week that we had to take our meals in sittings. Some of them have left, but there are still plenty who are strangers to me, such as Sir George’s retinue and your own.”

  “I understand. So it would seem that nobody had any rea­son to enter Lady Drummond’s rooms between six and seven this morning.”

  “N
o servant, anyway.” She frowned thoughtfully and put her hand to her mouth.

  “Is there something you wish to add?” I asked.

  “I don’t know if it’s my place to mention it, but the cham­bermaid found a cigar butt under the bed when she swept my Lady’s room this morning.”

  “No,” I said rapidly, “it wouldn’t be significant. Could have been there for days, you see.”

  She reddened. “The rooms are swept and dusted every morning, sir.”

  “So after you left the tray outside the room,” I firmly resumed, “what did you do?”

  “I returned to the kitchen and brought up the tray for Miss Dundas.”

  “Ah. And what was your arrangement with that good lady?”

  “Miss Dundas comes to the door when I knock, sir.”

  “I know.” Hastily I explained, “That is to say, I would expect it. She is an explorer, trained to react to the slightest sound. Did she have anything to say to you?”

  “She ordered breakfast in her room, sir, for half past eight. I was to pass on the message that she wouldn’t be down for breakfast.”

  Everything these servants had told me appeared to con­firm the statements already made by the guests. I tried yet another tack. “As the lady’s maid, you must have known Lady Drummond more intimately than any other person in this house.”

  That almost made her purr. “I dare say that is true, sir.”

  “You looked after her clothes and attended to her hair. You must have had many conversations.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I want to ask you about the things she may have said to you in the last few days. Did she admit to any fears?”

  “Fears?” Singleton pondered the question. “I don’t know about fears. She was extremely agitated about the dreadful things that happened, but I don’t think she knew fear. She was the bravest lady I ever had the good fortune to serve, sir. She bore Lord Drummond’s dreadful accident last year with won­derful fortitude.”

  “So I gathered, but I’m talking about this week. Did she pass on any suspicion she may have had about the person responsible for the tragic events?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did she speak of her brother at all?”

  “Mr. Marcus?” She gave me a sudden guarded look. “I would rather not speak about him, if you will forgive me, sir.”