Death at the Manor, page 24
Perhaps there was someone who could be convinced to tell her how it had been managed, if she presented a sympathetic ear.
“I need to go speak with Etta,” Lily said at last. “I think it would be best if that happened before the gentleman from Bow Street arrives.”
The others fell silent, looking surprised at the interruption, though Lily did not miss the relief on Isaiah’s face. He was friendly with both maids, Lily remembered. It couldn’t have been easy for him to see Etta under suspicion and locked up.
Miss Wright grimaced at the name, but this time she did not lash out or complain. Instead, she nodded, looking resigned, and fiddled at her ring of keys until she withdrew a small iron one. “The shed where she is locked up is directly behind the kitchen garden,” she said, handing the key to Lily. “George, show Mrs. Adler the way. And stay close by while they talk—we’d not want anything untoward to happen.”
For a moment, Isaiah looked as though he was going to say something sharp in defense of his fellow servant. But instead, he nodded and bowed once more. “Of course. Mrs. Adler, if you’ll follow me?”
“You will stay with Miss Wright?” Lily asked her aunt.
“And if Mr. Hurst arrives, we will entertain him until you return,” Eliza said with a small smile that clearly indicated entertain meant stall. Lily nodded gratefully at her aunt before following Isaiah out the door.
Their footsteps echoed eerily against the high arched ceilings of the empty house. Lily expected the manservant to lead her toward the main staircase, but instead he continued down the hall toward the large bank of windows.
“If you don’t object, ma’am, there’s a staircase here that will take us down to the kitchens quicker.” The door he opened was set back in an alcove and paneled to blend into the wall; when she peered inside, Lily saw a narrow staircase that could have been the twin of the one she had discovered a few days before, though this one went only down from the floor where they were starting. Isaiah smiled a little nervously at her. “It will save you a bit of time, in the coming and going.”
“Of course,” Lily agreed. “Lead on, if you please.”
This one was a little dustier than the one she had been in already; less used, she guessed, by members of the family, and therefore not as clean. It was also brighter, with more windows along the outside wall. “Are there many of these staircases in the house?”
“Just two, other than the main stair and the servants’ stair,” he said. “Watch your step here—it’s a sharp turn. One at each end of the house. Makes it easier to get where you need to go faster in a house this big. I apologize for the dust—with such a small family in residence, they don’t get used or cleaned as often as they should. We just pat ourselves off when we need to. It isn’t as though anyone important uses them on a general basis, begging your pardon.”
“That is quite all right,” Lily said, pinching her nose to hold back a sneeze as they came to the bottom of the staircase and he opened the door to the kitchen for her. “May I ask you a question, Isaiah?”
“Of course, ma’am.” His words were polite, but the stiffness of his posture and his tone told her that he was understandably wary of what she might wish to know.
“You and Etta are close, are you not?”
“Not like that,” he said quickly. “I’m already promised—it’s a family arrangement, you see—have been for years.”
“No, of course,” Lily said. Though she had, not long before, thought exactly that about them, now was clearly not the time to mention such assumptions. “What I meant was, you have worked together for some time, have you not? And you became friends?”
“Oh yes,” he said, visibly relaxing. “Etta was easy to be friends with, for me at least. She could rub some folks the wrong way, and she could get a bit high-strung and sniffy when she was in a mood. But we got along just fine.”
“And knowing her as you do,” Lily continued as she walked toward the door to the outside, hoping that if they were moving as they spoke he would forget to be so guarded, “what do you think of this affair between her and Mr. Wright? And the accusations against them?”
“I was surprised by the arrangement between them,” Isaiah admitted. “We all found out when Miss Wright was shouting about it yesterday, and I tell you, every one of us was shocked silent. Not that I was surprised it happened, mind. With Etta being so lively, and Mr. Wright known around the village for being such a charmer … well, these things do happen.” His voice dropped. “Even if women like Miss Wright want to pretend otherwise,” he muttered.
“Then what surprised you about it?” Lily asked, ignoring the last part since she wasn’t sure she had been meant to hear it anyway.
“That she kept it a secret. I wouldn’t have expected her to be so good at that.” Lily glanced over in time to see Isaiah smile before he remembered where that secret had led his friend. His face fell. “I was shocked by the rest of it too. Etta’s always game for a joke or a prank—Mr. Mears could get fair exasperated with her—but something like stealing? Or murder?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. None of us did.”
They were coming up on the cottage, but Lily paused a few feet short, not wanting their conversation to be overheard. “And Mr. Wright?” she asked. “Did the accusations against him shock you as much?”
The wary look crept over Isaiah’s face once more. “Of course, ma’am,” he said stiffly.
“Isaiah, you can be honest. I’ll not tell either him or Miss Wright what you say to me.”
“Did you promise that to Etta, too, when she told you about her affair?” he asked pointedly, and Lily felt her face heat with guilt. He regarded her for a long moment, then sighed. “It surprised me about Mr. Wright too. Not that he’d want to rob his mother—he was that strapped for cash all the time, and everyone knew it. And he could cause a fair amount of trouble when he wanted to. But it’s one thing to break crockery at an inn when you’re surrounded by your friends and another thing entirely to …” He trailed off, looking troubled. “Well, you know.”
Lily nodded. “Thank you, Isaiah,” she said quietly. That fit with what she knew of Mr. Wright’s unadmirable character. But she also knew from experience that even the most unlikely people could do terrible things if they had worked hard enough to convince themselves that they were in the right and that everyone else had made them a victim. “Shall we go hear what Etta has to say for herself? I want to make sure she has a fair chance to say her piece.”
Isaiah looked relieved. “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “That’s good of you to do.”
The shed was an unfortunate, rundown little building, clearly not used much. But the door looked solid and unmovable, and the walls, when Lily pressed a hand against them, were heavy, cold stone. It couldn’t have been a pleasant place to spend the night, and Lily felt a pang of guilt. Thank goodness Matthew Spencer had been there to make sure Etta had some comforts.
Lily knocked at the door. When there was no answer, she took a deep breath.
“Etta?” she called gently, not wanting to scare the girl, who had been alone in the storage shed all night and no doubt was deeply anxious about what would happen to her next. “Etta, it is Mrs. Adler. I was hoping to talk to you before the magistrate arrives. He will have the man from Bow Street with him, you see. And I thought you might find it easier to speak to me before you say anything to them.”
There was still no response from inside the shed, and Lily sighed, unable to blame the maid for her resentment or fear—or whatever else was keeping her silent.
“Well, whether you want to speak with me or not, Etta, I wish to speak with you. So I am coming in.”
Lily slipped the key in the lock. But before she could turn it, something on the ground caught her eye.
There was a puddle slowly growing on the ground, creeping out from under the rough wooden door to pool across the stone step. At first glance it looked like water, but it was too dark. It wasn’t until the sharp, animal smell hit Lily’s nose that she realized what she was seeing.
Suddenly feeling ill and afraid, she pulled the key out of the door and gave it a push. It was, as she had feared, unlocked already, and it swung open with a heart-stopping screech of unoiled hinges.
The missing maid, Alice, lay sprawled across the floor of the shed, still in her evening uniform. A dinner tray lay overturned next to her, the crockery broken and the food smashed into the ground. Blood was pooling from the wounds on her face, which had been brutally smashed in, and her tidy knot of hair had come undone, its ends trailing in the dark puddle.
Lying on the ground nearby and spattered with blood, as though left behind just to taunt her, was the hat Alice had so admired.
Etta was gone.
CHAPTER 20
Ofelia sat in the corner of Mr. Powell’s office, itching to chime in as the magistrate and the Bow Street runner went over the specifics of the Wright matter, but knowing it was better to keep quiet.
Neddy stood behind her, and when he noticed one of her knees jiggling impatiently, he laid a hand on her shoulder as a reminder not to draw attention to herself. She knew he was right: both men seemed to have forgotten their presence, and they might not be so candid if they remembered they had an audience. But it was still hard to stay silent.
Mr. Hurst seemed more sure of himself now that he was dealing with business rather than something resembling social manners, and Ofelia was grateful. It would have been far too painful to watch the interaction between the two men if Mr. Hurst had still been stumbling awkwardly over his words or Mr. Powell had been looking down on him. But the magistrate seemed grateful to be able to turn the whole matter over to someone else, and Mr. Hurst seemed eager to prove himself. Ofelia wondered whether it was the first time the young man had been sent out on a case by himself.
“Well, let’s go talk to the fellow and see what he has to say for himself, then,” said Mr. Powell, pushing himself up from behind his desk. Mr. Hurst stood as well, agreeing instantly.
“I’ll come along too,” Neddy said cheerfully, beaming at both men.
They turned together to stare at him, both of them surprised enough that Ofelia knew she had been right: they had forgotten about their audience. Mr. Powell seemed unsure, and Mr. Hurst looked as though he wanted to object but couldn’t decide what to say, perhaps because he was loath to argue with a man whose rank was so much higher than his.
If one of them had objected, no doubt the other one would have agreed instantly. But Neddy took advantage of their hesitation to open the door. “Gentlemen? Lady Carroway?”
He was too amiable for them to argue with—something Ofelia had noticed happened with her husband a lot—so they all found themselves trooping out of the house and around to what the locals called the “lockup.” The small, rough structure had been added to the back of the magistrate’s house, which was not far from the village itself, and it consisted of one room with a single, high slit of a window and a heavy, locked door.
Ofelia squeezed her husband’s arm as they walked, smiling gratefully at him. She knew he didn’t approve of her involvement, but he had made sure she would be there for the conversation with Mr. Wright. “Thank you,” she said under her breath.
“Can’t say no to you, somehow,” he whispered back. “Leastways, this means I can keep an eye on you.”
“I do need a lot of that,” she replied in a saucy undertone, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Thank goodness you are here to do it.”
Neddy blushed red, but he looked pleased anyway.
“Mr. Wright?” The magistrate thumped on the wooden door, blowing out his plump cheeks when there was no immediate response. “Mr. Wright!”
“All right, all right, what do you want?” The voice on the other side of the door sounded sleepy and impatient, and somehow rumpled, but not what Ofelia would have expected from a chastened man. “Come to put an end to this nonsense?”
Mr. Powell pulled out the key from his waistcoat. “One of the constables from Bow Street is here to speak with you, and there is a lady present, so mind you watch your tongue and your manners when I open this door.”
“Powell, you know me too well for this rigmarole. I have nothing but good manners.” When the door swung open, Mr. Wright stood there, blinking in the sunlight, clad in only his linen shirt and trousers. Inside, Ofelia could see his waistcoat and jacket laid over the back of the room’s single chair, and behind him, a tousled pallet bed that he had clearly just left. His hair was untidy, his jaw covered in stubble, and there were creases on one cheek where he had been lying down. He squinted against the bright sunlight as the door opened, but still bowed politely when he caught sight of her. “Lady Carroway. Your beautiful face is a ray of sunshine in this miserable hovel. And Sir Edward! I hope you did not leave our last meeting with too much of a headache. To what do I owe the honor?”
“Thomas Wright, I presume?” Mr. Hurst asked, stepping forward. “I am George Hurst, of the Bow Street constables, and I’ve a few questions for you. I hope you understand the seriousness of the situation, sir. Your life, and that of the maid Etta, may hang in the balance.”
“It was my mother that was killed, man,” said Mr. Wright impatiently. There were dark circles under his eyes, Ofelia noticed, as if he had barely slept since his mother’s death. “Of course I understand the gravity of the situation! And I am the one who asked Mrs. Adler to write to you fellows. Do you think I’d have done that if I were the one who killed her?” He turned to glare at Mr. Powell. “Did you even tell him that the room was locked all night? No one could have gone in or out. How do you explain that?”
“We were hoping you would be willing to enlighten us, now that you’ve had a night to think on your situation,” Mr. Powell said, looking unhappy at the reminder that a good deal of the situation remained inexplicable.
Mr. Wright snorted. “I cannot enlighten you on a matter that I know nothing of. I was locked up in this very room the entire night, as you well know, sir. And I might add, it was the first undisturbed night’s sleep that I have had in days. Go talk to our gray lady if you are searching for answers. For my part, I intend to take her warning to heart and leave Belleford as soon as I am able.”
“That is quite a change of tune from you, sir,” said Mr. Powell, his bushy eyebrows lowering. “Not long ago you were giving tours of your home to those who showed interest in your ghost.” He gestured at Ofelia. “Lady Carroway among them, I believe?”
“If one must be trapped in a moldering ruin of a house, in a middle of nowhere village, one must find entertainment where one can,” said Mr. Wright, glaring right back at the magistrate. “I’ve no more love of living in a haunted mansion than any practical fellow. But the gray lady was the most interesting thing to happen here since I was born. Why should I not have made the best of it? How was I to know that her presence would end with my mother’s death?”
“The gray lady is the ghost?” Mr. Hurst asked, looking a little harried as he tried to keep up with the quick, sharp exchange. “And that’s the prevailing theory, that a ghost is responsible for the murder of Mrs. Wright?”
“No, indeed,” Mr. Powell said shortly, his face flushing with embarrassment. “I said from the very first that I did not believe the matter had a supernatural cause. And in fact—”
Mr. Wright snorted, his agitation clear in the way he kept crossing and uncrossing his arms. “That is not what you said to me.”
“And in fact,” the magistrate continued, raising his voice as his flush deepened, “it might not matter that Mr. Wright was locked up, as there is every evidence he had an accomplice in the matter.”
“Listen, man, just because I was—” Mr. Wright broke off, glancing at Ofelia, who was watching the interplay between the three men with fascination. “Begging your pardon, Lady Carroway, I’ve no wish to offend your delicate ears. But sirs, just because I was involved with a girl does not mean she and I plotted murder together. What possible reason could I have to wish my mother dead?”
“Money, as I understand it,” said Mr. Hurst, drawing himself up to his full height, which was, Ofelia had to admit, quite impressive, especially when his gangliness was hidden by stillness. “Which has motivated many a heinous crime. Your mother’d recently refused to be responsible for repaying your debts, hadn’t she?”
Mr. Wright grimaced. “She was going to come around eventually,” he muttered.
“And then the day after her death, your account with a local—how would you refer to him?” Mr. Hurst asked, turning to Mr. Powell. “Bookmaker?”
“I usually just refer to him as ‘that blackguard Clive,’” Mr. Powell said stiffly. “He is a troublesome fellow, to say the least. Though Mr. Wright and his friends seem to enjoy spending time with him.”
“Hard to say no to a fellow when you owe him so much money,” Mr. Wright admitted, looking for the first time as though he agreed with the magistrate.
“And yet you don’t owe him money anymore, do you?” Mr. Hurst pressed. “Your account, as I was saying, was settled the morning after your mother’s death. Do you expect me to believe that was a coincidence?”
“If my account was settled, it is news to me,” Mr. Wright protested. “I owe the man nearly eight hundred pounds. I doubt he is going to let me off the hook for that.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t repay him?”
“That is exactly what I am saying.” Mr. Wright crossed the room, pulling on his waistcoat and shrugging into his jacket as he spoke. “There is one way to settle this. Shall we pay a visit to Mr. Clive?”
“I do not think that is a good idea,” Mr. Powell said hesitantly, glancing at the constable.
But Mr. Hurst, to Ofelia’s surprise, shrugged. “It would settle it, as Mr. Wright says. Sir Edward, can we make use of your carriage again?”
