The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

  I made my way around the hall, avoiding Alex and Bertie. I didn’t feel like dealing with Alex’s games. But as I walked closer to the stables, I saw him watching me through a window, and I worried that he’d come to find me. I quickened my pace, coming back out to the front of the house, which was where I found her.

  Halfway down the lawn, I saw Roisin and Ade talking by the rose garden. That in itself wasn’t odd, or maybe it was, because Roisin and Ade didn’t tend to talk much. I thought about walking down there and joining in, but the conversation didn’t seem casual—it felt as though it was intense—and I got the sense that I’d be intruding if I interrupted them. Instead, I turned around and headed back to the hall, which was when I saw Mrs Huxley coming up the drive. The surprise of finding myself face to face with her and the fact that I’d followed her earlier made me jolt. I hoped she didn’t notice. In an attempt to cover up my reaction, I smiled and waved. She did not return either.

  I thought nothing of it and returned my attention to Roisin and Ade. Roisin wasn’t there anymore.

  Chapter 31

  Roisin didn’t come back to the hall that evening, which seemed out of character for her, leaving me with a sour taste in my mouth. I waited up until after midnight, unable to concentrate on the romance novel I was skim reading. Every text I sent to her went unanswered. When I tried Pawel and Ade, they sent back messages saying she wasn’t with them. Eventually I fell asleep around one a.m. and woke up again around five, immediately turning on my lamp to check if she’d come back. Her bed was empty. Panicked, I called her phone only to find it vibrating underneath her pillow. A prickling sensation spread across my scalp. That was the point when I flung the door open and ran barefoot down the corridor, still in a T-shirt and shorts, to Mrs Huxley’s room. Breathless, I pounded the door until she opened it.

  She was in a red dressing gown and slippers with her hair tucked into a silk headwrap. She didn’t seem angry—more confused—when she saw me.

  “Roisin is missing,” I said, the words coming out rapid-fire. “She never came to bed last night. I just woke up, and she’s not there. Her phone is underneath her pillow, and Pawel hasn’t seen her since earlier. I don’t know where she is.” My hand reached out, tensed, and returned to my side.

  “Okay, I’ll help you look,” Mrs Huxley said. “You should put warm clothes on and some shoes. Highwood is a big place.”

  She was right. I ran back to my room, pulled on a pair of jeans and some trainers, then met Mrs Huxley back at the kitchen.

  “I’ll need to inform Lord Bertie,” Huxley said. “While I do that, you can check the servants’ corridors. Perhaps she’s slipped and fallen somewhere.”

  I nodded my head and began the search, hurrying into the network of hallways behind the walls. There were bare bulbs above my head as I worked through them, making me feel like a prisoner escaping through a tunnel. I pictured every room I passed—the library, the bedrooms, the dining room—and considered stepping through the tiny hidden doors into those spaces. But we needed to be systematic, and I had to be sure she wasn’t passed out or hurt somewhere.

  A feeling of claustrophobia swept over me the longer I stayed in the corridors, yet at the same time I was devastated not to have found her. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to admit that she was gone. I came out on the upper level near the stairs, just about to make my way down—I’d decided to avoid the spiral staircase, having already checked it on the way up—when I heard voices coming from the entrance hall. Instinct told me to hide. Silently I folded myself into the tiny cupboard behind the painting.

  I didn’t dwell on why I hid, but I did gently move the tiny piece of metal covering the peephole and watched Lord Bertie and Mrs Huxley standing there in their pyjamas. Huxley stayed close to the door with Bertie above her on the last staircase step. I saw from the way Mrs Huxley held herself that she was tense, whereas Bertie seemed more relaxed, one arm resting on the banister.

  “When did you last see her?” Huxley asked him.

  “Before I left for London,” he said. “I’m not sure when it was. Perhaps Thursday evening.”

  Mrs Huxley’s frown led me to believe she knew about Roisin and Lord Bertie. If I hadn’t known it, I would’ve thought nothing of her standard question.

  “I’m worried,” Huxley said. “We’ll have to phone the police.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” Bertie replied. “I’m sure she’ll turn up. She’s a young girl; she’s probably out partying. Where’s the other girl?”

  “I sent her through the servants’ corridors.”

  “Good,” Bertie replied.

  “Should I check the north wing?” Huxley said.

  Lord Bertie simply shook his head. She nodded, and then she walked away, heading towards the Howards’ living quarters. I stayed where I was, frozen in place, as Bertie turned around and started walking back up the stairs. Gently I closed the peephole in case he noticed it was open. And then I remained, very, very still, too afraid to even breathe. Why was he walking up the stairs so slowly, practically pausing before moving each foot? Or was I imagining it? The gentle creak of one step, then the next. The hushed shuffle of slippers on carpet. And then finally… silence.

  Or not. I could no longer see what he was doing, but I was sure that he’d paused extremely close to the cupboard. Was he there? Outside the door, leaning close? Listening? Was that the sound of him breathing, the tiniest hint of a whistle through the nose?

  Hot, viscous air swamped me, infiltrating my lungs. Everything smelled like old wood, dust and oil paint. Every part of me wanted to fling the door open and escape that tiny space, but I couldn’t. I pressed a hand over my mouth, and I listened, waiting for a sign that he’d walked away. What if he was gone and I was waiting needlessly? A man in slippers and a dressing gown would be quiet, but surely I’d hear movement.

  And then, just as I was about to exit the hole, I heard the barest swish of fabric. The hushed shuffle of his slippers continued, growing fainter and fainter as he walked away. Finally, while silence settled in the house, I pressed my forehead against the wooden frame and allowed myself to breathe. As I crept out of the cupboard, I wiped sweat from the back of my neck with shaking hands, making my way down the stairs to see if I could find Mrs Huxley.

  I’d been sure at the time that Lord Bertie waited at the top of the stairs, suspicious of being watched. But if that was true, why didn’t he just open the cupboard door? This was his house; he could do what he wanted. But perhaps he’d paused to check his phone or catch his breath. Either that or I’d let nerves and paranoia take hold of my senses.

  I hurried through the house, checking the morning room, the dining room, the snug and the living room, but there was no sign of Roisin or Huxley. When I reached the window that overlooked the fields out towards Paxby, I double-backed on myself following the long corridor towards the kitchen. It was there I found Mrs Huxley in the dining room, staring at Lady Laura’s portrait. Surprised, I entered, wondering where she’d been before. She didn’t turn around as I entered, so I cleared my throat to announce my presence. She turned quickly, startled, a rare expression of concern on her face. Again, it surprised me to see her so human.

  “I didn’t find her.”

  “Okay,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should try the grounds.”

  “And then call the police?”

  She bit her lip. “Yes, and then we call the police.” She made her way out of the dining room, crossed the great hallway, and pulled back a heavy drape. “It’s still dark out. We should get torches. There’s some in the kitchen.”

  This time I had no problem keeping up with the housekeeper. I ran on adrenaline now. My stomach churned with nerves. Even though I’d known Roisin for little more than a few weeks, I knew she wasn’t the kind of girl to run off without her phone and not tell anyone where she was going. I knew she wasn’t this flaky. She liked the people at Highwood far too much to put them through needless stress. No, none of that was like
her, and when the realisation hit, it made me want to double over and vomit onto the antique carpet. Once we’d reached the kitchen, I experienced a strange sort of reluctance to everything I was faced with past that point. I didn’t want to take the battery-powered torch that Mrs Huxley passed to me. I didn’t want to leave the building and split up so we could cover more ground. But I did it because every second counted.

  I wanted nothing less than to walk down the lawns towards the rose garden, but I did. I even continued past the roses, ignoring their sickly sweet scent because it added to the nausea. I continued down to the retaining wall. The sound of her voice filled the air, and I didn’t want to hear it. As I replayed her song in my mind, I heard the pain in the melody. I even saw the ghost of her jump down from the wall and run away. Ghosts. That’s what we are. What we’ll ever be to the men who go back to bed when one of us is missing.

  I placed my hands on the wall and gazed out at the dark woods. Nothing. I lifted the torch and waved it up and down the line of trees. Nothing. No. Something. I wafted the torch beam again. Yes, something.

  Even though I didn’t want to, I climbed over the wall and walked slowly towards the woods. With every step, my body longed to turn around and run back. Every instinct screamed at me. The blurry image before me became clearer the closer I got. The pale length, hanging, swinging gently, grew bigger and bigger until my body told my mind that I had to run. I broke into a wobbly sprint that shook the light so vigorously that it bounced around, turning my vision into an unsteady camera. The pale length came closer until I was right next to it. I flung my arms around her dangling feet, imagining that I was Margot helping her daughter down from the chandelier in the dining room. But what I wrapped my arms around was cold and lifeless.

  Chapter 32

  Mrs Huxley found me on the grass, staring at the torch beam. The torch itself I’d dumped near my feet. I sat there, alone, waiting for the police, staring into the bright light to block out the sight of her swinging legs. The housekeeper silently placed her dressing gown over my shoulders and walked towards Roisin’s body. I opened my mouth to tell her not to, but nothing but a raw squeak came out. I pulled my eyes away from the light and saw her place a hand on Roisin’s foot, before staggering back.

  Roisin deserved more than this. The beautiful girl with the beautiful voice deserved more than to die in the cold below a twisted, malformed branch. And for the briefest of moments, I thought to myself that it should have been me instead. Then there were flashing lights, a wailing noise, and a car that hurried across the gravel drive. Someone helped me to my feet and walked me back to the hall where I saw the Howards lined up outside the entrance in their pyjamas except for Lord Bertie, who had changed into trousers and a shirt. Alex stood with his hands deep in the pockets of his purple silk dressing gown. Lottie chewed her thumbnail, pressing her weight from one leg to the other, shivering in her shorts and strappy top. Margot stepped forward and embraced me. Her scrawny arms wrapped around my neck.

  “Oh, you girls,” she said. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  I pulled myself away from her, confused and upset. Lord Bertie took her by the arm and moved her away from me while Alex’s cold blue eyes observed me.

  “What is she saying?” I asked someone. I don’t know who. Not Alex.

  “Mo-mo gets confused sometimes,” Lottie answered. She was crying. I wanted to slap the tears from her cheeks. She had no right to cry.

  After that, everything went by in a blur. I was given a hot cup of tea in the living room. It felt strange to be sitting on one of the Howards’ sofas. I stroked the fabric in bewilderment, my mind fractured and easily confused. A policewoman sat next to me and asked me questions I mumbled the answers to. Across the room, Lord Bertie leaned against the wall, one hand on his hip. I saw him refuse a drink. He spoke to no one. All he did was watch.

  I had never felt as alone as I did, sitting in that room full of people as I answered question after question. Alex and Lottie hovered around in the background while Mrs Huxley spoke to another officer close to the door. Margot was sitting on the sofa opposite, her skinny legs crossed, a cigarette burning through as she stared into space. Her grey hair was loose and frizzy around her face. Once the police officers were done talking to us, they spoke to each other in hushed tones. And then Pawel arrived for work. I watched his features crumple in as the policewoman took him to one side.

  After she had informed Pawel of Roisin’s death, the policewoman made her way back and took her place on the sofa next to me again. “I found a letter addressed to you in Roisin’s bedside table.”

  I turned sharply. “What sort of letter?”

  “A suicide note, I’m afraid,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe it. Not Roisin. No. This wasn’t happening. “Can I see it?”

  “Of course,” she said, passing me an A4 piece of white paper that had already been placed in a plastic bag. It was evidence now, I supposed. There would be an inquest or an investigation. I didn’t understand the terminology, but I knew they’d need to make sure Roisin killed herself.

  I found it difficult to hold the letter with my cold, shaking fingers. I placed it on my knees and leaned over to read it, but the contents left me cold. The note showed me nothing of the Roisin I knew.

  I’m so sorry. Please contact my family and tell them I loved them. This isn’t because of them. I just can’t go on.

  “Take it away,” I said, closing my eyes tightly.

  “I need to ask you a question first.” I opened my eyes and turned to the officer. She had a round face and a widow’s peak, giving her a heart-shaped appearance. The softness must be useful for a police officer, I thought. Constantly being underestimated can be an advantage. “Can you identify Roisin’s handwriting for us?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her write. You’ll have to ask her family. Or maybe Mrs Huxley.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Thank you. We will be in touch with Roisin’s parents very soon. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Gently, she pulled the note from my lap.

  “What happens… What happens to her body? Have you cut her down? From the tree?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “We’re taking her to the morgue.”

  I pulled my knees up beneath my chin, closed my eyes and felt tears wash down my cheeks. The cup of tea cooled on the table beside the sofa as the police slowly filtered out of the room. I couldn’t stop thinking about Roisin’s song in the gardens. Did I miss her pain? I didn’t understand. I was the one who received the threat when I first started here. If anyone was supposed to die, it’d be me falling down that spiral staircase.

  This place had a history with dead women. First Lady Laura, now Ro. I lifted my head and watched Lord Bertie, sitting next to Margot, his face turned towards the window. He was the connection between the two dead women. Him. I remembered the photo album, the pictures of Laura and Bertie’s wedding with the lace and crinoline, those big smiles and bigger hair. Margot told me he was the catalyst for Laura’s downfall, and now he’d done it to Roisin.

  Chapter 33

  No toilets were cleaned that day. The Howards generously offered to take care of themselves, and the staff were sent home. Mrs Huxley and I had no other home to go to, and I didn’t want to go back to my room and stare at Roisin’s empty bed, so I walked the grounds of Highwood until my feet hurt. I sat down on the damp grass next to the roses and played back the last few weeks in my mind, trying to find places where I could’ve done or said anything differently.

  I finally dragged myself back to the hall when it started to rain, forcing myself into the bedroom because I needed to shower and change. But of course, I found myself staring at Roisin’s unused bed. Then my eyes drifted over to the bedside table. When did she put the note in the table drawer? And when did she hang herself? How did she find the rope? She must have planned all this in order for it to be executed properly, and yet Roisin never struck me as a planner. She was more of an instinctual person. If I
had to imagine her killing herself, it would be with a much less complicated method. Jumping from a great height, taking an overdose.

  The world had tilted and everything was askew. Roisin no longer alive made everything seem off. My dark thoughts about whether she did or didn’t kill herself were so preposterous that I almost laughed. And yet, I had to think those things because I didn’t believe it. I didn’t think she’d committed suicide.

  It was after I’d showered and changed that I remembered seeing Roisin and Ade in the garden together. He just might be the last person who’d spoken to her. I decided then I needed to see him. I pulled on a hooded jacket and left Highwood, not bothering to tell Mrs Huxley where I was headed. To be honest, it hadn’t even occurred to me. All my focus was concentrated on Roisin. Even in the fog of my shock and grief, I had enough clarity to know that if she didn’t kill herself, that meant someone murdered her.

  She hadn’t received any threatening dioramas, but Roisin was in the middle of a love triangle with two men. Lord Bertie, who had the power and privilege that made a man think he can do whatever he wanted, and Pawel, a passionate young man with a flair for creativity. And then you had the house itself, a place filled to the ceiling with secrets.

  It took me less than half the time it usually takes me to walk to Paxby. I was out of breath and sweating despite the chill and the drizzle in the air. I strode past the Crossed Scythes and retraced my steps to Ade’s house by memory. If Roisin had been hurt by someone, did that make Ade a suspect along with Pawel and Lord Bertie? My mind swam with conflicting thoughts. It was far too soon to be speculating about murder, and yet I couldn’t help it.

  He opened the door on my second knock, his eyes widening in surprise. “Come in.”

  In the hallway, I tried to unzip my jacket, but the zipper kept getting stuck. He quietly put his hand over mine, easing the zipper down and helping me out of the jacket. It made me feel like a child, but not in a bad way, more in the sense that someone was there to care for me when I needed it. Then he led me through to the kitchen, filled the kettle and sat me down at the table.