The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

  This time Highwood Hall was depicted from the outside. I saw the bricks and the windows painted on the back wall of the box. There were tiny stones of many different colours glued on to form a path, and next to the path were little flowers, the stems made out of plastic but the petals made from fabric, glued until they were stiff enough to retain their shape. In the centre of all that, a tall woman in a red dress stood outside the house, looking in, her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun. Mrs Huxley.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer right away; she was staring at the diorama. I took a step closer so that I could examine it more myself, and I could’ve sworn I saw a face in the window of the hall. The face of a young woman. But before I could get a better look, Mrs Huxley slammed the front flap shut and picked up the box in her arms. She turned around and strode out of the room.

  I glanced at my phone. It was seven thirty a.m., and we needed to take the food to the dining room. I had no choice. I had to organise it myself. Grabbing a silver tray, I piled some dishes on it and made my way through the bare corridor, ignoring the ache spreading through my taut muscles. The secret door clicked open, and I entered the dining room, keeping my eyes down so as not to look at any of the Howards, especially not Alex or Bertie.

  But unfortunately, they noticed me.

  “Should you be working, dear?” Margot asked, a kindness in her voice that took me by surprise.

  “I’m okay, thank you.” I placed bread down on the table and helped the others bring in eggs, bacon and pastries for the stainless steel food warmer along the far wall.

  “Where’s Huxley?” Bertie asked.

  Without looking at him, I said, “She went to her room. She wasn’t feeling well.”

  “I saw her just thirty minutes ago, and she was fine,” he replied.

  His nonchalance pissed me off. Why were any of us here serving him food? Roisin—his lover—was dead, and here I was putting his spoon next to his fucking plate.

  “Actually, she received an unpleasant parcel in the mail. Another diorama.” I stood up straight and looked him right in the eye. “It upset her, so she went to her room. It seems this ex-employee is still angry even though you said you’d handled it.” I forced my mouth to close before saying anything else. It was already a huge mistake to have blurted out as much as I had. Quietly I backed away from the table, my legs unsteady, and caught Alex staring at me. I saw no trace of a smile on his face, but I got the feeling, from the way his head was cocked slightly, that he sized me up, trying to decide whether what I’d done was brave or stupid.

  I thought stupid. Either I’d pissed off a murderer or I’d spoken back to my boss, a powerful man who could fire me at any moment. The air in the dining room cooled. Bertie’s eyes focused on mine, but he didn’t seem fazed by my outburst.

  “Well, that is a shame,” he said. “Please tell Mrs Huxley that I’d like to see the threatening gift she received. My investigator is still building a body of evidence. I’m sure the matter will be dealt with soon. Unfortunately, the girl is more unhinged than I’d originally thought.” The corners of his mouth twitched up. “Though I do pity her. As I do anyone with a mental illness. Thank you for organising breakfast. I’m sure this is a difficult day for you.”

  And what a difficult day it is for you, I thought, as I nodded my head, leaving through the servants’ door. On my way back to the kitchen, a sudden burst of almost uncontrollable rage spread all the way from my head to my toes. I pressed my knuckles into the wall and ground my teeth to try to make it stop. It would not.

  While I was dusting and scrubbing and mopping, working my hands until they were red and flaky, I imagined Roisin’s family. I saw them waiting for the hearse, driving to the cemetery, the sound of sniffles over the engine. I saw them walking down the church aisle in procession with the coffin, arms over shoulders, chests heaving up and down as relatives sobbed. I wondered what music they’d chosen for her.

  It drove me mad. I’d lived it without even going there and giving myself the closure to my grief. So I cleaned harder until the wooden handle of a scrubbing brush gave me a blister.

  At lunchtime, I wandered down to the bottom of the garden and found Ade staring at one red rose, a shovel by his feet. He turned to me as I approached, a sad smile on his face.

  “You didn’t go,” he said.

  I shook my head. “I couldn’t.”

  “They didn’t give you time off?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just… I couldn’t.”

  He was quiet then. He simply nodded and glanced down at his shovel. “I can’t seem to concentrate today. You know?”

  “Same.”

  “If you need someone to talk to—”

  “Huxley got a diorama this morning,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t feel ready to accept his kindness. “I thought it was her. All this time, I was convinced. But now she’d got one herself. And… she seemed super spooked, you know? Pale and freaked out. You can’t fake that.” I chewed at the inside of my cheek, trying to piece together everything that had happened. None of it fit.

  “Did you see it? What was it like?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. It was the hall from the outside, and Mrs Huxley was looking in. I think I saw a woman’s face in the window.”

  “Well, that’s creepy.”

  “Yeah.” My voice sounded far away as my mind whirred, trying to make sense of it all. “The one person who died didn’t get one of them. These things seem to be some sort of bizarre, veiled threat, and yet Roisin never got one.”

  Ade tapped the soil with the toe of his boot. “It could be a coincidence.”

  “It could be. Maybe there’s more than one strange thing happening at the hall. Maybe they’re not connected at all.” I searched his eyes. I wanted him to be on my level, to be willing to believe that anything was possible with this family. But I saw caution. I saw disbelief.

  “I guess so,” he said. “Are you all right? You seem wired.”

  He knew I wasn’t telling him everything. I supposed he knew me well enough for that. I thought about Alex in the music room, his fingers brushing the hair from my face, his lips whispering promises into my ear. I thought about the north wing, the place he told me his wife would live. He’d hinted that it could be me, but it almost made me feel like it was a competition to be won. Play the game and you could have a piece of this fortune. I thought about Lord Bertie at breakfast, his nonchalance, his complete disregard for us. His private conversations with Huxley. Margot with the photo albums pointing at him, blaming him. Lady Laura falling down the stairs and her adult son watching…

  “I might need your help soon,” I said. “And I might need you to trust me when I come to you and ask for it.”

  He straightened his back, and a wave of calm seemed to wash over him. Resolve, I thought. I hoped. And I knew then that I could rely on him. Immeasurable relief flooded through my body.

  “All right,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

  Chapter 36

  The next day, I waited for Mrs Huxley to leave as she always did on a Sunday. I waited near the fountain, skulking like a sneak thief. As soon as she was gone, I sprang into action.

  There would never be a perfect opportunity like this one. Lord Bertie had gone to visit one of his offices in York. Lottie hadn’t come back after her night out. Margot was drinking martinis by the indoor pool. Alex was working in his office in the stables. I had Highwood Hall all to myself or at least close enough.

  First I went to the north wing, but every way in was locked. Not surprising. Lord Bertie’s office and Mrs Huxley’s rooms were all locked. But then I remembered how Roisin had told me that she and Bertie would go down to the wine cellar together. I’d never been to the wine cellar—though Roisin and I had spent a lot of time in the laundry room below the kitchen—but the fact that Bertie used it as his secret meeting place made me think I should investigate. Highwood was full of surprises. What would Lord Bertie’s secret rend
ezvous spot yield?

  The entrance to the wine cellar wasn’t far from the servants’ quarters, close to the main staircase. A door in the adjacent corridor opened up to a narrow staircase that descended to the cellar. It was unlocked, thank goodness, and I made my way there, watching my step on the concrete stairs. I’m not sure what I expected but certainly not the modern room I stepped into. There were spotlights built into the plastered and cream-painted ceiling. Bottles of wine were arranged in temperature-controlled glass cabinets not dissimilar to the ones in the library. Hundreds of bottles lined the shelves, no doubt worth more than I’d ever made in a year. In between them was a cream sofa and a small bookcase, presumably to sit and enjoy a glass of wine as you read a book.

  I cast a glance at the sofa, and my stomach flipped over. A mental image of Bertie charming Roisin flashed into my mind. Have another drink, sweetie. This one is special, just like you. A hand on her thigh or her back, that jovial smile always on his face. No matter how much she liked him, he was always the aggressor in my mind. I hated him. But then I’d always hated him. I’d tried to hide it as well as I could.

  Time ticked on, and I had a job to do. I walked the perimeter of the cellar, testing the walls for possible secret panels. But the plaster was smooth. There was, however, an electric fireplace with candles on the lintel. I reached over and lifted each candle, expecting something out of an Indiana Jones movie. Sadly, nothing opened, and the candles were just candles. I ran a hand over the entire thing, but I couldn’t find anything else that could unlock a secret door.

  I pulled back the rug to check for a trap door. Nothing. I tried pulling books out of the bookshelves. Nothing. And then I ran my hands around the edge of the wine shelves themselves. I smiled. I’d found a button.

  Tiny and inconsequential. An object with no sense of theatre to it at all. It simply opened the shelves when I pressed it. I laughed out loud. The shelves themselves were the door, and it opened up to yet another secret corridor. Perhaps I’d found Lord Bertie’s apocalypse bunker, or perhaps it led to some sort of torture chamber.

  I stepped in, pleased to find there were lights in the tunnel. Cold air tickled the back of my neck. Before I began following the corridor, I paused to ensure there was a button to open the shelves from the other side. I definitely didn’t want to get stuck in this place when no one knew where I was. Lord Bertie would be the kind of man to let me rot rather than admit his secrets.

  I walked quickly through the tunnel. An hour had already passed since I started searching, and I didn’t want Mrs Huxley to know I’d been snooping.

  The tunnel sloped steeply upwards, which meant I travelled up to the first floor. After what I thought must be a fair comparison to one flight of steps, I noticed a door to my left. It wasn’t the end of the tunnel, however. Surprisingly, it kept going up, meaning a second location existed. Perhaps this was the reason for Mrs Huxley turning up when you least expected her. But which direction had she come from the day I tried to get into her office? Up or down?

  When the door opened, I breathed a sigh of relief. To have come this far only to face a final hurdle would have been devastating. It creaked open to reveal Mrs Huxley’s office. Now my heart was beating fast. This was the first time I’d ever been in here. My eyes ate the scene hungrily, desperate for clues. I sought out her personal diorama first, finding it on her desk. I opened it fast and examined the scene one more time. The sight of the ghostly faces painted at the window made my breath catch. They were small, almost translucent, their pale faces round and gloomy. I hadn’t noticed in the kitchen but there were several faces, at least ten, all staring back at Mrs Huxley. All women. I shivered.

  Then I rummaged through her drawers, but it was fruitless. Pens, papers, envelopes, ring binders full of cleaning contacts and vegetable suppliers, caterers and private hire cars, even a contact for a helicopter pilot. I placed the ring binder back. One document stood out to me: a bill from the Heather Grove care home in Wicklesworth. I opened it and managed to find the name of the person she’d visited. Charlie Huxley. Included in the document was a handwritten note from one of the carers. Charlie is doing very well. We’re so proud of him. He loves arts and crafts especially. He’s well-liked by the other residents and is improving with his social skills. I found a photograph of Charlie, who stood with his head slightly bent, a hesitant smile playing on his lips. The kind of innocent smile of someone who didn’t quite understand the world but lived in it purely. He was in his early twenties, possibly the same age as me, which, I thought, must be about the same time she started working at Highwood. The resemblance between Charlie and Huxley was clear to me. They had the same bone structure, the same dark eyes. One thing I did notice was that Charlie’s skin was a shade or two lighter than Mrs Huxley’s, and his curls were looser. But he was her son; he had to be. I lifted the picture one more time, wondering if Mrs Huxley had been forced to make the same sort of difficult decisions as my own mother. Then I placed it back down and found Charlie’s diagnosis—he had autism.

  Aware that I didn’t have much time, I searched quickly through Mrs Huxley’s files, fingers flying through the cabinets, eager to discover what I needed. I flicked through the years 2018, 2006, 2002… Until… I grabbed a folder and shoved it under my tunic, tucking it into the waistband of my trousers. I didn’t have enough time to read through it now. I had to find out where the rest of the tunnel went.

  I left her office and walked through to her bedroom. Everything was tidy. The walls were papered in dark florals. I found a Bible on her bedside table. I couldn’t bring myself to look through her belongings even though I wanted to. I left through the tunnel door and made my way up to the next floor. Where did Mrs Huxley go when she disappeared? I had my suspicions, and now I wanted them confirmed.

  The corridor was so steep that my thighs began to ache. I tried imagining Mrs Huxley striding up and down the secret tunnel, her long, dancer’s stride giving her a floating appearance as she walked. I pictured her face, tight and worried, running secret errands for the Howards. It took perhaps a minute or two to reach the door, though I believe it felt longer than that. I eased it open slowly, nervous to uncover what was on the other side. And then I found myself in Lord Bertie’s office.

  It confirmed my suspicion. Mrs Huxley and Lord Bertie were connected on a deeper level than anyone knew. This solved the mystery of how the housekeeper would appear randomly at different points and how she’d often beat me walking through the servants’ hallway back to the kitchen. And now I was in Lord Bertie’s office on my own and I could do whatever I wanted.

  I sprang into action, rifling through drawers, checking documents, shelves and cabinets. I checked every nook and cranny of the fireplace on the opposite wall, moved every poker, pressed every tile. At one point, I got excited because I’d found a secret nook beneath the desk, but then I realised it was a dog bed for Leo.

  What was I looking for? I sat down on Bertie’s office chair and opened up the dioramas one by one. Mrs Huxley hadn’t given hers to him, which made me wonder if he was even still investigating the strange gifts. I checked through his files one more time and found an invoice from an investigator. So, he had at least paid for someone. My gaze drifted to Bertie’s laptop. Gently, I lifted the lid and waited for it to come to life. If it was password protected, as I suspected it would be, then I had no chance of uncovering any secrets. The screen unlocked, and I saw an eye icon searching my pupil. Quickly, I slammed the laptop shut before it took a record of someone trying to log in.

  And then I heard a key in the lock.

  Without thinking, I dived underneath the desk, tucking myself into the small nook. Feet shuffled into the office while I kept myself folded up tight amid the strong scent of wet dog. Whoever had just walked in headed towards the desk. I held my breath, my heart racing. A dog hair tickled at my nose, but I kept myself still as stone.

  They sat down at the chair, and for the first time I saw a pair of brogues beneath the desk. I recognised
those shoes. I remembered Alex wearing them, kicking up gravel as he took me to the north wing. Alex cleared his throat and tapped the keyboard. He was working on Bertie’s laptop? That seemed odd. I heard him humming while he worked. The Chopin étude, I thought.

  The padded dog bed soon heated up below my body. Sweat trickled down my temples and back. I bent my head and breathed softly into my knees, hoping he’d soon be done. Alex opened a desk drawer, reaching deep into the back. We were inches from each other. At any moment he could lean closer and see me, or reach a little further to the right with his foot and find me curled up in a ball. Silently, I tried to manoeuvre my head to get a better view. Curiosity kept getting the better of me. I heard a clunk and the gentle swish of a door opening somewhere else in the room. Alex closed the drawer, got to his feet and walked away. In the sweaty, stinky dog bed, adrenaline surged through me. What I wanted more than anything was to poke my head out to see what he was doing. Instead, I had to settle for sounds. I measured the sound of his footsteps. He moved across the room. The door swished softly against the carpet followed by a second clunk. Once I was sure the door was closed, I remained where I was for at least two minutes. Silence settled around me. Quietly, I unfolded myself from the nook and crawled out from the desk.

  The room was empty. I had no time to figure out where Alex had gone. I needed to get out of there. I found the secret door, stepped back into the cold corridor and made my way back down towards the cellar.

  Chapter 37

  She stood in the kitchen, dark eyes deep inside her sharp face, watching me, as always. I saw the way they followed my movement as I walked through the kitchen on the way to my bedroom. It was clear she wanted to know where I’d been, and she wanted to know why I walked with one hand protecting my stomach. I nodded to her as I moved past, and then her nose turned up as she smelled the dog on me. In that moment, I was convinced that she could tell where I’d been and everything that had happened. But she said nothing. She turned away and got on with making a cup of tea. I continued on to my room, knees trembling beneath me.