The Maid’s Secret

by Emily Organ

  “Did you see anyone pick up Miss Sophia’s glass or put anything in it that evening?”

  “No, I didn’t. If I had, the case would be easily solved, wouldn’t it? I can’t bear to think about it, Inspector, I really can’t.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “One moment Miss Sophia was enjoying herself with her family and friends, and the next she was making that awful... Oh goodness, that noise. That choking noise!”

  She dissolved into tears.

  We waited for Lady Wyndham to compose herself.

  “Your husband is a keen photographer, is that right, Lady Wyndham?” asked James.

  “Yes, he is,” she replied breathlessly.

  “On the day of Miss Sophia’s death, he and Master Maurice took some photographs and developed them in his dark room.”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I right in thinking that one of the many chemicals used to develop photographs is potassium of cyanide?”

  She stared at James and I felt my skin prickle as I made the connection between Viscount Wyndham’s hobby and the poison.

  “I don’t know anything about photography, I’m afraid. You would have to ask my husband,” she replied sullenly.

  Then she suddenly cried out and fresh tears began to flow. Her breathing became quick and shallow.

  “Help me, dear!” she cried, stretching out her hand towards me.

  I leapt up from my seat and hurried over to her. I took her hand, and noticed that her palm felt cold and clammy. Her eyes were large and watery, and she gasped like a fish.

  “I need air!”

  I began to feel alarmed, but I suspected that she probably needed her laudanum rather than air.

  “Inspector Blakely, Inspector Trotter,” I said. “I think we should postpone Lady Wyndham’s interview for the time being.”

  After attending to his wife, Viscount Wyndham joined us in the library. Mrs Craughton brought in coffee and Inspector Trotter lit his pipe.

  “How is your wife, Viscount Wyndham?” asked James. “I do apologise for any upset we may have caused. As you can appreciate, this is not an easy task.”

  “Don’t apologise, Inspector! It cannot be helped. You’re only doing your job. Lily suffers from a disorder of the nerves.”

  I had expected Viscount Wyndham to be angry that his wife was upset, but instead he seemed his usual jovial self.

  “I believe the young maid, Maisie, is sitting with her at present.”

  “Thank you for your understanding, Viscount Wyndham,” said James. “I know you have already spoken to my colleague, Inspector Trotter, but can you please retell your version of events on the night when Miss Sophia died for my benefit this time?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s truly dreadful, Inspector. A beautiful young lady having her life cut short in this manner. At the celebration of her birthday! I cannot understand who would commit such a terrible crime. A young, harmless woman. What has this world come to?”

  Viscount Wyndham described the evening as I remembered it. His account was thorough, and it was clear that he endeavoured to be as helpful as possible.

  “I understand that one of your hobbies is photography,” said James.

  “Yes, it’s a pursuit I have enjoyed for a number of years. It’s something Master Maurice is also becoming interested in, and he has visited my dark room a few times now. He needs something to occupy his time, doesn’t he? No one will ever employ the poor fellow. While I salute the Glenvilles for not putting the chap into an institution, I do feel that he’s rather overlooked much of the time.”

  “You mention your dark room. This is a facility you’ve set up in your home?” asked James.

  “Yes, in the basement, next to the kitchens.”

  “Forgive me, Viscount Wyndham. I’m no expert in photography, but I assume the dark room is where you develop your photographs.”

  “Yes. Once the plates have been exposed, I take them into the dark room, whereupon they’re washed with a variety of chemicals to produce the finished photograph.”

  “You must have in your possession a number of chemicals to produce the photographs. Is that correct?” asked James.

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Including potassium of cyanide?”

  I watched Viscount Wyndham intently as he cleared his throat. “Yes, including potassium of cyanide. You’re quite correct, Inspector.”

  “And you are aware that cyanide was the cause of Miss Sophia’s death.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, Inspector.”

  “Have you anything further to add in relation to this?”

  “Only to say that it is a preposterous idea that I could have poisoned her.” Wyndham’s short, round frame grew tense. “Do you think for one moment that I would have retrieved a packet of potassium of cyanide from my dark room, brought it with me to the home of a good friend of mine and proceeded to tip the poison into the glass of his eldest daughter? On her birthday?”

  “I am not accusing you of any crime, Viscount Wyndham,” replied James. “I merely wished to highlight the coincidence. Is it possible that someone else might have taken the potassium of cyanide from your dark room without your knowledge and placed it in Miss Sophia’s glass?”

  “Such as who? Master Maurice? My wife? Quite ridiculous, Inspector. Quite ridiculous.”

  “We’re not accusing anybody of the crime just yet,” said James. “But please may I ask whether it’s at all possible that someone could have taken the potassium of cyanide from your dark room without your knowledge? Do you keep it locked in a cabinet, or is it merely sitting on a shelf?”

  “It’s merely sitting on a shelf, Inspector, and it’s still sitting there at this very moment. I invite you to visit my dark room and see for yourself!”

  “Thank you, Viscount Wyndham, I may take you up on your offer. But how would we know that you did not possess more than one packet of the poison? One may still be sitting on a shelf, but perhaps another has been removed.”

  “You’d have to take my word for it that there is only one, and that it is safely stored in my dark room.”

  “Shall we imagine for a moment a scenario in which there were two packets of potassium of cyanide sitting on the shelf of your dark room, Viscount Wyndham?”

  “But there has only ever been one!” He leant across the table and glared at James. “Listen, old chap. I wish to be helpful, but your questions are becoming quite ridiculous!”

  “Let’s forget the facts for a moment and imagine there was more than one packet of cyanide,” James continued without acknowledging the viscount’s protests. “If the packets were sitting on the shelf and not under lock and key, could someone have entered your dark room and taken one of the packets without your knowledge?”

  “I suppose they could, yes.”

  “Is the door to your dark room usually kept locked, Viscount Wyndham?”

  “No.”

  “So there is a possibility that someone could have stolen something from the room without you realising?”

  “Well, they’d have to get into the house first, and then make their way down to the basement. I haven’t noticed anyone breaking into our home, Inspector.”

  “We can’t escape the fact that the empty packet of cyanide used in Miss Sophia’s poisoning was found hidden on the chair which you occupied that evening.”

  “Ah yes. I was wondering when you’d mention that,” he sneered in reply.

  “Can you explain how it came to be there?”

  “No, I can’t! I didn’t even know it was there until the maid found it the following morning! And don’t you forget that Mrs Lombard also sat on that same chair!”

  “We haven’t forgotten, sir. Do you believe that Master Maurice has the ability to run his father’s business?”

  “Of course he has! The boy’s no fool. People believe he’s an idiot because they’ve never taken a moment to sit down with the chap and realise that he’s an extremely intelligent young fellow.”

  “And you’ve sha
red your feelings on this matter with Mr Glenville?”

  “Of course! None of this is a secret to him. We’ve discussed the matter at length in the past.”

  “And this was the cause of the falling out between you?”

  “There’s no need to call it that. We disagreed over the matter. I said it then, and I’ll say it again now. There is no need for the boy’s inheritance to be overlooked. His limbs are subject to involuntary movement and his speech is sometimes difficult to understand. However, the boy should naturally inherit the business. I say that as a childless man who has become interested in the fortunes of the boy as if he were my own son. I think he is unfairly overlooked and, sadly, he is often mocked.”

  “So the fact that Master Maurice was bypassed in favour of his sister provoked a certain ire for you, Viscount Wyndham?”

  “If truth be told, yes. But as I’ve already said, this is no great secret. Alexander and Camilla are fully aware of how my wife and I feel about the matter. I can’t tell Alexander how to run his family, or his business for that matter, so instead I do what I can for the young fellow, and I hope he has grown up realising that there are one or two people out there who will always help him. It can be a cruel world for a boy like Maurice, Inspector.”

  “Thank you for your time, Viscount Wyndham. That is all we need to discuss with you for the time being,” said James.

  “Is that it? Don’t you have any further questions about the evening? Instead of establishing the facts of what happened, you seem intent on preoccupying yourselves with the chemicals in my dark room! Don’t you wish to ask me anything further? I was there the entire time, you know. I witnessed the poor girl’s tragic demise first hand.”

  “That will be all for now, Viscount Wyndham. We shall need to speak to you again, I’m sure.”

  “Oh dear,” I said once Viscount Wyndham had left the room. “He’s a nice man and it seems a shame to have upset him.”

  James gave a hard laugh. “The nice people are often the ones you have to watch out for.”

  “Does that mean he could have poisoned Sophia?”

  “It’s a possibility. Although his motive doesn’t seem as strong as the Lombards’. Thank you again for all your help, Penny. I’m sorry that you have to return to your maid duties this afternoon. In the meantime, I’ll go down to Battersea and see if I can find this brother of Betsy the maid.”

  “I wish I could come with you,” I said.

  Inspector Trotter gave me a quizzical look.

  Had he realised how I felt about James? I wondered.

  “I miss my work as a reporter,” I quickly added. “Being out and about is far preferable to being stuck in this house.”

  “It won’t be for much longer,” said James reassuringly. “You’ve been a big help. Let’s try and get you out of here before the end of this week. Will you be content with that?”

  “I certainly will!”

  Chapter 35

  Mrs Craughton instructed Maisie and me to clean the library that afternoon once the police inspectors had vacated it.

  “’Ave they said who they fink done it yet?” asked Maisie as she polished the mahogany table.

  “Do you mean the detectives, Maisie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, there’s a lot of work for them to do yet. But they’ll find the killer, I’m sure of it.”

  I ran my feather duster along the rows of books.

  “Will they need ter speak ter me again?”

  “Why do you ask? Is there something you wish to tell them?”

  My eye was suddenly drawn to a small piece of white paper between two leather-bound volumes.

  “No! No, I don’t want to tell ’em nuffink’. I was just wond’rin’.”

  I heard faint footsteps and I turned to see the black, ghostlike figure of Mrs Glenville as she stepped into the room. She moved slowly and her face was terribly thin. It was almost skull-like in appearance.

  “My lady!” I exclaimed. “How are you?”

  “I think I’m feeling a little brighter today,” she said. A faint smile wrinkled her sunken cheeks. “I’ve decided I need to move about a bit more. I’ve been in there with her for too long.” She sniffed the air. “It smells of pipe smoke in here.”

  “The police inspectors have been using this room for the past few days,” I explained. “They’ve concluded most of their interviews now.”

  “Good. But they haven’t discovered the culprit, have they?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  She began to twist her black handkerchief around her fingers. “Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

  I became concerned by her distress. “Please come and sit down, my lady,” I said, stepping towards her.

  “No, I don’t want to.”

  “Can I fetch you something to eat? Something to drink?”

  “Thank you, Flo. I’ll take care of my lady,” said Mrs Craughton, who had suddenly appeared in the room and took Mrs Glenville’s arm. “It’s time for your next dose of Dr Cobbold’s Remedy, my lady. You’ll feel better after that.”

  The housekeeper guided her out of the library, comforting her as if she were a young child.

  My attention returned to the small piece of paper I had seen. I pulled it out and saw that it was folded. Upon opening it, I discovered two words written upon it: Cubby & Bunty.

  I stared at the words, which were written in blue ink with a sloping hand. It looked like Mrs Craughton’s handwriting to me.

  Cubby and Bunty. Were they nicknames? The names of two pets?

  I would have dismissed the piece of paper as meaningless if someone hadn’t clearly attempted to conceal it between the two books. The paper was crumpled, as if it had been pushed into place rather briskly.

  “Maisie, have you ever heard of Cubby and Bunty?” I asked.

  “I ’aven’t. Why d’you ask?”

  I showed her the piece of paper I had just found.

  “Can’t read it,” she replied.

  “This word says Cubby, and that one says Bunty.”

  “Oh yeah. I can see the ‘C’ and the ‘B’.” A rare smile spread across Maisie’s face. “Them’s funny words. Who wrote ’em?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I think it’s Mrs Craughton’s handwriting. But I think someone tried to hide it.”

  Maisie sniggered. “Why?”

  I stared down at the paper again. “I wish I knew.”

  Mrs Craughton re-entered the room and my initial reaction was to hide the piece of paper, but I knew she had already seen me holding it.

  “What’s that you have there?” she asked.

  “I found it in here. I thought you were with Mrs Glenville.”

  I was surprised by how quickly the housekeeper had reappeared.

  “I was, but she has gone up to her room now. Thank goodness she has decided against returning to her daughter’s side for the time being. What is that piece of paper in your hand?”

  “I don’t know. I think someone tried to hide it, but I cannot tell why.”

  “Let me see.”

  She took it from me.

  “In fact, it looks like your handwriting, Mrs Craughton.”

  “It does look rather similar to mine, doesn’t it? However, I can assure you that it isn’t.”

  “Do you recognise the names?” I asked her.

  “Oddly enough, they seem familiar, but I cannot think where I’ve heard them before. I’ll ask around.”

  She tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

  I wished I had been able to hold on to the scrap so that I could have shown it to James.

  Would Mrs Craughton really ask anyone about the paper? Or did she know more about it than she was letting on? Perhaps she was hoping that I would forget about it.

  I found it frustrating that I felt unable to fully believe or trust anyone in the house. This feeling was exacerbated because I was carrying out such a great deception myself. I felt I was part of one enormous pretence.

&nb
sp; Later that afternoon, I encountered Maurice walking slowly towards the study. I couldn’t resist asking him whether he had heard of the two names which had been written on the piece of paper.

  “Yes, I kn-know them.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Great-uncles of mine. B-Broderick and Snowdon. Their surname was Noel-J-Johnstone.”

  “Cubby and Bunty? Are you sure?”

  My puzzled face encouraged him to clarify his assertion.

  “Follow m-me,” he said.

  We made slow progress along the corridor, his sticks clicking on the floor as he walked. He stopped by the library.

  “In here?” I asked.

  Maurice nodded, and I opened the door for him. He walked into the centre of the room and stood facing the portrait of the ghost twins.

  “There they are.” He slowly raised one stick, which trembled as he pointed it toward the portrait.

  “The twin girls?” I asked. “They’re called Cubby and Bunty?”

  “Boys,” he replied. “They’re b-boys.”

  I looked again at the portrait and realised I had made an incorrect assumption. The two young children wore the traditional clothing of boys before they were breeched. Perhaps the curls of their red hair had given them a more feminine appearance. But now I knew they were boys, I could see that the bodices of their dresses were not shaped by a corset as a girl’s bodice would have been.

  “Why Cubby and Bunty?”

  “That’s what M-Mother called them. They were n-nicknames her family used.”

  “They look very alike. Do you know which is Broderick and which is Snowdon?”

  “No, I don’t. P-perhaps I should!” He smiled and then staggered closer to the portrait. “I th-think this was painted in 1820 or th-thereabouts.” He peered at the dark brushstrokes at the foot of the painting. “Yes, 1826.”

  I stared at the two boys and wondered why someone should want to write their names down on a piece of paper and then hide it between two books in the library. Now that I knew the identity of Cubby and Bunty, I felt even more confused.

  “Do you know if they’re still alive?” I asked Maurice.