Tremblay looked daggers at Marc, but did not reply.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Marc said, and turned his back to the man.
***
Louis LaFontaine was in every way a contrast to his young colleague. He was mannerly, cooperative, appreciative of the delicate situation Marc had been put in, and acutely aware of the importance of the investigation. He asked after Beth’s health, and sat with perfect calm as Marc took him through the sequence of key questions he had asked the others. LaFontaine answered promptly but always without elaboration. He was a man who husbanded his words and kept his feelings intensely private.
When asked about the bathroom and the laudanum removed from it, he said, “I did not use our host’s bath, though I was tempted to. The room appeared to be unoccupied when I passed it on my way upstairs shortly before ten.”
Marc mentioned the sherry and his desire to know where it might have originated. “Hincks wrote me that Macaulay had an excellent cellar,” LaFontaine said, “so, as far as I know, none of us brought along anything to drink.”
“I’ve been told that someone was heard leaving their bedchamber upstairs about midnight. Did you happen to hear anyone in the hall at that time – while you were working on the French draft of our agreement, perhaps?”
LaFontaine’s lips moved in the slight flinch that stood for a smile among his few gestures. “Not unless I was listening to myself.”
It was Marc’s turn to flinch. “Are you saying it was you, sir, who walked down the hall towards the stairs at midnight?”
“It was. And I walked down the stairs and made my way through the shadows towards the parlour, where I wished to observe the fully risen moon shine upon the snow outside the French doors.”
Marc’s heart skipped a beat. At last, a possible witness to what happened in the little office next to the parlour. Perhaps LaFontaine had seen the light in there or even noticed who the mysterious visitor might have been.
“Was Graves Chilton in his office, sir, when you approached the parlour?”
“Of course he was. He hailed me like a long lost friend, and invited me in for a chat and a drink. Naturally I accepted.”
Marc’s heart damn near stopped.
EIGHT
LaFontaine leaned across the table towards Marc with a look of concern on his face. “It was just a drink and a brief exchange of pleasantries, with execrable English on my part – no more than ten minutes in all.” Then he added wryly, “I did not poison the fellow.”
Marc was abashed, at his extreme reaction and at the traitorous thought that had prompted it. He recovered as best he could, grateful again for LaFontaine’s unshakeable aplomb. “Would you mind telling me, sir,” he said at last, “precisely what occurred?”
“Certainly. Mr. Chilton was in the doorway of his bureau, having heard me shuffling down the dark hallway, and he begged me to join him in a celebratory drink. I asked him what he was celebrating, and he said the conclusion of his first week at Elmgrove and his success in his new position. I thought, why not? I was too excited to sleep, and I too had something to celebrate.”
Marc was pleased to hear that this man, who might well lead their unified party to future glories and who seemed so aloof at times, could be too excited to sleep. “So you entered the office?” he prompted.
“I did. Mr. Chilton waved me to a chair opposite him. On the desk lay a silver flask, and I realized, too late, that the fellow had been celebrating from it for some time. Near it sat an uncorked bottle of sherry.”
“Were there any glasses?”
“No. I was afraid he was going to bid me share his flask, but he smiled and asked me to drink a toast with the sherry. It was, he said, a gift, and he did not wish to open it and drink alone. Relieved, I acquiesced, and he immediately excused himself and returned a minute later with two small crystal goblets.”
“From the dining-room,” Marc suggested. “Did he happen to say who gave him the gift?”
“No. I assumed it was from his employer, either Mr. Macaulay or his former one in England. But he never said one way or the other.”
“So he uncorked the sherry and poured out two glasses?”
“Yes. I took only a single finger in my glass. He filled his to the brim. We toasted his success. I was about to leave when he started to talk about the trials and tribulations of being a butler, and it was then I realized it was not my poor grasp of rapidly spoken English but his inebriation that was causing my failure to understand what he was going on about. Very politely I disengaged, and as I was leaving, I pleaded with him not to drink any more, but to go straight to bed.”
“And you did not notice anything odd about the sherry?”
LaFontaine smiled. “I take it that I should have, as it was probably laced with laudanum?”
“It might have been, though someone else could have joined Chilton after you left, and doctored it surreptitiously. That’s why I’m asking.”
LaFontaine paused to think about the matter. “To be honest, whenever I drink sherry, it’s invariably sweet, so I have no reference point for dry sherry like Amontillado. But, yes, it definitely seemed ‘off’ in some way. I recall making a face at the time, but I did not wish to be discourteous by suggesting his valued gift might be tainted. And I did go back to my room and fall into the deepest sleep I’ve had since leaving Montreal.”
“I’m grateful that you didn’t consume any more than a thimbleful, sir. It sounds very much like the sherry was doctored before it was given to the butler – the cork being removed and then replaced after the drug was poured in.”
“I see. So you will be looking for the person who gave Mr. Chilton the sherry?”
“It would seem so,” Marc said, then remembered to ask, “By the way, were there indications that Chilton had been working at his accounts?”
“There was a big ledger on the desk, but it wasn’t open, and I didn’t notice any pens lying about loose. I’d have to say that he had either finished his work or had got drinking and never begun.”
“Well, sir, I do wish to thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I just wish the fellow had taken my advice.”
Marc got up, and the two men shook hands.
“I look forward to our session with Robert later today,” LaFontaine said.
So did Marc, though he was painfully aware that it might be an abortive meeting if he and Cobb could not locate the cold-blooded murderer amongst them.
As soon as LaFontaine left, Marc began the laborious but necessary process of making detailed notes on each interview, including the content and his own thoughts about its pertinence to the case. Cobb would do the same, and they would not only compare notes in a subsequent, freewheeling discussion but take time alone to peruse each other’s written comments. It was a procedure that had paid dividends in their past investigations, and he hoped it would do so in this one.
Regarding the laudanum: he knew now that it had been safely on the bathroom shelf at nine-thirty or so when Bergeron completed his bath. It may have been there when Tremblay took his bath a few minutes later or, indeed, Tremblay himself may have taken it with him. If not, then anyone, guest or servant, could have slipped across the rotunda to the unlocked bathroom after the house had settled into sleep at ten o’clock, and spirited it away. To do what? Doctor a bottle of sherry. That doctored bottle was on Chilton’s desk at midnight when LaFontaine drank a toast from it. So, sometime between, say, ten-fifteen and midnight, the killer slipped out of one or another of the north wings, padded up the hall to Chilton’s office, and offered him a deadly gift. In theory any of the guests could have brought the Amontillado with him in his luggage and kept it out of sight. While the servants would not normally be in possession of such a treasure, if they had a motive to kill Chilton, they could have obtained it or, more likely, have already had it squirreled away for some rainy-day celebration. Marc knew from his youth on his uncle’s estate in England that servants had access to wine and spiri
ts, not only from their master’s stores but from those of neighbouring houses where they were often loaned out. Also, he had to remember that the sherry could still have been doctored after LaFontaine’s visit, though that possibility was now remote.
The thought that LaFontaine’s account seemed to point suspicion towards one of the distinguished guests was disquieting, to say the least. He hoped Cobb would be able to come up with a viable suspect or two downstairs. Meanwhile, he needed to think about Tremblay. The fellow had had opportunity and means to steal the laudanum and present Chilton with the poisoned sherry sometime before midnight. And he also had a motive: to bring the negotiations he feared to a grinding halt.
There was still the puzzling business of the ledger and the three pages ripped out and missing. Did Tremblay possibly conclude that the newly arrived Chilton was a spy for the English Tories or the Governor? Did he rip out and destroy something on those pages that he thought might be exposed, something that would jeopardize his standing back home, where he had ambitious plans to run for parliament?
Marc stopped thinking. At some point it became counter-productive. He would wait for Cobb, who could navigate nimbly among the wiles and dodges of the servant-class.
***
Cobb knew that if you wished to find the servant who would know just about everything that was going on below the salt, so to speak, and was the de facto governor of the house, you sought out the cook. That was his thought as he descended the four steps towards the kitchen of Elmgrove. But when he entered it, he was disappointed, and surprised, to find the big L-shaped room occupied by a single soul – a painfully thin, plain young woman. She was standing beside a hefty wooden table, like a butcher’s block, slicing thick pieces of cold ham and licking her fingers whenever the opportunity arose. At Cobb’s entrance she jumped backwards and dropped her knife. Her large eyes were filled with fear, and her shrivelled chin quivered.
“We ain’t done nothin’ wrong down here, constable!” she cried in a spare, high-pitched voice.
“I’m sure you haven’t, miss,” Cobb said, smiling. He had left his helmet upstairs and with his coat unbuttoned and his tie askew, he felt he would be presenting a casual, even friendly, face to those he planned to grill. “I just need to talk to you an’ yer fellow servants about last night. In fact, I was hopin’ to start with Mrs. Blodgett.”
“Well, I ain’t her, constable. I’m Hetty, one of her helpers,” Hetty Janes said, keeping the table between her and Cobb.
“Glad ta meet ya, Hetty. I’m Cobb.” He bent over, picked up the knife and laid it beside the plate of sliced ham. “Now if you’ll be kind enough to tell Mrs. Blodgett I’m here an’ would like to – ”
“She can’t talk to ya,” Hetty said, still quivering but showing signs of pluck. “She can’t talk to nobody.”
“Is she not in, then?”
“She’s in her bed, back there in her rooms. Got her arthritis somethin’ awful. Tillie, that’s my sister, she’s in there nursin’ her.”
“How long has she been under the weather?”
“Took to her bed about nine o’clock last night, right after the supper meal. Worn out, she was, from cookin’ fer half a dozen swells who don’t even speak the King’s English! Ain’t her fault she’s been laid low!”
“I don’t suppose it is,” Cobb said sympathetically. “An’ she’s been in bed since then?”
“Didn’t wake up till eight o’clock, if ya c’n believe it! Tillie had to tell her about the dreadful thing that happened upstairs, of course, which upset her all over again. Still, she done her duty an’ give Tillie an’ me our instructions about gettin’ food ready fer Mr. Macaulay an’ the swells.” This series of complaints seemed to have a calming effect on Hetty’s fears. She had backed up against a sink on the far wall, and was now comfortable enough to sit awkwardly on its rim. “But she’s gone back to sleep again, an’ we ain’t supposed to disturb her.”
“Well, lass, I’ll just wait till later in the day to talk to her. Meantime I can start with the others. I been told there’s Mr. Bragg, Miss Finch, yer Tillie, an’ yerself who make up the Elmgrove staff.”
“An’ Phyllis, the mistress’s maid, who’s off in Kingston. An’ Mr. Struthers an’ his boy Cal, out in the stables. An’ Giles, who run off after Alfred died.”
“Where are Miss Finch an’ Mr. Bragg right now?”
“Prissy got things set up in the dining-room a while ago, then went to her room. She’s very upset, findin’ a dead body like that.”
“Understandable. An’ Mr. Bragg?”
“He’s tendin’ to the fireplaces upstairs. He’ll be down here shortly,” she said, and flushed a bright scarlet. “Fer some food,” she added.
“Is there a place where I can interview you people in private?”
“You don’t think any of us did in poor Mr. Chilton?” she cried, hopping off the sink.
“No, no, not at all. But I’ve found that servants see an’ hear things that are usually helpful to us. Nothin’ fer you to worry about.”
Looking only marginally relieved, Hetty said, “Well, there’s the big pantry over there. It’s got a table. I could clear it for ya, an’ take in a couple of chairs from our eatin’ place back there.”
“I’d be most pleased if you’d do that fer me,” Cobb said, and flashed her his most ingratiating, gap-toothed grin.
While Hetty cleared the jars and pots off the pantry table, Cobb carried two wooden chairs into the little room and set them up. He removed his notebook and pencil from his pocket and arranged them on the table. Hetty brought in a candle-lantern and lit a candelabrum on a nearby shelf. The door would have to be kept ajar to provide both extra light and an exit-point for the smoke. It wasn’t the Elmgrove library, but it would do.
As Hetty turned to go, Cobb said as gently as he could, “Hetty, lass. I’d like to start my questionin’ with you.”
***
“I want ya to tell me everythin’ that happened down here from about suppertime on.”
Hetty looked as if she wanted to ask why, but there was enough of the authority figure in the constable seated opposite her – despite his bristled hair, red nose and winking wart – to make her drop her eyes and do as she was bid. The question was not hard to answer, she informed Cobb, because last evening was a repeat of the previous one. As Chilton, Bragg and Finch served each course upstairs, the soiled dishes came down via the dumb-waiter and were scrubbed clean by herself and Tillie. Mrs. Blodgett, with help from Cal Struthers, got the fresh food into the dumb-waiter, and generally supervised the operation. Abel Struthers, the stableman, was again conscripted to tend the fires in the northwest wing and replace chamber-pots where needed. Without the services of the disgruntled Giles Harkness or the regular upstairs maid, all hands were needed. But by nine-thirty the dining-room was tidied, the dishes and pots were washed and put away, and everyone exhausted. Long before that, Mrs. Blodgett, as she had done the evening previous, collapsed in her chair and had to be helped to bed by Tillie, who decided to sleep in a cot beside her mistress. And soon after, the Struthers duo left for their cottage behind the stables.
“So everybody down here was in bed by, say, quarter to ten?” Cobb said when he was finally able to get a word in.
“We get up before the sun, we do. There’s no late nights fer the likes of us.”
“An’ all of you, except fer Mrs. Blodgett, have rooms off the hall at the bottom of the stairs back there?”
“Yes. Austin an’ Prissy have their own rooms an’ Tillie an’ me share. If Giles don’t come back, I’m to move into his place.”
“So you an’ Bragg an’ Prissy went in there about the same time?”
Hetty looked flustered for the first time since she had realized she wasn’t likely to be arrested. “No. Not exactly. I mean, I went first. I barred the door that goes to the woodshed an’ the back yard, an’ went inta my room. I just got undressed when I heard Prissy an’ Austin come down the stairs, talkin’. Then I heard
their doors open an’ close.”
Cobb pretended to scribble this down, as he had done all along, then peered up, chewing his pencil. “What were they talkin’ about?”
Hetty went beet-red, the blood draining down alarmingly into her tiny, vee-shaped chin. “I – I don’t eavesdrop on other people’s conversations,” she stammered.
“But they definitely went to bed – separately?” Cobb felt himself begin to redden.
The scarlet chin rose up and jutted out. “I told you, I heard two doors slam.”
“Okay, okay, you made yer point. So you’re sayin’ that a little before ten o’clock, everybody down here was tucked in an’ sawin’ logs?”
Hetty paused while her pasty complexion returned slowly, then said, “I did hear Tillie come out into the kitchen – to get a glass of water fer Mrs. Blodgett, I suppose. I didn’t hear nothin’ after that.”
Cobb thanked her, and then asked her to seek out Austin Bragg and bring him to the pantry.
***
Austin Bragg, in the prime of his manhood and too handsome for his own good, was not in the least intimidated by the crudely uniformed constable sitting across from him in a pantry that formed a portion of what he considered his home turf. He did not wait for Cobb to begin.
“I suppose you think I did away with my boss because he dressed me down in front of the guests on Wednesday?” he said somewhere between a snarl and a taunt.
Cobb stared down at his notebook. “I gather you didn’t take to the new man?”
“How could I? Chilton was an English snob who treated us all down here like we was dirt.”
“But yer master, Mr. Macaulay, wasn’t about to send him packin’, eh?”
Bragg glowered, a gesture that might have made him appear menacingly attractive to the ladies but to anyone else it rendered him momentarily ugly – and repulsive. “The bugger was efficient enough an’ knew his job. I’ll give him that much. But he wasn’t Alfred, was he?”
“I was gonna start off this talk Mr. Bragg, with a simple request to have you tell me what you did, what you seen an’ what you heard upstairs after supper. Could you do that fer me? An’ I’ll try not to suppose too much.”
Unholy Alliance Page 13
