by L Rollins
So she was going to tell them. Samuel squeezed Leila’s hand in support. That was his brilliant woman. Always willing to get to the bottom of the problem, no matter the difficulty it put her in.
Lud, he couldn’t start calling Leila ‘his brilliant woman’. She couldn’t be ‘his’ anything. As they hurried down one hall and then another in silence, Samuel reminded himself over and over again that Leila was as good as engaged. Granted, the lucky fool hadn’t been chosen yet—as far as he knew—but it would likely happen sooner than later.
And the lucky fool would not be Samuel.
Madame Winstone lifted a hand, signaling them all to stop just outside a set of large, ornate doors. She leaned in and listened. Samuel was fairly certain that most women of Madame’s rank would have been mortified to be caught doing as much. But, most women of her rank weren’t spies. It seemed that changed a lot of rules regulating what one shouldn’t do and what one would do, regardless.
Madame Winstone stood up straight, hand going to the doorknob. “He’s speaking with Monsieur Claude Martin. But it sounds like they are alone.”
She pushed open the door without preamble and strode in. The room was large with dark bookcases lining nearly every wall. A dark burgundy rug covered the entire floor. The two men in question were seated by a low burning fire. They stood quickly as Madame entered. Leila and Samuel followed directly behind her.
Madame Winstone nodded briefly to both men. “You’ve heard?”
They muttered several condolences mixed with nearly as many expletives. Monsieur Martin motioned toward a long sofa and the three of them sat.
“This”—Monsieur Martin held up a shred of fabric—“was found in Nurse Natalie’s grip.”
He passed it to the women. Samuel studied it over Leila’s shoulder. It was a dark cloth, with small orange and yellow flowers.
“Does Monsieur Jus make such a fabric in his factory?” Leila asked.
Monsieur Martin shook his head. “Unknown. I have visited with the man several times in his factory and have never seen such a cloth, but that doesn’t mean much.”
Madame Winstone handed the fabric back. “I don’t see why he would be wearing it, if he was the attacker.”
“Natalie said she was attacked by a woman,” Samuel said. Three sets of wide eyes turned toward him.
“It’s true,” Leila added. “Natalie told us on the way here. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t Monsieur Jus behind the attack.”
Leila dove headlong into her tale of the night she fled Monsieur Jus, this time telling the story in full. She left nothing out, not the gun or how she got away. Though it seemed to him she did gloss over his part in keeping her safe.
Did she feel she needed to for propriety’s sake? In just the past hour, he’d seen Madame Winstone throw away more propriety than not. Or had Leila minimized their time together because she hadn’t felt the way he had? Gads, the thought left his stomach sour.
No, he’d been sure she’d felt the same tug to be near him that he’d felt.
Not that it would do either of them any good. Samuel leaned back toward the corner of the sofa, putting space between him and Leila.
Monsieur Winstone sat, one ankle resting against the opposite knee and steepled his fingers. “Next time, Leila, you will be forth coming with all information from the beginning. Is that clear?”
Leila dropped her head. “Yes, sir.”
“Now then,” he continued. “At this point, it appears all evidence points toward Monsieur Jus.”
“Not all, sir,” Samuel interjected. His tone was likely a bit more forceful than necessary, but he didn’t care for the way Monsieur Winstone had criticized Leila. She probably should have told the Winstone’s more about what happened with Monsieur Jus, but that didn’t mean he needed to come down quite so hard on her.
Monsieur Winstone waited wordlessly for him to continue.
Samuel leaned forward, emphasizing his thoughts with his hand. “First of all, Monsieur Jus has suffered from the waltzing flu just as much as anyone. Many of the papers we found in his office indicate he was suffering for lack of workers for months now. His whole bloody factory has been shut down because of the flu.
“Moreover,” Samuel continued, “there have been no problems where his other factories are located. How could Conques suffer so dramatically when the other towns are seemingly unscathed?”
Madame Winstone nodded. “The other one produces cotton cloth and corsets. Both of his factories use essentially the same materials and have the same waste.”
“But,” Monsieur Martin interjected. “The other night he was clearly willing to harm, if not kill, Leila.”
Samuel nodded. “Yes, but only for overhearing his conversation. That isn’t enough to implicate him as the one behind the waltzing flu.”
Monsieur Martin shook a finger in Leila’s direction. “But she admitted as much herself— she’s worn that blue coat of hers all over Conques. She made an enemy of Monsieur Jus, and he sent a woman, who is very capable of beating another woman to death, after her.”
“Then,” Leila spoke, her voice calm and resolute. “Perhaps we have two perpetrators, for two different crimes. It very well could be that Monsieur Jus had Sidonie attack Natalie believing it was me. But I agree with Samuel; Monsieur Jus isn’t to blame for the waltzing flu.”
Samuel was glad she hadn’t taken Winstone’s criticism too hard. Leila certainly wasn’t one who backed down easily. And it seemed that held true even when those she respected, and looked up to most, called her out.
Turning to face Monsieur Winstone fully, Leila continued. “You are doing much better as of late, sir. Perchance have you discovered the source of your poison?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Monsieur Winstone said. “Inez is to thank for my recovery. She’s kept a very careful eye on all who have been permitted near me, and she always swaps out what food I was to be given with some she knew was safe. Whoever was bent on keeping me sedated has not been able to circumvent her careful eye.”
“We are just lucky that they were using something other than mercury to keep him sedated,” Madame Winstone added. “Since there is no cure for the waltzing flu, he wouldn’t be doing so well had they taken that approach.”
“No cure, yet,” Monsieur Martin said with a decided snap. Apparently, the man was determined as ever to find a cure for those ailing beneath his roof. Samuel could admire his firmness of purpose—Conques was blessed to have him.
“That being said . . .” Monsieur Winstone leaned forward once more, his expression darkening. “There are some things I should fill you all in on.” He nodded expressly toward Leila and Monsieur Martin.
Samuel didn’t miss the fact that Monsieur Windstone still hadn’t acknowledged Samuel’s involvement in solving this problem. It grated slightly. Did the old man not think he had the mettle for this? Or was this a station issue? As he was only from the working class, Samuel wasn’t useful?
Samuel crossed his arms as he listened. If the old man thought he would back down, then he had another thing coming.
“Before Leila joined me, before I was first drugged, I learned something interesting. While your aid here, Claude, is purported as being free to all who need it, I learned that Martha Hamon is, in fact, taking money from a few of the families, promising them better, more attentive care for their loved ones if they will pay.”
“What?” Monsieur Martin nearly shouted. He brought a heavy fist down on the armrest of his chair. “That’s an outrage. How long has this been going on? All my patients deserve the best we can give them, no matter if they’re capable of paying.”
Monsieur Winstone’s voice remained calm. “I followed her for a week or more, until I was too sick to do so. I didn’t discover much, but I did see her frequently meeting families at the well in the east garden to accept payment from families.”
“The well out past the back lawn?” Leila asked, then turned toward Samuel. “That’s the one you dove in to. The one that was
laced with mercury.”
Inez spoke. “Is it possible she was also poisoning the well when she met with families?”
Monsieur Martin shook his head. “It’s possible, but I never saw any evidence of it.”
“I think our perpetrator is a woman,” Leila said.
Everyone turned toward her.
“Why do you say that?” Monsieur Winstone asked.
“I’m not sure how much you remember of your time being sick,” she said. “But soon after I arrived here, you pulled me into a small linen closet and claimed someone was deliberately drugging you.”
Monsieur Winstone’s expression remained confused—it seemed he did not remember the encounter at all.
“There was a knock at the door and you shoved me into the corner. Ordered me not to let my presence made known. The foreman walked in and stuck you with a needle then dragged you into a room deep underground.”
Gears above, just how many near-death experiences had Leila gone through while in Conques? And to think, he’d originally assumed she was just a nurse, bent on healing and keeping her hair in its tight bun.
“You’ve told me and Inez all this before.” Monsieur Winstone spoke in clipped tones. “What’s your point, Leila?”
“Fowler spoke of doing this ‘for her’. I truly believe that this wasn’t his own idea or plan. He was working for a woman.”
Monsieur Martin eyed Leila dubiously. “You aren’t seriously considering Martha as a suspect?”
Leila gave him a one shoulder shrug. “Sidonie may be strong, but Martha Hamon is undoubtedly her equal. The woman is incredibly strong. Suppose Martha found out I was more than a nurse and she was the one who attacked Natalie?”
“Do you really believe,” Inez said, sounding quite uncertain, “Martha, who is old enough to be your mother, could beat someone to death?”
Leila didn’t waver. “I’ve seen her easily lift trays I struggled under the weight of. She assists grown men, sick men who can barely walk, from room to room without aid. Yes,” she ended resolutely. “I believe she is strong enough to have done it.”
Monsieur Martin flipped the shred of fabric over in his hand. “If you are seriously considering Martha, then there are some things you need to know about her.”
“What is that?” Monsieur Winstone asked.
“It is a long story.”
Everyone settled back into their seats. Monsieur Martin looked from one to the other. He, unlike Winstone, didn’t pass over Samuel.
Finally, realizing that everyone was well prepared for his tale, Monsieur Martin leaned back himself and started.
“It is probably my fault if Martha wishes to punish all of Conques. After all she has done for my family, I don’t suppose I have given her enough thanks or gratitude.”
“She serves your family well,” Monsieur Winstone interjected. “But that is her responsibility as housekeeper.”
“Oh no,” Monsieur Martin continued. “Her service to this family has gone far beyond that of a housekeeper.” He tossed the fabric scrap onto a nearby table. “For most of my boyhood, my mother wanted another child. I have few memories of her not in bed or not being seen by one physician or another. Even when I was away at school, I was aware that she was sick and struggling.
“Finally, she was with child. I was a young man by then and not as oblivious as I had been years before. The baby was due to arrive in January. As the heavens would have it, that was the worst winter Conques had ever known. Many people died from exposure. Sickness was rampant. Doctors would attend to one family only to be snowed in and unable to get to another.
“My sweet mother was not the only one who was increasing during that time. Martha was also with child, her baby also due in January.”
Monsieur Martin’s voice trailed off. In the silence, Leila spoke. “I’ve seen the tombstones. Little Henri, wasn’t it?” Her voice was soft and encouraging.
Monsieur Martin gave Leila a half-smile. “Yes. But the secret is”—he rose a finger suddenly, shaking it at them—“and no one must know of this. Martha doesn’t even know I am aware. No doubt, she believes she alone bears the heavy knowledge.”
“The truth is,” as he spoke his pomp and ego seemed to melt away and he sagged in his chair. “Henri is actually my mother’s son. My sister,” he glanced toward Leila, “Alice, is Martha’s baby.”
“Your parents switched the babies?” Madame Winstone asked breathlessly. “Why?”
“You must hear the whole of it,” Monsieur Martin hurried on. “My mother gave birth to a pink little boy. All seemed well. Only a day before Martha had given birth, but everyone was so focused on my mother, I’m afraid she was rather slighted.
“Then everything went wrong. My mother grew deathly ill. So did Henri. Not three days later, he passed. Mother was delirious with fever. All night she cried out for her baby. Over and over again she demanded my father bring her baby to her. He was overwrought, no doubt devastated by the loss of his son for whom he’d prayed and hoped for.
“As I said, I was a young man at this time and not so easy to hoodwink as they thought. I secreted myself away when Father asked to see Martha. He begged Martha to let Mother hold her little girl, if only for a few minutes. I’m sure Martha was concerned that Mother’s fever would spread to the child, who wasn’t even a week old at the time. But Martha was only a lady’s maid at the time and finally acquiesced.
“The moment Martha lay Alice in Mother’s arms, Mother stopped her crying and fell fast asleep. By morning her fever was gone. She awoke still holding Alice, convinced the little girl was her baby. Father was terrified that if Mother knew the truth—that her own baby had passed the day before—she would grow sick once more and wouldn’t likely live.
“Father summoned Martha again and once more begged. This time, he asked for permission to adopt Alice.”
“Surely no mother would give up her baby so easily.” Madame Winstone still seemed aghast.
Monsieur Martin rounded on the older woman. “You don’t think Martha wanted what was best for Alice? Martha’s husband had died three weeks prior and she had no other family in Conques to help her raise the child. She herself was barely getting by as a lady’s maid. Furthermore, it wasn’t as though Alice was being taken away from her. She would be raised in the same home Martha worked in.”
His voice was firm. “Alice was given far better education and opportunities than Martha could have ever supplied. Alice has never had to work a day in her life. She’s seen the world. Never known want. What mother wouldn’t love their offspring enough to gladly accept such a generous proposal as the one my father offered?”
Madame Winstone’s lips quirked to the side. She didn’t seem as set as Monsieur Martin was that any mother would willingly give up their daughter to be raised by a member of the upper echelon.
Samuel himself wasn’t convinced either. If he had a daughter, he’d want to raise her himself, even if that meant knowing she’d have to work hard and grow up quick. Then again, Martha was alone and probably had already considered the possibility of giving the baby up to the church. Samuel had known more than one poor mother who’d had to face that heart-wrenching choice.
Leila sat silently, watching Monsieur Martin closely. Her eyes showed that familiar spark they got whenever she was mulling over facts and information. Did she understand Martha’s predicament? She’d grown up, like Monsieur Martin’s sister, not knowing want, after all. However, she’d chosen to work, to put her hands and brainbox to use. So, perhaps she could understand.
Monsieur Winstone was the next to speak. “And you believe this may be why Martha could be our perpetrator?”
Monsieur Martin rubbed a hand across his chin. “It could be. When the position was made available, my father made her housekeeper above several other more obvious choices. He always looked out for her; saw to it she had time with Alice and all she could need. However,” he let out a small sigh. “I’m afraid with my father’s passing, I have not been as considerate
.”
“Could she have grown bitter in the passing years?” Monsieur Winstone asked. It seemed he alone was unconcerned about a mother giving up her only child. Perhaps he was simply too determined to find the perpetrator of the waltzing flu to care.
“Martha is a very determined woman.” Leila spoke up before anyone else could. “She gets angry at times and demands nothing but perfection from those under her, even to the point of being demeaning. But I don’t think she’s bitter. I’ve never heard her say anything but the highest praise for Monsieur Martin and his family.”
“That may be part of her guise,” Monsieur Martin pushed back. “You yourself said she was very strong, that Fowler indicated he was working on the behest of a woman, and that she demeans others. Monsieur Winstone knows she’s been accepting bribes. What more proof do you want?”
Madame Winstone, face still puckered, said, “She is the only individual thus far who is benefiting from the waltzing flu.”
“Then it’s settled,” Monsieur Winstone said. “I shall go to the authorities. Between what I know, Leila’s observations, and the history Claude has shared, I believe we have enough to arrest her and bring her in for questioning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LEILA LEANED HER shoulder against the cold trunk of a large tree, hugging Natalie’s brown coat closer. Her own coat was no longer usable, as it was stained with blood. This time, Leila didn’t feel indignant that she only had the brown coat to wear; this time, she only felt sad.
“I heard Martha was arrested.”
Leila stood up and turned to see Samuel, dressed in gardener’s garb, walking toward her.
She motioned toward his attire. “The grounds aren’t in need of much today, I would assume.”
Samuel shrugged. “Gives me a good excuse to stay close by.”
Close to the castle and its occupants? Or close to her? Most likely he meant the first, but she wished he would mean the second.
Leila turned and rested her back against the tree. “I feel like a failure.”
