An Untimely Death

by Blythe Baker

  I sidled up beside Selina along the wall, hidden partially by the shadows of the balcony overhead. The ballroom on the second story looked down into the dining room, wrapping around three walls, the fourth being filled with tall windows that overlooked the lake on the northern side of the estate.

  “What did he want?” Selina asked at once as I took my place beside her.

  I smoothed the front of my apron, the action soothing me and giving me something to do with my hands. “He scolded me for wasting his time,” I whispered back. “He told me that he looked about, at the Chief Constable’s request, for the server with the mole, and came up empty-handed.”

  A crease formed on Selina’s brow. “He felt the need to tell you that?” she asked softly.

  I nodded. “Apparently so.” Then I sighed quietly. “Though you told me as much that day as well.”

  A frown tugged at her mouth. “I meant no harm,” she said. “I simply could not recall seeing anyone like that before.”

  “Nor can I,” I said. “And neither can anyone on staff.”

  “What does that mean, then?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” I said. “But I know what I saw that day. Which has me wondering if—”

  Selina did not have the chance to hear what it was that I truly thought because as I began to elaborate, a terrible clank, clank, clank, clank filled the room.

  “All right now, you lot, our hostess is settled. You can all stop your whispering.”

  I started guiltily until I realized the words were not addressed to Selina and me but to the guests at the table.

  The man who spoke seemed near Mrs. Montford’s age, and he sat across from her at the table. His greying hair was cut short and he sported a bottle green coat. He frowned around at the other guests gathered before looking over at Mrs. Montford.

  My heart sank. Ordinarily, her husband would have taken the lead in any sort of greeting.

  What must she be thinking right now? I wondered.

  She stood with as much grace and poise as I had ever seen. She folded her hands delicately before herself, and her expression remained as tranquil as it had in the last few days. “Good evening,” she began. “I should like to thank all of you for coming to support me in this time of trouble. It means a great deal to me and I know it certainly would have meant as much to the Colonel.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room, like the stillness that filled the air before a storm. Many pairs of eyes had turned to fix upon her.

  All I could think of were the words she had spoken to Selina and me before we had come down. How many of these people were here for no other purpose than to learn what they could gain?

  “As I am certain you are all wondering, I shall begin with this statement. We are as yet uncertain as to how the Colonel passed away, apart from the fact that it was rather quick, and as you might imagine, unexpected.”

  “You don’t know yet?”

  The question arose from a tall, thin woman near the opposite end of the table. She wore a beaded headband with a peacock feather sticking straight out of it. Her boney face turned down into a surly frown, as she sniffed derisively.

  “I heard his heart failed,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “His heart?”

  The question had come from a man nearer to the center of the table. His bushy beard and rather coarse amber curls made me think of a lion’s mane. “Surely the doctor would have been able to discern that very quickly.”

  The woman with the peacock feather headband looked unconvinced. “Oh, really, James? And how might that have been possible, hmm? Short of cutting his chest open right then and there?”

  The man called James furrowed his brow. “There are signs, symptoms, Maryanne. Surely you realize that?”

  “This coming from a man who failed medical school,” came a third voice, this time from a gangly young man with a mischievous face. He leaned back in his chair as if entirely at his leisure.

  James’s expression hardened as he looked at the younger man. “See, here—”

  “Now, now… We should allow Mrs. Montford to speak,” said yet another voice. “For I know we are all impatient to hear the facts.”

  The woman who had spoken up was a smaller woman than Mrs. Montford. She wore her hair much the same way Mrs. Montford did, short and pinned away from her face. Her hair, however, still held onto some of the brown from her youth, indicating she may have been a few years younger than my mistress.

  I glanced at Mrs. Montford, expecting to see some gratitude in her expression, as the woman had been so kind as to stop any sort of uprising that seemed to be occurring.

  However, I was surprised to see a steely look, my mistress’s eyes like daggers as she looked at the other woman.

  Many of these guests I had seen before, whether at dinner parties or balls or the like. A few I knew by name. This woman, however, I did not recognize in the slightest.

  I leaned over to Selina, who was watching the two women glare at one another in chilly silence. “Who is she?” I asked softly.

  “That would be the Colonel’s sister, Mrs. Marjorie Townson,” Selina said in a low whisper. “She…is not often spoken of.”

  It was quite clear why. The two women stared at one another as if they were lionesses fighting over territory. I had no idea that the Colonel had any siblings, let alone any that were still living.

  “I must admit I am surprised to see you here, Marjorie,” said the boney woman, the one called Maryanne. “I thought you had sworn never to set foot in your brother’s house again.”

  “I suppose we are all full of surprises, aren’t we?” Mrs. Townson said with a tight smile.

  With that look, I could see the resemblance between the Colonel and his sister. She had the same hardened expression in her face, the same wrinkled brow, and the same tightness around her eyes.

  “As I have told you, we do not yet rightly know what happened,” Mrs. Montford said, a familiar bite to her words, though it surprised me to hear her address her family in such a way. “And I shall thank you kindly not to ask any further questions on the matter. If and when I learn the truth, I shall know then if it would be at all appropriate for me to share it. For now, it matters little. He is gone, after all. The knowledge of how it occurred is not going to change that.”

  Her words hung in the air for a few moments.

  I noticed a few people exchange annoyed glances.

  “Mother, we must be more supportive,” said a young man seated beside Mrs. Townson. “Think of all poor Aunt has been through these past few days.”

  I turned my attention to him and found myself somewhat caught off guard.

  How had I not noticed him before?

  He, too, sat quite comfortably in his chair, as if this were nothing more than a heated discussion over something inane. Tall and broad shouldered but lean, he had the build of someone who did little labor, if any at all. His expression suggested he was mildly amused at the whole affair, especially at his own mother’s behavior. As to his resemblance to Mrs. Townson, I could hardly see any. While she had pale skin and a flushed face, he had more of an olive tone.

  His eyes were fixed upon Mrs. Montford with mild curiosity, his head tilted slightly to the side. I watched as he brushed aside a lock of auburn hair, most of which fell just below his jawline, laying smooth and combed into place like the feathers of a falcon.

  I might have found him handsome, if the circumstances of his visit were less tragic.

  “Thank you, Jerome,” Mrs. Montford said, though her voice held little warmth for the young man.

  She regarded the rest of the guests. “The funeral is to be held in a few days. I do not have the precise details as of yet, as we are still working through them. Until then, I suppose you all should simply make yourselves as comfortable as you can. My home is open to you for as long as necessary.”

  I saw no kindness in her smile as she looked round.

  “We are terribly sorry for your loss
,” said young Mr. Townson.

  Now that I knew his and his mother’s relationship to the family, I wondered how the rest of the guests were related.

  “Yes, indeed. It is a tragedy, to be sure. How fortunate it is that we can be here,” said Maryanne, pulling an empty glass toward herself and holding it aloft in the air, her eyes combing the edges of the room for a servant. “Might we all drink a toast to the Colonel’s life?”

  There was a rustle of approval around the table, and others reached for their empty goblets as well.

  Mrs. Montford seemed lost in the commotion at the head of the table as the servants came around to fill the goblets.

  “And what of dinner?” Mr. Townson asked, looking up at Mrs. Montford. “You do not mean to feed us on conversation and drinks alone, do you?”

  A low chuckle passed around the table.

  Mrs. Montford turned to look at the servants nearer the windows. “If you would…” she said.

  The delight of the guests became evident in their sudden shift of conversation. The gloom seemed to have dispelled from the air, only to be replaced with quiet laughter and discussions between them all.

  No one watching would have imagined that these people had been drawn here by a death.

  6

  “What did you think of Mrs. Townson’s son?”

  The question, poised over a meal of our own later that evening, startled me. I looked up from my bowl of stew to meet Selina’s gaze. Her green eyes, wide with interest, made me wonder if I had misheard her in some regard.

  “In what way?” I asked. “How do you mean?”

  She looked thoughtful. We had spoken about the callousness of the guests over dinner, how they had all behaved as if they were at an ordinary dinner party, not a meal leading up to a funeral of one of their family.

  “He was handsome, was he not?” she asked.

  I drew my spoon through the stew in the bowl in front of me. “That is rather off topic,” I said.

  “Yes, well, I must admit that I am quite tired of speaking of the rudeness of the guests,” she said, pushing aside her bowl, which was already empty. “Well? What did you think?”

  I felt a twinge of anxiety, which seemed to rear up as a moment of annoyance. “Why does it matter?”

  Selina’s face split into a smile, her eyes flashing. “I thought as much.”

  My cheeks burned. “You thought what?”

  “I thought you would agree,” she said, leaning on the small table that we shared almost every evening for dinner, when our duties would allow us to do so. It sat in the back corner of the kitchen, often ignored by other servants, who chose to eat in either the servant’s dining hall just off the courtyard and the larder, or standing around the larger table in the kitchen.

  I knew it was of little use arguing with my friend. She saw through my weak façade. I let out a sigh, my shoulders sagging. “Again, I do not see why it matters,” I said.

  “It is a point of discussion that is interesting,” Selina said. “Something positive. There has been too much depressing conversation these past few days.”

  I could understand why she felt that way. It seemed that every mouth muttered the same things over and over. They talked of nothing apart from the funeral, the guests, the work ahead. Even speculation about the Colonel’s death had fallen to the wayside as cleaning and the preparations for meals had increased tenfold.

  I pushed aside the rest of my stew, my appetite quickly vanishing. “He is far above the likes of us, is he not?”

  “Yes,” Selina said, smirking. “But that does not prevent us from recognizing his good features.”

  I frowned. “It is not appropriate for us.”

  “And why not?” Selina asked. “It is innocent enough.”

  I shook my head. “It would not do for Mrs. Carlisle to overhear us,” I said, dropping my voice, glancing over my shoulder.

  Selina rolled her eyes upward. “You always worry far too much.”

  “I am sorry,” I said. “I do not mean to ruin any bright spots you are trying to find right now. That is not my intention.”

  Selina’s expression softened. “I know that. You need not worry.”

  I did not meet her gaze, looking down at the table. “And I did think him handsome, despite the coolness between Mrs. Montford and his mother.”

  “Yes, that certainly did put a bit of a damper on the whole dinner,” Selina agreed.

  After conversing a little more on lighter subjects, she and I both retired for the evening…or at least, we intended to. It seemed that the guests had other thoughts.

  As I made my way up the stairs, I was intercepted by one Miss Michaels, who I had learned was a cousin to the late Colonel. A woman whose face unfortunately resembled that of a rat, she screwed up her eyes and frowned at me. “You there, maid,” she said, wagging her finger down at me from the top step. “I am in need of new linens for my bed.”

  I slowed my steps. “My apologies, Miss Michaels. Was your bed not made up for you already?”

  “It was,” Miss Michaels said. “But the current linens are far too itchy for my delicate skin. My linens at home are from Egypt. And where are these from?”

  My face flushed. “I do not know, Miss,” I said. “I shall fetch you fresh linens, if you would like, and you can see if you prefer them.”

  “See to it that you do,” Miss Michaels said.

  I excused myself and went back down to the launderette, where I ran into Mrs. Carlisle. I quickly explained the situation, and she sent me upstairs again with the new linens.

  I spent the next hour fussing with Miss Michaels bed, stripping the blankets and sheets and replacing them with the fresh linens, which I was quite sure were exactly the same as the ones that had made up her bed in the first place. I wrestled with them while she stood off to the side, barking orders at me to do it again, to correct corners, to smooth edges.

  By the time she seemed satisfied, it was nearing midnight and my whole body ached from the day’s events and excitement.

  I was out the door, closing it behind myself when I heard her throw herself onto the bed with a contented sigh. I dragged her unused linens back down to the launderette, where Mrs. Carlisle nearly bit my head off for wasting the efforts of one of the other maids from earlier in the day because I was too cowardly to tell Miss Michaels the truth.

  I regretted my own actions far more than she would ever know as I dragged myself back up to my own room, where I cast aside my apron onto the floor, quickly changed into my nightgown, and collapsed into bed.

  The next time I became aware of my surroundings, I was being awakened by a sharp rapping on my door. Seconds later, the knock was echoed by similar, more distant knocks, as the servant tasked with waking others for the day moved off down the corridor. I sat straight up in bed, my heart thundering in my ears.

  I gasped, looking round, only to see my room empty and still.

  I rested a hand over my heart, willing it to slow.

  I am not in danger. I am safe. It is simply morning.

  Morning.

  The last few days filled my thoughts, crashing against my mind like a sudden, violent storm. The Colonel’s death. The influx of his family arriving for the funeral. Jerome Townson and Selina’s questions. The server with the mole on his neck.

  I rubbed my eyes. They stung from weariness. My sluggish mind took a few moments to work through the next steps.

  I had to rise and prepare for the day. Mrs. Montford would need me.

  My legs swung over the side of the bed, the tips of my toes brushing against the cold wooden floor. I flinched, withdrawing them, pulling them back up underneath my legs.

  A shiver passed over me, and I glanced outside.

  It seemed that autumn wished to leave us sooner than we had hoped. The golds and rubies of the leaves had faded, leaving nothing more than dried, crumbling piles covering the dark green grass beneath them. Their branches reached toward the grey skies, welcoming the inevitable frost and sno
w that would soon lay upon their limbs in a silent, gentle blanket.

  I heard voices out in the hall, voices I typically would not hear in the morning, as I often rose before most of the other maids to tend to Mrs. Montford.

  A quick glance at the clock and my stomach dropped.

  It was almost eight!

  I leapt from the bed and changed into the black dress of my uniform faster than I ever had before, leaving my nightgown in a haphazard heap behind my changing curtain. I tugged my shoes on, not bothering to buckle them properly, and barely sat down long enough to roll my stockings up onto my legs. I yanked them the rest of the way up as I ran to the mirror.

  After quickly running a brush through my hair, splashing some cool water on my face, and pinching my cheeks as hard as possible to draw some life into them, I made a dash for the door, my heart in my throat.

  As soon as I walked out into the hall, I slowed myself. I did not want to appear late, even if I was.

  I made my way down the stairs, falling in with another pair of maids who were giggling just ahead of me. I followed them down the hall and past the guest quarters, until they started down the stairs to the ground floor.

  What would Mrs. Montford say of my tardiness? I could not remember the last time I had been late to greet her. She would not be at all pleased to be woken so late. There would likely be guests at breakfast already. She would be annoyed that she had not been there to greet them, no matter how much she disliked having to do so in the first place.

  I stopped outside her room, lifting my hand to knock, when I heard voices a little further down coming from the open door to her parlor.

  Listening for only a moment told me that Miss Maryanne was the one who spoke, and her voice was soon followed by Mrs. Montford’s.

  She woke so much earlier than she usually does!

  With a deliberate swallow, I started down the hall.

  I paused outside the door, the light within washing out over the carpet in the hall in a thick, warm beam.