The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  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.

  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.

  “They’re b-buried in the churchyard of St. Michael’s. Th-that’s where the family v-vault is.”

  “The Noel-Johnstone family?”

  Maurice nodded.

  The matter was most perplexing.

  “Thank you for showing me, Master Maurice.”

  “My p-pleasure. You’re not like the others, are you?”

  My stomach flipped uncomfortably. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re not a usual m-maid. You sp-speak differently.”

  I worried that, while addressing Maurice, I had been speaking as myself rather than Flo.

  “I went to a good school,” I replied.

  It was the only explanation I could think of whenever anyone pointed out this discrepancy. I wished I hadn’t slipped out of character.

  “You w-went to a good school and b-became a m-maid?” he asked. He was smiling, but I felt worried that his suspicions had been aroused.

  “Yes, my family is quite poor and I had to find work as soon as possible. Besides, I enjoy working as a maid.”

  “R-really?”

  “Perhaps one day I might become a housekeeper.”

  “I th-think you could do b-better than that.”

  “Thank you, Master Maurice. I should get on with my work.”

  “See you later, Flo.”

  I swiftly left the room and tried to busy myself with the rest of my chores. I only had a few days left, and I fervently prayed that I wouldn’t be found out during that time.

  Chapter 36

  When I returned to my room late that evening, I felt sure someone had entered it in my absence once again. The belongings on my dressing table seemed to have been rearranged. I immediately pushed the chair toward the wardrobe and stood on it to feel around for the key.

  It was where I had left it.

  But not in the same position.

  A nauseating weight lurched in my stomach. Each time I had placed the key on top of the wardrobe, I had ensured that the bit of the key faced toward the wall. This time, the bit was facing toward me.

  Was it possible that I had placed the key there in that position? I thought about the last time I had hidden it, and felt sure that I had placed it in the same way. It had become a habit of mine.

  I picked up the key, stepped down from the chair and dashed over to the trunk beneath my bed. Thankfully, I found it locked. My fingers stumbled as I tried to turn the key in the lock. I pulled the trunk out from underneath my bed and my heart pounded in my ears as I lifted up the lid.

  Someone had looked through my papers.

  And Mr Glenville’s notebook was no longer here.

  I wiped my face with my hands and cursed myself for being such a fool. Why had I not returned the notebook sooner?

  Now someone had gone through my belongings. But who?

  My papers weren’t in complete disarray, but they had been moved about and rearranged in a way that was not my usual habit. The letter from Mr Edwards had been pulled out of its envelope and clumsily pushed back in. Someone had looked through my papers in a hurry. What had they read? Had they taken anything else?

  My entire body trembled as I sat back on my heels.

  Someone in the house knew who I was. It had to be Mrs Craughton, whose handkerchief I had found under my bed. Perhaps I should have confronted her about it sooner. Perhaps if I had returned it to her she would have known I had discovered that she had been poking around in my room.

  I imagined her explaining to Mr Glenville that she had found his book in my trunk. I imagined her telling him who I really was.

  What would he think of me then? He had liked me. He had trusted me.

  Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as I feared.

  My other thought was that perhaps Maisie had been in my room. Was that what she had wanted to confess to me in the kitchen the previous day?

  I comforted myself with the thought that the intruder might have been Maisie. As she was unable to read, she wouldn’t have found out who I really was.

  I felt faint. I had to prepare what I might say if confronted by someone who might have discovered my identity. How could I begin to explain why I ha
d taken Mr Glenville’s notebook?

  I regretted agreeing to undertake this undercover assignment more than ever before. The stress and responsibility had felt too great for me to bear. I wished I could run away and escape it all. If I ran, I would never have to face my accuser. I wouldn’t have to pretend any longer. I should have left when I had decided to, and ignored James’ entreaties.

  I began to pack my belongings into the trunk for a second time. I would leave at first light; hopefully before the household rose for the day.

  As I packed my things away, I thought I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. I quietly opened my door and looked out. I was just in time to see Maisie’s door close with a quiet click. I decided to ask her if she had been in my room.

  Taking my candle with me, I walked over to her door and knocked gently.

  There was no reply.

  I knocked again and spoke loudly enough for her to hear me, but quietly enough so that I wouldn’t disturb anyone else.

  “Maisie? It’s me, Flo. Can I speak to you?”

  There was still no reply. I tried knocking a few more times, but no answer came. For some reason, Maisie didn’t wish to speak to me.

  I would be gone before she got up in the morning, and I hadn’t found the chance to say goodbye.

  With a heavy heart, I returned to my room and finished packing up my belongings. I would have to stay awake until first light, which would be shortly before six o’clock.

  I sat on my bed and my eyelids soon felt heavy. I reluctantly made myself get up again, and paced up and down the length of my room to keep myself awake.

  I heard the grandfather clock downstairs strike midnight. Mr Perrin had still been unable to stop it.

  Then I heard Maisie’s door open again. What was she doing?

  I crept over to my door and put one hand on the handle, ready to turn it. I heard another door close, which I presumed to be the one which led to the servants’ staircase. There was silence for a moment, and then there was a cry followed by a horrible echoing thud. I was startled by the sound. Then I heard hurried footsteps.

  Something was wrong.

  I picked up my candle and flung open my door.

  “Maisie?” I called out.

  I was met with complete silence.

  I knocked at Maisie’s door again, but still there was no answer. Feeling increasingly worried, I turned the handle. Her room was dark inside, but I could smell that a candle had recently been snuffed out.

  “Maisie?” I said quietly.

  As I stepped into the small room and looked around, I could see she wasn’t inside it. A piece of paper and a pencil lay next to the extinguished candle on her dressing table. There was also an empty bottle of laudanum. On the piece of paper, in a very clumsy hand, the following words were written:

  Sorry. God Forgive Me.

  I heard a shriek, and realised after a few seconds that the noise had come from me.

  What had she done?

  The sound of the thud came back to my mind.

  The steep stairs. The steep servants’ staircase.

  I ran out of Maisie’s room and pushed the door to the staircase open. The flame of my candle quivered as I held it out over the stairwell, afraid of what I might find. I peered cautiously over the banister into the darkness below.

  “Maisie!” My voice echoed in the silence, and I felt nauseous as I became increasingly convinced about the origin of the thud I had heard.

  I slowly descended the stairs, holding my candle out in front of me. It felt as though the silence and darkness were trying to close in around me. After waiting a while, I held my candle up over the banisters. As I looked down into the depths, I could see that my worst fears had been confirmed.

  The pale form of a person lay at the very bottom of the stairwell. The limbs were twisted into such a position that I couldn’t imagine the poor individual might still be alive.

  Short, sharp breaths raked at my chest. I felt as though I had left my own body as I descended the staircase toward the terrible, white, twisted figure at the bottom.

  When I reached the foot of the stairs, I looked at the white form again and saw Maisie’s eyes staring up at me, wide and black.

  Chapter 37

  “What was the girl thinking of?” Mr Glenville exclaimed.

  He sat at the table in the dining room, and had clearly dressed in a hurry. He hadn’t had time to pin back the sleeve of his right arm, which hung limply at his side, and there was stubble on his chin.

  Mrs Glenville sat beside him, her face masked by a mourning veil. Maurice and Jane were also seated at the table, along with Mrs Craughton, whose face was red, her eyes sore from crying.

  I had woken Mrs Craughton as soon as I had found Maisie, and she had roused the rest of the household.

  James and Inspector Trotter had joined us. James hadn’t found a chance to shave that morning, either. His face was sombre, and he wore a dark blue suit. Inspector Trotter stood beside him, laboriously writing in his notebook as James asked everyone in the room for their version of events.

  “Self-murder,” said Mrs Glenville, shaking her head. “We did get her from the workhouse, didn’t we, Alexander? I suppose we were asking for it.”

  “Let me summarise what we know so far,” said James. I stood next to Mr Perrin at the back of the room. I felt so very cold and sad, and longed for the terrible events of the night to somehow be reversed.

  “Miss Parker,” James said, nodding in my direction, “heard Maisie’s door open and close shortly after midnight. Can you confirm that Miss Parker?”

  “Yes, Inspector Blakely.”

  I felt everyone’s eyes resting on me and wondered who was aware of my true identity. I avoided Mrs Craughton’s gaze. Surely she knew. She had to know.

  “But you didn’t see Maisie herself?”

  “No.”

  “And you say that you knocked at her door a short while before then, but there was no answer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you knock at her door?”

  I had wanted to ask Maisie if she had been inside my room, but how could I admit that in front of the others?

  “I had been concerned about her ever since Miss Sophia’s death,” I said. “She seemed to be worried or frightened about something. And it was unusual for her to be up late, so I wanted to make sure she was quite well.”

  “I certainly agree with that,” said Mrs Craughton. “The girl was exceptionally upset over Miss Sophia’s death, and I don’t think she ever recovered. That must be why she took her own life. She simply couldn’t cope.”

  “Mr and Mrs Glenville, is that what you think?” asked James. “Do you agree that Maisie struggled to cope after Miss Sophia’s death?”

  “Absolutely,” said Mrs Glenville. “The girl had a weak mind. People with weak minds are particularly affected by grief.”

  Mr Glenville nodded solemnly.

  “So the best possible explanation we have for Maisie’s death is that she struggled to cope with the passing of Miss Sophia, and four days after the tragic event the maid took her own life,” commented James.

  There seemed to be general assent from around the room.

  I chose this moment to speak. “Except there is something which we have overlooked, Inspector Blakely.”

  “What’s that, Miss Parker?”

  “Maisie left a note. I saw it on her dressing table. I suppose it is what you might describe as a note someone would write before they take their own life.”

  “That’s right,” said James. “It was only a very short note, written in pencil. And the pencil was left lying next to it.”

  “There’s something which bothers me about it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Maisie couldn’t read or write,” I said. “So how did she manage to write a suicide note?”

  “It was crudely written,” said Mrs Craughton. “Maisie knew how to write a few simple words.”

  “I don’t think she did,” I
quibbled. “I had been teaching Maisie her letters, but she wouldn’t have been able to write words.”

  “So what are you saying, F-Flo?” asked Maurice. “Are you s-suggesting that she c-couldn’t have written it?”

  “Yes. I saw the handwriting, and it was very crudely written, as Mrs Craughton describes. I think someone must have helped her to write it.”

  “Really?” said Inspector Trotter.

  “Yes, they told her what to write and probably guided her hand. That would account for the untidiness.”

  Mr Glenville snorted. “If someone helped her write her suicide note, that means they would have known what she was about to do. They wouldn’t have helped her and then left her to it. They would have stopped her!”

  “I know what Miss Parker is suggesting here,” said James. “Someone encouraged Maisie to write that note because they wanted her death to appear as a suicide. If that’s what happened, her death cannot be ruled a suicide. It must have been a murder.”

  “No!” Mrs Glenville shrieked.

  “Maisie was murdered?” cried Mrs Craughton. “How ridiculous! Why would she be?”

  “First my sister and now the maid,” said Jane sorrowfully. “I cannot believe that both may have been murdered!”

  “Now hold on a minute, Blakely,” said Mr Glenville. “Two murders under one roof within a few days?”

  “It’s possible, Mr Glenville. We cannot be certain.”

  “Cannot be certain?” said Mr Glenville. “That suggests there’s an alternative and plausible explanation for both deaths.”

  “Both may have been suicides,” said Jane.

  “Your sister would never have done such a thing,” said Mr Glenville. “The maid might have, but Sophia wouldn’t. Now let me tell you, Inspector, what I really think happened here. My daughter was poisoned by mistake. The poisoner attempted to poison me, but somehow my glass was accidentally confused with Sophia’s. For some unknown reason, the maid has taken her own life.”

  “How do you explain her ability to write the note?” asked James.

  “I haven’t seen it, but I hear that it is not well written. Perhaps she found a way to practise her writing. As my wife has said, we found her in the workhouse and wanted to give her a better life than she had there. Perhaps we failed to realise how feeble-minded she was. The question is, why did she do it? I don’t think any of us can answer that. Perhaps she was rejected by a suitor. We cannot know what goes on in a girl’s mind. Especially a girl who was brought from the workhouse.”