“But Robin Hood has not committed murder,” Genevieve replied with care. Yet, an inner voice instantly replied, causing a shiver to run down her spine.
“It is my belief that Reginald caught the ruffian in the act of pilfering the box and instantly expired from the shock of it.” Again the handkerchief was applied, though only momentarily. At Genevieve’s furrowed brow, the housekeeper sighed. “My guess is you assume your father’s dear friend passed while asleep in his bed, yes?”
“I had assumed that, yes,” Genevieve confirmed slowly. She searched her memory for the exact wording of her conversation with Arthur, and the shorter one she’d had with her father earlier that afternoon when she’d gone home to change clothes. “No, not assumed,” she remembered. “It is what my editor told me.”
Mrs. Dolan shook her head, taking another deep breath. “That is what is being said publicly. In truth, I found him … expired, in his bedclothes, on the floor of the upstairs study yesterday morning. The very room where the box was kept.”
The icy shiver danced on Genevieve’s spine again. “Was there any evidence of a break-in?”
“No, the house was locked tight as a drum, as always. But don’t you see? Reginald was a very light sleeper, particularly since Sally passed. He must have heard a noise coming from the study and walked in to investigate …” The housekeeper was overcome again for a moment.
Genevieve put down her teacup and waited for Mrs. Dolan to compose herself, her mind swirling. The housekeeper removed the pink handkerchief from her face and continued. “The police say he was probably awake to get a drink of water or the like.” She colored a little and Genevieve nodded, indicating that she understood. “But there was no reason for Reginald to be in the study if such were the case. The water closet is at the other end of the hall,” she concluded with dignity.
Mrs. Dolan started fussing about with a lovely-looking lemon cake, noting that she had barely been able to eat since Mr. Cotswold’s passing but pressing a slice upon Genevieve, who accepted it mutely. She barely knew what to make of this new information, but it did suggest that some kind of foul play had been involved in Reginald’s death.
“I know your time is short, Genevieve,” Mrs. Dolan said, “and you’re here to gather information for the remembrance in the paper. I am so very glad it is you who is writing it, by the way. Reginald would be so pleased. But … I scarcely know how to ask this …”
“You want me to keep an ear out for anything that may have to do with the missing jeweled box, or any other news regarding Mr. Cotswold?” Genevieve guessed, keeping her voice soft.
Mrs. Dolan breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. Yes, that would be welcome. I know you are not a police officer, but they do not seem inclined to help at present anyway. You are in a position to possibly hear of something, as the Globe receives the letters from Robin Hood.” The housekeeper peered at Genevieve hopefully.
“I will do my best. And if something comes to my attention that might corroborate your theory, I shall let both you and the authorities know at once,” she promised.
Seeming satisfied, Mrs. Dolan composed herself, and they proceeded to have a long, lovely chat around their shared memories of the Cotswolds, with Genevieve taking occasional notes and both of them shedding an occasional tear, until Mrs. Dolan noticed with surprise that dusk was falling.
“I’ve taken far too much of your time,” said the older woman, bustling Genevieve to the door.
“No, it’s I who have taken yours. Our discussion will be so helpful as I write my newspaper piece; I can’t thank you enough.”
“Of course, dear. And you’re right to focus on his charitable and committee work. That man gave so much to this city.” Mrs. Dolan sighed unhappily.
“Mrs. Dolan, we didn’t speak of the most recent committee Mr. Cotswold was appointed to—I understand he was meant to serve on a mayoral task force on housing reform?”
The housekeeper pursed her lips again, then narrowed her eyes in a way that suggested she was rolling them without actually doing so. “Yes, and it pains me that his last act of kindness towards this town caused him such headaches.”
Genevieve’s heart skipped a beat. “Headaches?”
Before Mrs. Dolan could answer, a distant telephone rang, and the older woman excused herself to answer it after a hurried, distracted embrace, leaving Genevieve with the maid Letty, who had retrieved Genevieve’s things.
“Miss,” whispered Letty as she helped Genevieve into her jacket. “It was me.”
Genevieve twisted around and regarded the young woman with an alarmed curiosity. Letty was wringing her hands in front of her waist, wearing an expression of acute misery.
“What was you?”
“It was my fault. Mr. Cotswold’s death. I left the kitchen door unlocked that night on accident. I’d snuck out, you see. My young man, he wanted to take me to the theater, and Mrs. Dolan would have said no, but I went anyways, and in the morning discovered I’d plumb forgot to lock the back door. So if someone broke in to steal the box and …” Letty’s eyes welled with tears. “They got in because of me.”
The icy tendrils returned, now creeping their way up the back of Genevieve’s neck. It was seeming more and more probable that Reginald Cotswold had suffered an unnatural death. “Didn’t you tell Mrs. Dolan? Or the police?”
If anything, the poor girl looked even more miserable. “No, miss. I didn’t want to get in trouble and lose my place, or worse. But I heard you and Mrs. Dolan talking, and maybe it’s useful for you to know. Maybe it can help you catch whoever took the box.” The tears spilled over and down Letty’s face, and she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “But please don’t tell, unless you must.”
Letty
