“Has someone tried to break into the house?”
A look of dread passed over Gerard’s face. “Afraid not. It’s much worse than that. Look, I don’t want to say.”
“I’m sure you’re bursting to say it though,” observed Maurice.
“Sure I am, but she might hear us. Mrs. Cleary…”
“Nobody can hear a thing. I’ve closed the doors, Gerard,” reminded Maurice in an encouraging tone.
Gerard dropped the sound of his voice. “Alright, where do I start? She’s been acting strange ever since Calista Nightingale died. Oh, she says there’s a haunting in this house, but I ain’t so sure. I ain’t buying it. I’ve seen her tantrums.”
Maurice frowned. “Mrs. Cleary never mentioned any haunting. It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve heard.”
Gerard fixed Maurice as though weighing up whether to speak further. He peered through the French doors to check that no one was passing by.
“She won’t mention any of it to you. The lady has gone insane, if you ask me. But what choice do I have? I answer to her. I do what I’m told. Don’t want to lose my job when Mr. John takes over. Though I’m sure he’ll straighten her out. I think she’s just showing you her good side.” He paused. “For now.”
“You said she thinks there’s a haunting. Can you explain what you mean?” asked Maurice.
Gerard looked askance through the windows to check that no one was watching him from outside. He turned to Maurice. “She’s been saying Vera Nightingale was murdered by Calista’s spirit. That she died of fright. That’s the way she said it.”
Maurice blinked. “Murdered by a ghost? That’s absurd.” He’d not expected Mrs. Cleary to be the sort of person to fall prey to superstitious thoughts. “Alright then, about Vera Nightingale. Tell me more about that night. What were you doing?”
“Sleeping, sir. I got up the next day before everyone else. Now I found Vera Nightingale by the stairs that day and to be sure, I remember the horror on her dead face. She sure did look frightened to me. But I think anyone who was close to death would find themselves in a little panic, don’t you think?”
“You found her?”
“I did. I asked the gardener to ride into town and summon the police.”
“What else did you see that day?”
“There were spoons scattered across the stairs and down below. I didn’t want no one tripping on them so I put those nasty things away. The police didn’t like that much. They spoke to me like I had tampered with the evidence.”
“You think someone might have placed them there on purpose and caused her to trip?”
“No one here would do such an awful thing. I think maybe she was carrying them and they slipped from her hands when she fell.”
“What was Vera Nightingale doing with spoons in the middle of the night?”
“Well…I…I don’t know.”
“What happened afterwards?”
“Oh, the usual drama. Mrs. Cleary was no use. She’d been running errands in London the day before, and didn’t show up until the evening after I found Miss Vera Nightingale. I had to do everything myself. The girls were in tears. The coroner asked everyone what they’d seen. What could I tell them? Nothing. I heard nothing that night. I think Vera Nightingale gave herself a fright and fell down the stairs.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time Alexandra Hall made someone’s blood run cold. What with all those portraits crowding the walls. Bunch of ghouls. Even I get frightened at times the way those people with their stiff airs look down on you.”
“I’m surprised both you and Mrs. Cleary believe Vera Nightingale died of fright. You should already know that she suffocated. The fact is, somebody smothered her.”
Gerard grew pale. “No one here would do such a thing. I already talked to the police and they said the same thing you did. But I don’t know, I still cannot believe it.”
“Where did you say Mrs. Cleary was all this time?”
“Like I said, in London, running errands. Between you and me, she wants to emigrate to Australia. She hates it here.”
“How do you know so much about what she plans to do?”
Gerard had poured some flour in a bowl, made a well and added in a little yeast paste with salt. He walked to an internal pump and filled a water pitcher. “Well, she used to confide in Sophie. Sophie Murphy.”
“The maid who died two weeks before Miss Nightingale.”
“Yes. Sophie let it slip. Not much that girl could keep secret. But anyhow, it doesn’t matter now, does it?”
He looked suddenly dispirited as he kneaded the dough to prepare a bread loaf.
Maurice reflected upon the cook’s words. “You haven’t answered my first question. Who do you think created havoc in your kitchen, Mr. O’Malley?”
Gerard’s ears blushed red. He shook his head as he pounded a fist into the dough which he then flipped over and gave another spray of flour.
“I ain’t saying it, Mr. Leroux. Don’t want to get myself dismissed. Who else is going to hire an old man like me?”
“Well you seem a little troubled by it all. Maybe it might help you to bring someone into your confidence.”
“You’re a smart man, sir. And you’re right, it’s been bothering me. Do you really want to know what I think? I think it’s Mrs. Cleary. I think she’s doing it herself. She’s got so much anger bottled up within her that it wouldn’t surprise me.”
Gerard’s pounding grew harsh, his fingers clawed at the dough before slamming it loudly on the bench. “This is not the first time,” he muttered under his breath. “If it happens again, I’ll have her send out for new crockery and
