“Inspector Leroux,” he said, introducing himself as he shook the young man’s hand. “How long does it take to deliver letters to London?”
“For London, sir? Delivery by the next day. I hand mail over to a postal boy in Reading Town while I busy myself with buying provisions.”
“Once delivered, when shall I expect my response?”
“Depends on how quickly that person wants to reply. But if they reply straight away, you might get your response in a day, two at most, sir. As for me, I’m here in the mornings every day, even on Sundays, sir.”
“And when do you usually leave?”
“Once I have Mrs. Cleary’s shopping list. Usually by noon.”
Maurice thanked the delivery boy and walked off, seeking the gardener.
As he neared the house, he glimpsed the young maid he’d seen earlier, with her dog in tow. She’d wandered off on the veranda. He imagined she might have been on a lunch break from her chores. He was about to wave in her direction when a flurry of black fabric stormed out of the double glass doors. He realised it was Mrs. Cleary striding outside towards the girl.
Maurice flinched, astounded by the housekeeper’s face. She bore a rageful expression and her features were frightfully deformed. He saw the young maid turn and instantly startle as Mrs. Cleary yelled at her. Maurice could not make out her words, but he watched in fascination as the housekeeper yanked at the girl’s sleeve and dragged her forcefully back into the house. For a moment, Maurice was uncertain about what he’d witnessed. Perhaps Gerard was right and Mrs. Cleary had all the manner of a tyrant. Feeling sorry for the girl, he shook his head and continued on.
Venturing towards the back of the house, he crossed a spacious lawn. In the spring and summer, it might have been lined with patches of continental flowers and scented rose bushes, but with the approach of winter, the stripped plants inspired something akin to despair. To his left was a fountain, and a little to the right, by the creek, he noticed a herb garden encircled by a tall hedgerow.
Maurice crossed the arched entrance of the hedgerow. Here, the garden was reduced to a dismal state where nothing worthy sprouted. In their original form, the leafy basil, the coriander, mint, chives, and thyme might have been Calista’s joy. Now almost a year had passed and these plants had fallen into decrepitude.
Beneath an old cypress by the creek, Maurice noticed an abandoned grave covered with leaves and other debris from fallen branches. Brambles had grown across it, smothering the stone. He was appalled by this sight. What was so important for Aaron to have neglected the love of his life? Had they quarrelled prior to her death?
The brambles’ sharp pins cut through his fingers as he forced apart the entangled branches. After multiple efforts, he was better able to see the stone beneath.
Maurice knelt. He read the inscription on the arched headstone.
Calista Nightingale
née Argyros
December 1814 – January 1848
πάντα ῥεῖ
She had turned thirty-three just prior to her death. Maurice was moved. There was a sea shell engraved beneath the Greek words and then nothing else. The tombstone was bare.
Maurice had never entertained the idea of travelling to the Mediterranean but he imagined how liberating it would have been for a child to swim in aquamarine waters under a generous sun. Calista had known a different life before arriving in England.
What had it been like for her to live with Aaron Nightingale, so far from home, without children to keep her occupied? To be buried here, a place so removed from the coastal village she had known, isolated in this dreary rural setting, seemed entirely unfair. And why was her tomb kept apart? There was no sign that her husband was buried nearby. Maurice guessed that Aaron’s tomb might be found in a proper cemetery, perhaps in a family crypt. It only saddened him further.
The rustling of leaves drew him out of his reverie. He gave the lonely grave one last look, then stood.
Deep in thought, Maurice paced through the garden lawns where weeds seemed to have taken over. The only tended part of the grounds was the area near the fountain, right below the guestroom where he slept.
As he approached the fountain, he noticed a burly man in his mid-thirties emerging from a flight of stairs below ground, axe in hand.
His swarthy face and rippling forearms were streaked with soot. The rough cotton of his dark trousers hinted to his work as a groundsman. He must have been refuelling the boiler which controlled the fountain’s steam pump.
“Good afternoon,” called out Maurice as he neared the gardener.
“So you’re that inspector,” said the man who towered over Maurice. “The Frenchman,” he added, a hint of mockery in his voice.
“My name’s Inspector Leroux. I’m here to investigate the deaths in this house. You must be Alfred.”
The gardener’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. He gave Maurice’s hand a brutal squeeze. “I wonder why you were brought in and not some English lad. The Nightingales likely don’t want no countrymen snooping in their business. Smart lads.” He grinned, revealing a row of crooked teeth.
“I’m a private investigator, Alfred. I’ve worked on cases in Germany and Spain in the past.”
Alfred eyed Maurice from head to toe. In a provocative swing intended to intimidate, he hoisted the axe to rest across his shoulder. Maurice was made painfully conscious of the man’s size and strength.
“Well it’s nice to meet you, sir,” said Alfred. He seemed eager to get away.
“One moment, Alfred,” cut in Maurice. “I’d like to ask you some questions about these two
