He retrieved a case from his pocket, found a cigar and lit it. This promised to be a long day.
“Would you like some biscuits, Ellen?” Maurice pushed the plate of rich shortbreads in front of the young maid.
She blushed and reached for the buttery treat.
“Thank you, Mr. Leroux.”
“I had Gerard make these. There’s a glass of milk here also if you feel like something to drink.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He watched as Ellen took tiny bites of her buttery biscuit and tried instantly to brush away any stray crumbs. The girl was highly self-conscious. He wondered at first whether it might be an act.
“What do you remember of Sophie Murphy before she died?”
“I think…she was fine, sir.”
“Did she seem upset to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she seem on good terms with everyone?”
“Yes. She was cheerful. She showed us her new hat.”
“A new hat?”
“Yes. She bought it from Reading Town. An expensive one, sir. Shannon even said she was surprised Sophie could afford that sort of hat.”
“I see. Thank you, Ellen. Let’s talk about Miss Vera Nightingale now. Did you see or hear anything on the night of Vera Nightingale’s murder?”
Ellen shook her head.
“Nothing, sir. I was in bed. Shannon took care of Miss Nightingale that night. The rest of us were asleep.”
“Did she see any friends or anyone else the day she died?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where was Mrs. Cleary on that day?” He wanted to know whether Ellen would confirm what Gerard had told him.
“Mrs. Cleary had gone, sir.”
“Where to?”
“I saw her take the spare carriage and ride off herself. To London, I think it was.”
Maurice nodded. The vision of the thin housekeeper travelling alone and manning horses startled him somewhat. Perhaps Mrs. Cleary was stronger than he had assumed. “So Mrs. Cleary returned the next morning, is that right?”
“No, much later. She was gone for two whole days. She was back in the evening after we’d found Miss Vera.”
“What about the gardener? Shannon said Miss Vera disliked the noise from the fountain. Perhaps she spoke to the gardener the day before she died. Think back. Try to remember.”
“She might have, sir. Alfred came in that day.”
Maurice blinked. “Alfred was inside the house?”
Ellen blushed profusely.
“Yes, sir. He came in through the servant quarters. He wasn’t inside the house for long. Shannon saw him waiting for Miss Vera. She pestered him to leave.”
“And then what happened?”
“He said he only wanted to talk to Miss Vera. He argued a bit and got cross.”
“He got cross, did he?”
Ellen lowered her gaze and nodded.
She had now finished her biscuit. She clutched her hands so hard together that the white of her knuckles showed.
Maurice knew he had to make the young maid feel more at ease.
“How long have you been at Alexandra Hall, Ellen?”
“Two years sir. I came not long after the famine began.”
Maurice tilted his head. “The famine?”
“Oh yes, sir. In Ireland.”
“The famine in Ireland, I see. That’s disheartening. I’ve learnt it has carried on for quite some time now. You must be so glad you are here in Alexandra Hall, then.”
Ellen smiled timidly. “Oh, yes. Mr. Nightingale was awfully nice to take me in. He was a kind man. So sad to have him pass. And so quickly after his wife.”
“So you like it here, in Alexandra Hall?” asked Maurice, watching keenly for her reaction.
Ellen’s eyes looked sideways.
“I do an awful lot. Except that…”
“Except what? Do you girls argue with Alfred often?”
Ellen shook her head. She reached for the glass of milk before her and drank.
“Does Alfred come into the house often? What about that delivery boy?”
“He’s fine, sir. It’s not that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Sometimes…I am afraid,” she said at last, still holding the glass in both hands as though it were a shield and she felt safer with the object in her hands. “I only told Shannon of it. I’ve not told Mrs. Cleary, sir. I wouldn’t want to sound silly and lose my job. You see, I can’t go back home because of the famine. My parents can’t take me.”
The look of distress in her eyes reminded Maurice of the poverty he had seen in the streets of Paris. “I won’t tell a soul. I promise. What are you afraid of?”
“Oh dear, no. It is too ungodly for me to speak of it. I cannot. I fear that I might go to hell if I even think of it.”
In saying this, she clutched tight at her cross as though it might protect her.
Maurice was unsettled. A cloud of smoke thickened around him as he puffed at his cigar.
Whenever he interrogated people, silence was his ally. Most people were discomforted by silence and with little coercion, they spoke up to fill it. Sometimes they said irrelevant things and Maurice would then edge them in the right direction until they disclosed useful information. With the quietly spoken Ellen though, silence had no effect.
“Have you seen a ghost, Ellen?” he blurted.
Ellen stared back at him. A flash of recognition stamped upon her face.
“I…I don’t know,” she said. “I saw something, yes.”
“Is it a person?” asked Maurice, more and more dubious.
“I don’t know. I’ve had it enter my room once. I was so afraid that I closed my eyes.”
“When was this?”
“The night after Sophie Murphy passed away.”
“And what happened?”
“I was lying still in my bed. Mary, the girl I sleep with, was fast asleep. But Willy, her little dog began to
