Shortly after, Maurice heard barking as Mary walked upstairs. She dawdled like a much younger girl along the corridor, her white Bolognese tagging along behind her.
As Mary sat across from Maurice, she lifted the dog to her lap and began to swing her legs happily. She was a little plump and like Ellen, her eyes were brown, almost hazel.
Maurice noted this with disappointment. It appeared it was not Mary who, whether by intention or through a sleepwalking trance, had hammered his bedroom door last night. Then who was it?
Growing more perplexed, he attempted to recall the gardener’s eye colour. He would have to talk to him again and see for himself but he was certain his eyes were brown.
Meanwhile, Mary had already helped herself to shortbreads. She piled three on her lap and left the plate empty. She began to hum a song as she spoke to Willy in a maternal voice.
“You be a good boy today, Willy. A good boy!” she cooed in between the melody.
“Good morning. It’s Mary, is it?” began Maurice.
She nodded. She seemed suddenly self-conscious.
“What do you think happened to Sophie Murphy? We haven’t seen her around here for a while,” said Maurice, his pencil in hand.
“Sophie was a lovely girl. She would give me caramels.”
“Caramels, that’s nice.”
“She died.”
Maurice flinched at Mary’s bluntness.
“That’s tragic news. I’m sorry to hear of it.”
He thought for a moment.
“Do you remember what you were doing on the day she died?” he asked.
“Hmm… dusting mostly.” She bit into another biscuit.
Maurice dreaded that all this questioning might grow painful due to Mary’s limited understanding.
“Do you remember anything at all on the day when she died? Or perhaps, afterwards?” he asked.
“No.”
The insouciant expression on her face jarred Maurice.
“Alright. What about Miss Vera Nightingale?”
Mary stifled a giggle and bit her lip.
“What’s so funny?” asked Maurice.
“She died too.”
“That’s correct.”
Mary was still grinning.
“Why did you laugh, Mary?”
“Because I know how she died,” she replied matter-of-factly.
Maurice frowned. “You…think you saw something?”
To his astonishment, Mary shook her head fast.
“I didn’t see anything! I promise!” she protested with pleading eyes. Her expression had turned fearful.
“You just said before, that you think you know how Miss Vera Nightingale died?”
To his dismay, Mary turned all her attention to Willy, brushing the dog’s hair with an unsettling nonchalance.
“Oh, Miss Vera. Sweet auntie Vera. She didn’t much like Willy. And Willy didn’t much like her. Yes, I told you the right thing, Mr. Leroux, I did. I remember it all now,” she said with a seriousness that bordered on comical. “I think Miss Vera was smothered with a pillow.”
“Smothered with a pillow?”
“It would make perfect sense, don’t you think?” said Mary with a cheer.
“Why would you say that, Mary?”
Mary did not respond. Instead, she took a mouthful of shortbread biscuit. The room soon filled with her loud chewing noises.
For an instant, Maurice had a vision of Alfred creeping inside the house and smothering Vera with a cushion from the parlour. The absurd image vanished.
It took some time before he could formulate easily understood questions that Mary could then comprehend, but he eventually got there. He discovered nothing more.
“Willy likes you, Mr. Leroux,” Mary said at last. Her voice echoed the relief Maurice felt knowing the interview had terminated.
“Well I’m glad to hear that. You’ve always had this dog, I hear?”
Mary nodded with a smile. Maurice could not shake the sentiment this stirred. Had Mary’s sudden sense of peace arisen because her questioning had ended? If so, what was she hiding? And did she even understand its meaning?
“Does Willy help you with house tasks, Mary?” asked Maurice, more and more disturbed by the young woman’s newly found joy.
Mary abandoned herself to a burst of enthusiasm he had not expected. “Oh yes!” she chirped. “He’s such a good dog. He follows me wherever I go. He’s never far away. We like each other very much. He even helped Mr. Nightingale.”
“He did, did he? What a clever dog.”
“Oh, but he was very naughty one day. He disappeared for a whole day. Didn’t you, Willy?”
Willy had now taken to bouncing joyfully on her lap. It stood on its back paws and nuzzled against Mary’s neck. For the first time, Maurice noted several purple bruises on the girl’s throat.
“Oh, you silly thing. You were so naughty,” she chided. And then Mary’s youthful expression was suddenly torn from her face and Maurice witnessed an uncanny transformation. With her lips pinched tight, Mary now looked frightfully like Mrs. Cleary. Even the tone of her voice rose, and before Maurice could understand it, Mary’s upper lip twitched and she began to yell at her dog. “Oh, you were nasty that day. We told you never to go into the cellar. And you wouldn’t listen! You were bad, Willy!”
Outside the room, Maurice heard the housekeeper’s hurried footsteps. The study door flew open. Her face twisted in a rage, Mrs. Cleary burst in and glowered at Mary, but the young girl saw nothing and continued to scold her dog in a loud voice.
“What a mean dog you were, Willy! Never do it again! Never, never go back to the cellar!” Mary all but screamed at her pet, seizing the dog’s front paws and forcing it to face her.
Mrs. Cleary’s voice rose above the maid’s hysterics. “Enough!”
Mary’s mouth snapped shut and she jerked back so violently against her chair that Willy leapt from her lap and niched itself between Maurice’s legs, under the desk.
Mary looked greatly alarmed. Mrs. Cleary turned to Maurice.
“Mr. Leroux, are you finished?” she asked icily.
“I believe I am,” nodded Maurice.
“Good.”
She then looked upon Mary with a hardened gaze. “Return to your
