Mary stood sheepishly. “Well, I should be getting on with my chores, then,” she said.
“Not another word. Be gone,” hissed Mrs. Cleary.
As Mary disappeared with Willy closely in tow, Maurice cleared his throat.
“I can assure you that she was quite harmless.”
“Nonsense. That girl is full of ideas. She’s an embarrassment.”
“Not at all. You were unnecessarily cross with her. She was only distressed at Willy for some past incident, that’s all.”
Mrs. Cleary’s nostrils flared. “An incident?”
“Yes, something about Willy accessing the cellar.”
Maurice fixed Mrs. Cleary, stressing the word, cellar.
“A figment of her imagination. As I’ve made perfectly clear, Mary is unreliable at best. She confuses everything.”
“That may be so, Mrs. Cleary, but the cellar is no figment of anyone’s imagination. It exists. And I intend to have a look inside it. I will need you to show me where it is.”
Mrs. Cleary looked shaken. Her assurance lessened.
“The cellar…but… has Mr. Wilson not told you?”
“Told me what?”
“Mr. Nightingale made it perfectly clear in his will that we are barred from the cellar for at least six months. Mr. Wilson read the will back in August. Everyone was present. I am afraid it might not be until February until you can enter. What a pity, as I’m sure you’ll have returned to France by then.”
She almost smiled at those last words.
“Mrs. Cleary, that is all fascinating. But would you believe that Mr. Wilson also wrote me a letter, upon my appointment, and which I have here.” He retrieved a stamped note from his leather folder and brandished it in front of the housekeeper. “It says, right here, that Inspector Leroux should have access to every room in Alexandra Hall if it is to further his investigation. Now I don’t care what Mr. Nightingale stipulated in his will. That was then. This is now.”
Mrs. Cleary pursed her lips and stared at the signed attestation. She looked furious but fought to not let it show. Instead Maurice witnessed that all too familiar pulsating throat as the housekeeper’s cheeks reddened.
“Well that’s unfortunate, Mr. Leroux,” she said at last. “You see, I do not have the key to the cellar.”
“You do not?”
“I’ve never had it.” She stiffened, proud to have had the last word. “It seems Mr. Wilson might have kept that key, after all. I imagine he would. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have chores to take care of.”
Maurice knew the housekeeper was lying. He remembered the lone key Mrs. Cleary had kept with her when she’d shared the set with him. His intuition told him it was the key to the cellar. Why would Mrs. Cleary lie?
He had to find that cellar. He knew he could not rest nor finalise his investigation until he had visited the place where Aaron worked.
For the rest of the afternoon, Maurice pondered at the notes he’d written down in his journal along the course of his questioning.
Aside from his growing mistrust of Alfred and the deluded belief shared by Mrs. Cleary, Shannon and Ellen that the house was haunted, he only had one lead: Sophie Murphy’s newly found happiness. He had observed Shannon’s industrious manner yesterday. Could she have been riled by Sophie’s relative ease and carefree ways? The way she had spoken of her lavish hat… Had Shannon murdered Sophie? One temper outburst was all it would have taken for Shannon to fly into a rage and push Sophie down the stairs, or even club her. She had it in her.
Mary’s behaviour also disturbed him. Maurice had never met a fifteen-year-old who behaved like a child of eight. Yet, for all of Mary’s mind lapses, he was not convinced the girl invented. In fact Maurice, who in France had often been called upon to interrogate mistreated children, had felt that rather than make things up, as Mrs. Cleary accused her of doing, Mary had remembered something distressing, something so abominable that she dared not speak of it. Instead she’d diverted her unpleasant thoughts towards Willy.
What if Mary knew something? Worse. What if she had been about to reveal something that Mrs. Cleary wished to keep hidden. But what?
Something else troubled Maurice: the instant in which Mary’s features had altered to resemble those of Mrs. Cleary. He could not say why, but it bothered him.
The afternoon saw him burdened by a growing disappointment. Over the course of the interviews, he felt he was no nearer to the truth about Alexandra Hall’s murderer. And yet, he thought, four deaths in one year could not result from a series of accidents. Still deep in thought, and sitting at Aaron’s desk, he toyed with the Aristotle bust. He wondered why there had been so much secrecy around the cellar. What had Aaron and Calista been up to prior to their deaths?
Overwhelmed by unknowns, he turned to the bookcase, ran a finger across the science volumes without a sense of where to begin. Finding one written by a certain Cuvier, he pulled it out, flicked through it, shook his head, and then returned it to its place.
Feeling increasingly frustrated, Maurice rose and left the study. He rushed downstairs. Surely he could find that cellar himself if he wished it. It would not be too difficult. While he felt certain he’d opened every door in the house and peered into every room, he might have missed one. Unless…
As Maurice pushed open the double glass doors of the entrance hall, Willy bounced along behind him. The Bolognese wagged its tail happily, and its little paws seemed to gallop, if only to keep up with Maurice’s determined stride.
Oblivious to the dog’s presence, Maurice paced the veranda. Perhaps there was an external door he’d not noticed earlier. If he circled the house, he was bound to discover the entrance to this mysterious cellar.
He ventured first towards the mosaic fountain. Still trotting
