UNTIL now, Maurice discarded the idea of Sophie Murphy having fallen down the stairs. But the fearful atmosphere at Alexandra Hall, and Mrs. Cleary’s bizarre behaviour the night before saw him reconsider. There was a chance terror had played a part in the maid’s death.
After breakfast, he examined the steps and balustrade of the grand staircase from which presumably Sophie Murphy might have fallen. As expected, he found no evidence of a violent fall: there were no signs of damage on the wooden steps or marble tiles.
Skirting the wall behind the stairs, he noted a small door which he imagined might provide access to a maintenance cabinet beneath the stairwell. The door was unlocked and the tiny cabinet empty. Finding nothing, he closed it again.
As he turned away from the stairs, Maurice’s attention was drawn to a larger mahogany door near the kitchen. Carved deep into its dark wood, were large antlers, tracing the full width of the panel. Nested within the antlers were wild animal motifs: engravings of deer and bears formed a circle among birds and squirrels. How had he not seen this door on Tuesday? Maurice pondered over this omission. Perhaps due to its ornate surface, the door had appeared to him as a decorative panel and nothing more.
He worked through every key but could find none to match.
Sensing a watchful presence behind him, he turned his head. Shannon O’Sullivan stood near. She’d been observing him for some time.
“Don’t even try, Mr. Leroux,” she said. “I’m sure Mrs. Cleary would have spoken to you about that room.”
Maurice stepped back.
“I see. So this is the cellar door. It would explain why I do not have the key for it.”
Shannon nodded and smiled.
“Mrs. Cleary had her reasons. In his will, Mr. Nightingale barred us from the cellar for six months.”
“Yes, I know. Eccentric, right to the end.” He looked around to verify that they were alone in this part of the house. Finding no one in sight, he turned to the maid. “Miss O’Sullivan, this is so near the scene of the crime,” he whispered, pointing at the door. “It would be senseless not to explore further.”
“Well, we are not permitted to enter,” protested Shannon.
Maurice pleaded ignorance.
“How so? Why would Mr. Nightingale choose to do this? What difference does it make if I enter it now or later?”
“We have to do what he said.”
“Come now, Miss O’Sullivan, let’s think about this for a moment. For what absurd reason, would he choose to do that?”
Shannon glared at him. “We should respect his wishes and on no account should we enter the cellar,” she insisted, reciting this order like some rote knowledge.
Mrs. Cleary had trained Shannon well, but Maurice persisted. “I understand all that, mademoiselle. But surely Mr. Nightingale would make alternative arrangements today if he had some advanced notion of the extraordinary circumstances.” His English surprised him. He’d worded it rather well and he was certain she’d be persuaded.
But his reasoning only brought distress to the young woman who shook her head vigorously. “I doubt it,” she snarled. “You didn’t know him, Mr. Leroux. He was a very organised man. If he did something, then it was for a reason. And you should learn that English people are very set in their ways.”
Maurice lit a cigar, prickled by the excessive patriotism in her statement. He’d find a way to press her buttons and use that fine temper of hers to his advantage. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“What?”
“Set in their ways. As opposed to us French, is that what you mean?” He assumed an arrogant pose to provoke her.
Shannon waved off the smoke from his voluminous puffs without hiding her irritation. “Well… we English... and Irish,” she added, “have never done away with our king William IV in the terrible manner your countrymen murdered their king.”
“Well it appears now’s your big chance. You should encounter less opposition now that you’ve got yourself a queen!” taunted Maurice.
“How dare you, sir!” Shannon’s eyes filled with tears as she bore the insult for all women.
Maurice was not moved. “Listen, Miss O’Sullivan, two people were murdered in this house. I am here to find out why. And if there is anything of interest in this cellar that might advance my case, then I am determined to find it. Now give me the key!”
A spark of anger flew across Shannon’s eyes. To Maurice, it seemed her red hair was suddenly set ablaze as she let out her ire. “I can’t! Mrs. Cleary has it,” she cried. Then, frightened by her outburst, she stammered. “You…you ought to stay out of that cellar. Bad enough there’s…there’s a ghost in this house. What would befall us all if Mr. Nightingale’s spirit knew what you were up to?”
So then, Mrs. Cleary had lied, thought Maurice.
As he pondered on ways he might retrieve the key he’d seen her put away, a sharp sound rose from the commons area. It ushered in a heart-wrenching yelp. Maurice startled. The sounds of whipping renewed, growing more frantic while youthful cries rang in the corridor. The violence rose to a frightful crescendo until the screaming melted into desperate sobs.
All along, Shannon had stood stiff, pressing her hand to her lips.
Maurice’s face grew white. He knew what he’d heard. It was Mary’s voice. Mary being beaten. “Is that Mrs. Cleary punishing Mary?” he asked in dismay. He could feel his anger rise.
“I…I don’t know what you mean,” replied Shannon.
“That sound we just heard, Mary’s cries…”
“I can’t say I heard anything. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Shannon hurried away towards the parlour, her heels loud on the black and white tiles.
Maurice paced along the corridor leading to the staff area. Mary had now ceased crying but he was certain her weeping
