There was a slim period during the afternoon when the corridor was certain to be clear. It was the thirty minutes, just before dinner, when Gerard busied himself in the kitchen while the maids were either in the washing room or upstairs. He only hoped Mrs. Cleary would remain asleep during that time. He would take that risk.
John Nightingale was calling in to Alexandra Hall after lunch and Maurice hoped Aaron’s brother might know the meaning of the cryptic word left in his journal, Ovee.
Jarred by his frightening experience in the cellar, he wandered outside to stretch his legs in the garden. He pondered over the uncanny incidents he had so far witnessed since his arrival. Had he encountered Calista’s spirit in the cellar or was someone in the house playing tricks on him?
He saw things with a different eye since last night. The living took on a surreal aspect, with every line on their skin more salient, every trait more pronounced. Lost in thought, his footsteps drew him in the direction of Calista’s grave.
As he neared the herb garden, he glimpsed a movement behind the hedgerow. With caution, Maurice approached, wary of another encounter with the axe-wielding groundsman. He peered slowly behind the foliage. Alfred’s menacing figure surged from behind the leafy wall.
Maurice shrank back, his pulse racing.
“Alfred?”
“Inspector Leroux.”
The gardener remained near the hedge as though he did not wish to be seen. He held a small parcel in his hands. “Inspector Leroux. I thought I might have a word with you, sir.”
His tone surprised Maurice.
“Certainly.”
Maurice eased past the hedgerow and the two men were soon out of view.
Alfred stared at Maurice for a few seconds.
“That’s a nasty bruise on your eye, sir.”
“Ah, yes. I was a little clumsy last night. Nothing I’m proud of.”
“My, and your temple. You got yourself in a fine shape.”
“I’m afraid it comes with the job.”
Alfred nodded. Then his gaze darkened. “I hear from the young Ellen that Mrs. Cleary isn’t well,” he began.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid she’s ill.”
“Well she won’t know what I’m up to then.”
“What do you mean?”
“See, I meant to tell Miss Vera something before she died.”
“I see. Is that why you entered the house? The day Shannon asked you to leave?”
Alfred nodded.
“See, Miss Sophie and I…we… We had something going on. I thought she was keen on me. She’d send me love notes and leave them in the garden. She was a sweet girl. I never touched her though. I swear it. I’d take the carriage and drive her to town often and we had a fine time together.”
“Did Mrs. Cleary know of this?”
“She didn’t much like it. Kept a sharp eye on Sophie. She’s got eyes everywhere.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” asked Maurice.
Alfred glowered back at him.
“My heart wasn’t in it,” he answered at last. “A few weeks before she died, Sophie let me know she was planning to leave me, see. She was off to London. I was sour for weeks. I hadn’t seen it coming.”
Maurice eyed Alfred suspiciously. In past cases, he’d often found that jilted lovers committed violent crimes. He wondered if the gardener might have murdered Sophie after all. Un crime passionnel?
Alfred interrupted his thoughts.
“Like I said, I was sour about it. I kept to myself for weeks. But the night after Sophie died, Mrs. Cleary tossed away some old things for me to burn.”
Maurice eyed the paper envelope Alfred held in one hand.
“Now I normally don’t pry into people’s things, see, but I recognised some of Sophie’s things,” said the groundsman. “And I wanted to see if there was anything for safekeeping.” He opened the parcel. “I found those.” He held out burnt letters to Maurice. They were charred, save for the dated letterheads.
Maurice held the letters up close. “Did Mrs. Cleary write these?”
“No sir, this ain’t Mrs. Cleary’s writing. It’s Sophie’s writing. The main thing is, you can see the letters are addressed to a Louise March.”
Maurice flinched. Shannon had once alluded to an argument in which Sophie had called Mrs. Cleary, Louise. Why would Sophie choose to write to her own housekeeper? There was only one possibility…
Maurice cleared his throat, conscious of not revealing what he knew. “I see. Judging from the date, they were written a few weeks before Sophie died.”
“Do you know who Louise March is, sir?” asked Alfred. “I guess she never got her letters.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Leave it with me, Alfred. I am sure we can find out who Louise March is.” A glint shone in Maurice’s eye. “Thank you for coming forward. Not a word about these. I appreciate your discretion.”
“Oh, I ain’t speaking of this with anyone, sir. See, I’m the type that says nothing, and before you know it, I have people speak on my behalf. Happens all the time.”
Maurice understood that Alfred had once gone to jail unfairly.
“Why didn’t you speak to Miss Vera about these letters?”
“I tried. But Shannon got in my way. I would have told Miss Vera, but the lady died. And I’m not keen on John Nightingale knowing I was sweet on one of the maids.”
“Yes, I understand. Thank you, Alfred.”
“Have a good day, Inspector.”
After slipping the letters inside his vest, Maurice made his way back to the house. His heart beat fast. He had a growing presentiment about Mrs. Cleary. He would have to confirm it later.
As he neared the front veranda, he saw John Nightingale alighting from his coach. Maurice waited for him by the entrance. While not as dandy as the portraits he had seen of Aaron, John nevertheless cut a dashing figure, even in his late forties. He was
