Maurice stared at those pipes, more and more confused. He only hoped the journals would reveal all.
Mrs. Cleary Sleeps
JOHN stayed for dinner, a little perplexed that Mrs. Cleary was still confined to her room. Eager to curry favour with a potential employer, Shannon, who had steadfastly waited on the entire meal, used that opportunity to assure him they were managing quite well in Mrs. Cleary’s absence. John downed his seventh drink before announcing he was taking his leave. He promised he would return early in the next week to speak with the housekeeper.
Maurice accompanied him to the entrance hall, worried that in his drunken state, the Englishman might fall and hurt himself. As they stood by the glass doors, John leaned against the wall to steady himself. He seemed to remember something. He turned abruptly to the detective.
“Jeannette Power,” he slurred.
“Pardon?”
“The name of that French woman, the scientist… the one who came to Aaron’s wedding. She’s married to an Irishman. That’s why I couldn’t remember her last name. I forgot it wasn’t French.”
“I see. Is this woman still in England?”
“No, she’s long returned to her native France.” John teetered onto the veranda. “Well, best of luck with your investigation, Inspector. Hopefully by next month, you’ll all still be alive.”
There was, in John’s last words, a dark humour reflecting an unsettled mind. The Englishman had lost three members of his family in the space of barely a year.
Maurice watched him totter along the path toward the awaiting coach, then closed the doors.
He longed to read Aaron’s journals but he had to find Madeleine and give her the cellar key.
As he passed the commons, he could not help overhear an agitated conversation between the maids.
“We have to help. She is still ill,” insisted Shannon. “I just came by her room with a tisane but she was sound asleep.”
“How would you know for sure?” asked Ellen.
“I waved my hand across her eyes,” insisted Shannon.
“She’s an addict, no doubt,” volunteered Madeleine.
“Mind your manners,” warned Shannon in a senior tone.
Madeleine pressed her tongue against her cheek, stifling an urge to speak her mind with a less diplomatic tone. “I’m only saying that she’s taken those pills again,” she said.
“She needs her rest,” snapped Shannon. “This month has been difficult for all of us. You, miss, were not here all year, so you have not a clue what she’s been through since Mrs. Nightingale passed away.”
The maids fell silent just as Maurice walked past.
He managed a nod towards Madeleine and hid himself into the kitchen to wait for her. She came in afterward, armed with a broom as though to sweep the kitchen floor.
“What are those pills you mentioned?” questioned Maurice, keeping his voice low.
Madeleine kept her eyes on her broom and whispered back. “You can’t miss them. They were by her bed when I entered the room. She’s been taking them for as long as I’ve been here. At this rate, they’ll only make her terrors worse.” She turned to him. “Mr. Leroux, did you go down there?”
Maurice nodded.
“And what did you see?” She studied the recent wounds on his face.
“I am not sure yet.”
Sensing his reserve, Madeleine did not insist. “I’m afraid I can’t return the key this evening,” she said. “Shannon has given us more chores. She’s been watching me closely all day. Knowing her, she’ll report anything odd to Mrs. Cleary. You must do it yourself. Do it while Mrs. Cleary is still asleep. Slip it in the hidden right pocket of her black dress. It is hanging on the chair by the bed. Be quick about it.” Madeleine resumed her sweeping, actress all the way.
Maurice left the kitchen. He climbed the stairs to Mrs. Cleary’s room. The door was slightly ajar. He slipped in.
The sound of Mrs. Cleary’s restful breathing rose like a murmur. Her face was turned towards the door. Beneath the bulge of her white bonnet, were loose tuffs of black and grey, framing a creased forehead. Her lips were perpetually pinched, even in sleep. Her eyes were wide open.
Maurice shuddered. He expected the housekeeper to startle awake but Shannon was right. Mrs. Cleary was fast asleep.
By the dim glow of a candle on the bedside table, Maurice quickly saw that Mrs. Cleary’s room, while Spartan, was nowhere near as tidy as he had imagined it. By the bedside table nearest the housekeeper’s face, he glimpsed the pills Madeleine had described. There was a tiny jar that for an instant seemed familiar. It lay opened, upon its side, its contents, half-spilled. The little yellow capsules had rolled, their fall averted by the coils of a silver necklace bearing a large Christian cross.
Maurice sought for the chair. His gaze fell on an oak table of Napoleonic style by the window. Upon it, were writing implements and sheets of paper. A crystal vase, filled with brown wilted flowers, held tainted water that lent the air an oaky odour. Finding the chair, Maurice approached. He had not noticed the shawl laying upon the floor, and his foot found itself entangled between it and the rug. Wary of tripping, he gripped the bed post. There was a thud. Maurice froze.
He stared at Mrs. Cleary. Her light snoring had diminished. He watched her eyes. They remained transfixed, staring ahead. Was she still asleep? He waited. Mrs. Cleary’s breathing steadied.
Maurice held his breath. He
