“Is Mrs. Cleary also a suspect of this investigation?”
“Everyone at Alexandra Hall is a potential suspect. Aside from Mrs. Cleary, there is a cook, a gardener and four maidservants. Since Aaron Nightingale’s passing, they remain at Alexandra Hall. When six months have elapsed, Aaron’s younger brother, John, will be permitted to move into the estate with his family. He will either re-appoint the staff or dispose of it.”
“Why the six months delay?”
Mr. Wilson cleared his throat. “The deceased willed it,” he replied with an evasive gesture. “Perhaps Mr. Nightingale wished to leave his home empty for a period. My role as his lawyer is to respect his wishes. Nothing is to change for half a year. Alas, he could not have foreseen the murders. One of these took place last month and the other, two weeks later – both of them after Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale passed away earlier this year.”
Maurice winced. “Are we then speaking of four deaths having taken place under the one roof over the course of a single year?”
Mr. Wilson nodded. “Unsettling, wouldn’t you say? Following the death of Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale, there were two murders. The first victim was a maid, Sophie Murphy. The other victim was Vera Nightingale. As you can imagine, John Nightingale fears for his wife and children. He summoned me to have someone investigate before he moves in next year. Now you understand my position. How do I come to John’s aid while respecting the wishes of his deceased brother? During this six months period, I am entrusted to protect the Nightingale estate and safeguard the owner’s reputation. That’s where you, Mr. Leroux, discrete Frenchman with no ties in England, are a godsend. I’ve written to Mrs. Cleary to let her know you’re to have free run of the house. And I’ve provided you with the details of each staff, here.”
Maurice opened the leather folder. He leaned over several files describing the members of the household and the circumstances of each murder. Wilson found himself a cigar from his top drawer and lit up. “What do you think, Mr. Leroux?” he asked, blowing a puff of smoke.
“Was anything reported missing or lost?”
“No theft seems to have taken place.”
“Do any of the staff have a criminal record?”
“I await further information, however Alfred Fitzpatrick, the gardener, did spend some time in a local jail in his youth.”
“I see. Something else comes to mind, Mr. Wilson. For Mr. and Mrs. Nightingale to have both passed away in a matter of a few months would have been distressing for Miss Vera Nightingale. A house of mourning is not a pleasurable prospect for a lone woman. Why would she choose to return to the house? I find it perplexing.”
“As do I, Mr. Leroux. At the time, I honestly believed she was sorting through her finances and wished to see those items Aaron had passed on to her.”
Maurice reflected on Wilson’s words.
“Aside from you, who knows of these murders?” he asked.
“Local Berkshire police were sent. They are well acquainted with the family. Post-mortem operations were performed. Nothing else.”
“What were the results of the post-mortems?”
“I am glad you asked. I have organised for the physician who performed the autopsies to visit Alexandra Hall so that you may ask questions. He believes he should have some time on Thursday to discuss the details of the inquest. What we do know is that the maid bore a fatal head injury. As we hoped to avoid a scandal, her family has been handsomely compensated and discouraged from disclosing the details of this sad affair. That being said, the official explanation for these deaths is that both women fell down the staircase.”
Maurice raised an eyebrow. “And what is the truth?”
“Sophie Murphy did die of a head injury. The cause is unknown. Vera Nightingale was found at the bottom of the staircase, yes. But a fall is not what killed her. She suffocated.”
Chapter 3
Monday
NO marks on Vera Nightingale’s body. No sign of loss of blood, concussion or struggle. Strangulation was ruled out. How then, had she died?
Maurice contemplated this mystery during the four-hour coach ride from London into Berkshire. The journey was pleasant enough, though any hopes of admiring the countryside had been stifled by a thick fog that only lifted once they were past Reading.
As the stagecoach reached the grounds of Alexandra Hall, swollen clouds smothered the last of the timid afternoon sun. Sweeping grey skies stretched above the estate as far as the eye could see, adding to the desolation. In the distance, the Nightingale house rose from the mist.
Swaying poplars lined each side of the road, all the way to the mansion’s gate. After hours of being tossed and jerked around in a carriage, Maurice welcomed the smooth path. His weariness dissipated the moment his eye fell on the four majestic Doric columns gracing the house’s entrance.
A fierce autumn wind blew as they drew near, and when Maurice tilted his head through the carriage window, he saw how violently the trees shook.
By the time the horses came to a halt, Maurice felt the November chill deep in his bones. He regretted that his larger coat remained in his trunk, which was tied to the back of the carriage. Shivering, he stared ahead. Two glass doors opened wide. A group of women stepped out, holding their bonnets in place as the wind flapped through their long skirts. A few meters away, a man in his sixties followed behind them along the narrow path towards the road.
As Maurice dismounted the carriage, these staff members aligned themselves along the side of the road to greet him. Leading the group, was a tall wiry woman who looked to be in her late fifties. Hers was the face of disdain and quiet resignation all blended into one,
