The young man tilted his head.
“As you wish, sir. I should be getting on pretty soon, now. Just waiting on one last order from Mrs. Cleary.”
“Mrs. Cleary? Really…” Maurice looked at his watch. “It’s a little late for house orders…”
“I thought so too. She said she’d forgotten a few things and would return with a list. She’s been a bit sick, you know. Hasn’t had time to get organised.”
Maurice nodded, a frown upon his face. “Of course, yes. Well, good afternoon to you.” He retraced his steps along the path to the house. As he reached the grand staircase, a figure suddenly sprung up in front of him.
Maurice reeled back, jerked from his thoughts.
“I’m going to retire for the rest of the afternoon, sir,” said the cook. “Mrs. Cleary’s kindly allowed me to leave an hour earlier.”
Maurice tried to control the iciness in his voice. “How kind of her.”
“Blasted woman’s never given me an hour off since I’ve worked here. I’d best run off before she changes her mind.”
“That’s a sensible idea.”
“I thought I’d let you know I’ve left a roast dish for your supper, Mr. Leroux. There’s potatoes and butternut pumpkins there, too. I made some gravy.” He looked pleased with himself.
“Thank you kindly, Gerard.”
“Well if there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll see you on Monday. Mary and Mrs. Cleary are the only persons here.”
“Have a good afternoon,” answered Maurice.
For a heartbeat, he felt wary of Gerard’s last words, then he heard the familiar trundle of the coach in the distance and knew the driver was now on his way to Reading Town. The police would soon be here; three hours at most.
As he climbed the steps, Maurice slipped a hand in his pocket. He felt the cold metal of the antique key Madeleine had given him. He studied its contours, as though its shape might inspire the matching casket in his memory.
The house’s new emptiness weighted upon him, but he hoped his plan would work. Yet as he passed Calista’s portrait, a fear swept through him. He wondered what Mrs. Cleary was up to now. Aside from that moment when she’d wrestled Mary away from the carriage, he’d not seen her all day…
And where was Mary?
He was about to return downstairs to find the girl, when his eye settled on a door at the far end of the second floor. Of course. He knew now where he’d seen the casket the first time. Maurice dashed to his room to fetch the house keys then headed to Aaron’s bedroom.
As he opened Aaron’s door, he thought he heard shuffling footsteps behind him, but when he spun around, there was no one in sight. He pushed open the door.
Maurice walked to the large leather trunk and lifted its lid. There it was— the medieval casket he’d admired earlier in the week. It bore the same insignia as on the key. Maurice picked up the small box. He inserted the tiny key, holding his breath. The casket was old and he wondered how it held together, but the lock yielded easily as though it had been used a number of times in the past year. What was Aaron hiding in there? He’d gone through such effort to hide this key…
There was a dozen unopened envelopes, bundled together by a hemp string. They were all well-travelled, worn, stained, and obviously from far away. They had all been addressed to Calista Argyros. Maurice stared in disbelief. Cyrillic letters flashed before his eyes as he tried to make out the names of the senders. No. It couldn’t be. Calista’s parents had written to their daughter over numerous years. Maurice felt his heart lurch in his chest at the thought of Aaron isolating his wife from her own family. The Argyroses had wished to reach out to her but never could.
Was there no end to Aaron’s cruelty?
In disgust, Maurice was about to replace the letters when his eye caught a lone envelope, resting at the bottom of the casket. The stationary looked expensive.
It was addressed to Vera Nightingale.
Finding the envelope already opened, he drew out the letter.
The handwriting bore a style he’d not seen in the rest of Aaron’s journal. The script was awkward, erratic, as though the sender had penned it in haste.
It was written by Calista Nightingale.
Dear Miss Vera,
Forgive me for writing to you but I have no one else. I need to speak with you before it is too late and before there are no witnesses to the things I have seen.
I feel you are a good woman. It saddens me we are not friends. In my village, women gathered often and spoke of their troubles. Ever since my marriage, I have had no one and it is with a troubled heart that I am writing to you.
If only you knew your brother as I know him. I say this now because it has been too painful to hide and now everything I have kept inside, flows out of me and to keep it in, will only hurt me.
Miss Vera, you must think me foolish to write to you of such things. You know nothing of me, nor I of you. This letter will surprise you and you will not believe what I have to say. I fear you may even detest me for speaking ill of your brother. If so, then I am doomed. For I cannot live like this.
If you had only seen the things I have seen. There is in Alexandra Hall a horrible place where unspeakable things are done to the most fragile creatures. The light of the sun does not reach here. I spend hours in
