Much younger, they each wore a full-body white apron of cotton and lace over a black dress. Their hair, piled high above their necks, lay tucked underneath white bonnets. The tallest was a fair redhead who seemed to mimic the dignified airs of her housekeeper. By her side and glowing with confidence, a brunette peered with curiosity at Maurice. The third maid, a sickly looking waif, shivered so intensely that Maurice could hear her teeth chatter from where he stood. Beside her, what appeared to be the youngest maid, stared absent-mindedly as though absorbed in a daydream. These young women stood at the ready while the housekeeper studied Maurice with an unflinching expression.
She dressed in a similar attire as the other maids but unlike them, wore no apron. All that black taffeta lent her a severe appearance and failed to conceal her bony shoulders and elbows. Her long puffed sleeves billowed under the wind, yet not a hair moved on that grey bob sitting high over her brow.
Affixed to her leather belt was a chatelaine where hung keys of all manner of shapes and sizes. Upon sighting the numerous dangling keys, Maurice guessed at once who she was.
“Mrs. Cleary, is it?” he asked, meeting her stern glare.
She nodded. “Welcome to Alexandra Hall, Mr. Leroux. I trust you had a safe journey.”
The women by her side curtsied, then clasped their hands primly together.
“You find this house in deep mourning,” said Mrs. Cleary, ever slowly, as though she wished to impress a sullen mood to the visitor. “In the last year, we bore witness to the passing of four people. Indeed, nothing has been the same since Mrs. Nightingale suffered an unfortunate illness in January this year...”
As she finished speaking, a cold gust shook the nearby trees and nature’s moans rose above Maurice’s kindly response. Mrs. Cleary shirked back and stared ahead. To Maurice, she appeared horror-stricken.
He watched Mrs. Cleary cast a furtive glance at the house then rub her arms as though unsettled. She turned back to him and inhaled deeply.
“I shall show you your room. Please, follow me.”
The housekeeper’s accent might have been Irish, pondered Maurice, but she did her best to disguise it. Maurice followed the women in silence.
The case of the ceramic bust
ALEXANDRA Hall was stately. Wherever Maurice’s eye fell, Georgian perfection greeted him: lofty ceilings, majestic windows, elaborate mirror fixtures, flowers painted upon wallpapers, and expensive portraits. From the checkered tiles in the entrance hall, to the gold acanthus mouldings on the ceilings’ edges, it was the sort of house where echoes graced the rooms as one spoke, and where one might not glimpse another soul throughout the day. He ascended the magnificent staircase and followed Mrs. Cleary to his room at the far right of the landing.
He dropped his bag by the door and gave the guestroom a quick glance. A large window to his left gave an excellent view of the gardens. A lacquered ebony desk stood by the window and in the closet to its right, were water amenities and a porcelain basin.
“Ellen has filled the water pitcher for you. She’ll come by to empty your basin twice daily.”
“That will be perfect.”
“There are bell cordons on the side of your bed, should you require anything to be sent upstairs.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cleary. Is there a room where I might conduct interviews for my investigation?”
“You are welcome to carry on your work in this room,” replied Mrs. Cleary. It sounded more like an order than an invitation. Maurice sensed her protectiveness over the late owners’ home. She seemed like the sort of person with a strong need for control.
“That will not do unfortunately,” he insisted, conscious of the tightening in her jaw. “I much prefer a separate room where I might question the staff members in private. Perhaps a study?”
“I suppose…there is Mr. Nightingale’s study.”
“Splendid. Please take me to it.” He hoped she would grow more cooperative over the coming days.
“Quite. Whatever is more agreeable to you, Mr. Leroux. Please follow me,” she replied in an icy manner. She gestured to a room three doors from his, and Maurice followed.
“This is where Mr. Nightingale wrote at night when he was still with us. His sister spent some time here before she died, but everything should be in the place he left it.”
As Maurice stepped into the study, thick oriental rugs absorbed the sound of his footsteps. Scarce light penetrated the narrow stained-glass windows. The heavy oak furniture and the wine wallpaper absorbed any rays that dared reach this room.
To Maurice, who lived alone in a stone cottage and who, since his escape from Paris to Normandy, enjoyed long walks along the beach, this study felt stuffy and oppressive. It gave him the impression that Aaron Nightingale preferred whiling the hours of the day in near darkness. The Englishman had jealously guarded his privacy.
The tiredness that had overwhelmed him during his journey to Alexandra Hall soon vanished as Maurice’s curiosity took over. His eye fell on scattered documents across the desk, where dust had settled. Drippings of hardened wax had grown fat round the remnants of a candle. It seemed as if only yesterday, Aaron Nightingale had sat there and poured over his notes and his books. The tall-back regency chair seemed to await its owner.
A bookkeeping journal lay open on the desk and Maurice glimpsed the headline of August 1848, the month of Aaron’s passing. A disordered pile of books towered beside this register, and atop the heap, a thick volume remained open. Maurice’s gaze flitted across a chemistry passage. He sensed Mrs. Cleary’s watchful eyes upon
