“What are those? They look delicious.”
“Have you not had scones, Mr. Leroux?”
“Scones. No, I don’t believe I have. Are they an English delicacy?”
“Hardly. They are the talk of town ever since her Majesty Queen Victoria adopted them for afternoon tea. But they are from Scotland, I believe. Something of the sort. I would normally ask Gerard, our cook, to whip up some cream but we’ve had an accident overnight. Gerard rose early to busy himself with… something in the kitchen.”
“Oh, is that what it was? I overheard strange noises last night.”
“Noises? I’m sorry to hear that. It was likely Alfred and his rusty wheelbarrow,” dismissed Mrs. Cleary.
“I’m relieved. At least it’s not like those rats in Paris,” he chuckled, hoping to cheer her up.
Mrs. Cleary laughed and to Maurice’s surprise, it sounded forced, almost hysterical. Maurice watched her regain her composure.
“Rats!” she repeated. “Fancy that. Dear God. No, nothing of the sort. Gerard would certainly know how to deal with those. Would you believe, Mr. Leroux that Alexandra Hall has not had rats in the last year.”
Maurice munched into the buttery scone which he had slathered with jam.
“No rats. Really. That’s splendid news. I am glad to hear it. In that case, I shall need no chaperoning as I visit every room of this house today. You have been most kind to show me Mr. Nightingale’s study, and I intend to further my investigation by sifting through all remaining rooms and see if I might uncover anything unusual.” He eyed her keenly, certain that her reticence would show. She had made her distrust clear by locking him in so ruthlessly.
But Mrs. Cleary only nodded. She lifted the heavy set of keys that hung from her chatelaine and after artfully removing an old copper key, she handed the rest of the set to Maurice.
“Please let me know if you require anything else,” she said. Maurice stared at the lone key in her hand. Larger than the others, it appeared to have been crafted a century ago.
Mrs. Cleary slipped the key into a little pouch.
Maurice cleared his throat. “Won’t you have a scone, Mrs. Cleary? I feel awkward eating these alone. They are a little dry but I could almost get used to living away from France.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“I insist. I’d be delighted if you could join me. At least have some tea.”
With pursed lips, she sat across him and reached for the porcelain teapot.
“So the kitchen I understand is out of bounds today.”
Mrs. Cleary replaced the tea pot abruptly.
“I think that would be best,” she uttered drily.
Maurice gazed at the garden and the gentle yellowing on the leaves. “What was she like? Calista Nightingale…”
Mrs. Cleary’s stern expression faded away. “You must have noticed her portrait along the staircase,” she replied.
“The portrait? Oh, you mean the one you were dusting yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“It is charming. But what was she like as a person?”
“Well, she wasn’t from here. I mean, England. Mr. Nightingale liked to receive exotic parcels from all over the world and I imagine in his romantic inclinations he searched for that rare pearl. His adventures led him to Greece. And that’s where he found her.”
“How remarkable.”
“Yes, I think so.”
Mrs. Cleary sipped her tea. A dreamy expression painted itself on her previously tense face. Maurice intuited that she had been fond of Calista Nightingale and missed her. Her reticence had eased the moment she had begun speaking of her.
“What did she do all day?” asked Maurice. “It’s frightfully dreary here without children. I imagine she pined for her family in Greece.”
“I know what you mean. She was certainly a different sort of woman. Mrs. Nightingale always used to say she had grown up in a village by the sea and that she missed it. It was on an island that he first met her. I forget its name. But there are so many of those islands, you know. I mean I wouldn’t know, but I’ve heard it said.”
“She told you that? She must have trusted you,” said Maurice. He had seen from Mrs. Cleary’s eyes that she seemed to be revisiting kindly memories and hoped she would share more.
“Oh, yes. She told me once that she swam often as a young girl. She described the sea and her eyes would light up. ‘You see this aquamarine, Mrs. Cleary,’ she said to me one day. She was showing me her engagement ring. ‘You see this blue colour? In my village, that is the colour of the water,’ she said.”
Mrs. Cleary had now forgotten her tea. She gnawed at her lip. “I daresay, if I had been in her place and lived nearby to a pool of water of that colour, I would have done my best to remain there and never come to England.” The housekeeper sounded almost bitter. As she spoke those last words, Maurice detected that her Irish accent had grown more pronounced.
Mrs. Cleary rose. She seemed agitated as though the idea of drinking tea with the French inspector tarnished her efficient image. “Well, I should call on Shannon to clean up, now,” she said.
“Already? But madame, you’ve not finished your tea. Mrs. Cleary, in France, we like to take our time with our meals. As for me, I’m going to have a second scone. Please, won’t you sit back down?”
The housekeeper dusted off imaginary breadcrumbs from her taffeta dress, then resumed her seat. She sat upright as Maurice piled on strawberry jam onto his scone. The red of the jam, its resemblance to blood, reminded him of a question he’d long wanted to ask.
“Pardon me, what did she die of?” he asked, perplexed by Calista’s death earlier in the year.
A darkness passed over Mrs. Cleary’s face.
“The winter. She fell
