“Might we suggest that Cook makes a big pot of coffee and some simple breakfast—maybe boiled eggs and toast, as befits the occasion? It won't help anyone if we become faint from lack of food.”
Clara looked at me sharply, then nodded. Yes. You're right. I'll go and speak to Cook. I suppose it is up to me to see that the household keeps on running. Barney has no interest in household matters and little skill with servants.” She strode in the direction of the kitchen.
Belinda smiled. You've made her day,” she said. “Clara has been waiting for years to have the chance to boss somebody around.”
“What will you do?” I asked. “Will you stay on?”
She looked horrified. “Good Lord, no. I only stopped for a brief visit on my way home from Europe and to tell you the truth I can't stand this place. Too out of the way and dreary. Not a single real ball since I've been here and the only male within miles is that awful Roland Van Gelder. And having to put up with the uncouth behavior of Cousin Barney and Joe Rimes as well. I can't wait to go home to civilization.” She looked at me as if she realized she might have said too much. “And you, Molly. What will you do?”
“I can't stay on any longer,” I said. “It wouldn't be proper.” “Meaning you couldn't trust Barney’s wandering hands with no Theresa to keep him in check?” she asked.
I blushed. “Really, I didn't mean …”
“Of course you did. We've all been through it. Bamey can't keep himself away from women. That’s just his weakness. Theresa never was the warmest of lovers in thefirstplace and after Brendan she turned completely cold:—” She broke off again. “I shouldn't be talking like this with poor Tessa lying stiff and dead upstairs. She and I were never close but I would never have wished this ending on her, never.”
Clara reemerged from the kitchen, looking smug and satisfied. “I have ordered breakfast and it will be served shortly. Now to get those maids back to work. It will take their minds off things to keep them busy.”
“I rather suspect Clara will want to stay on,” Belinda muttered to me with the ghost of a smile.
Breakfast arrived and Joe Rimes and Desmond O'Mara came to join us. Nobody spoke as we sat at the big, white-clothed table. I don't know about the others, but I felt so much better with something finally in my stomach. Through the open breakfast room door I watched the police constable come downstairs and took the opportunity to invite him to have a cup of coffee.
“Is the doctorfinishedup there?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I've been sent down to use the telephone and call for transportation to the morgue,” he said. “Secondtimein one week. Don't seem right, does it?”
“Precisely my thoughts, Constable,” I said. I glanced back at the breakfast room, where the others werefinishingtheir meal in silence. It was now or never. “So does the doctor really believe that she killed herself?”
He frowned. “What are you getting at, miss?”
“I just wondered if he can tell whether she did take an overdose of sleeping powders, or whether she might have been poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Whatever gave you that idea?” He had lowered his voice, but I hoped it carried far enough in the dead silence of the household.
“Because I suspect that somebody has been trying to poison me,” I whispered back, in what I hoped was a stage whisper. “I've been very sick this week, but only at night after I had a cup of hot liquid brought to me. For that very reason I didn't drink last night’s beef tea, but I've kept it in my room so that it can be tested later.”
“I can't believe what you're saying, miss.” The constable shook his head. “Surely you must be imagining things.”
“I only hope I am,” I said, “but I tried to understand why I was only sick at night and I worked out that my nighttime drink was the only thing I didn't take communally with the rest of the household. Anyway, one simple test and then well know. But I mustn't keep you from your work. The telephone is in Mr. Flynn’s office. Let me show you.”
I went across the hallway and ushered him into the room. It was a dark and somber room with its book-lined walls, and even darker at this time in the morning when the early sun was on the other side of the house.
“The telephone is on Senator Flynn’s desk,” I said.
He leaned closer to me. “So do you think I should suggest that we take any cups or glasses from Mrs. Flynn’s room for testing?” he muttered.
“I would think that they had all been carefully washed, but it couldn't hurt to take them for testing, and I would suggest to the doctor that he does a thorough autopsy.”
He shook his head again. “Doesn't seem possible. Who could have done such a thing? There must be a mad person in the house.”
In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)
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