In a Gilded Cage (Molly Murphy, #8)

Fanny’s maid looked surprised to see me.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” I said, “but I rather fear I dropped my glove while I was here with Miss Boswell yesterday, paying our last respects to your mistress. Have you found a glove, by any chance?” I held up the black leather glove I had brought with me for the purpose.

“Oh no, miss.” She let me in and closed the door behind me. “But I don’t think anybody’s been in to the mistress’s room since you were here.”

“Are you home alone?” I asked hopefully.

“No, miss. The master is off making funeral arrangements with Mr. Bradley, but Mrs Bradley is still here.”

“No need to disturb her,” I said. “If you could just come into Mrs. Poindexter’s room with me and help me look for my glove.”

“Go into the mistress’s room?” She looked quite alarmed.

“Is her body still here?”

“Yes, miss. The gentlemen should be coming back with the undertaker any moment to have her removed.”

“I can see that it must be very distressing for you. I can do it alone. No matter,” I said. “What is your name?”

“Martha, miss, and yes, I’m finding it awful hard to realize that she’s gone.”

“Well, Martha, I’m sure it’s a consolation to you that you did everything you could to ease her suffering.”

“I did, miss. I really did. I’d have sat with her night and day but her mother wanted to be with her toward the end.”

“Martha, I wondered,” I began. “Maybe you could tell me, did she eat anything during the last day or so that might have made her sicker?”

She frowned at this. “I don’t think so.”

“Did you bring her her food?”

“Not for the last few days, miss. Like I said, her mother took over everything toward the end—fed her like a baby, she did. Not that she was eating much. She couldn’t keep anything down, you see. But her mother had cook make her a good oxtail broth, and some barley water and calves’ foot jelly, and she fed her a little of those. Not that they did any good—” she pressed her hand to her mouth. “She just slipped away from us, miss. No matter what we did, she just got worse and worse and slipped away.”

“And no medications helped at all?”

She shook her head. “The doctor said it was no good prescribing anything while she couldn’t keep it down. Just sponge baths for the fever and liquids. That’s what he said.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know her that well, but she was a sweet and lovely woman.”

“That she was, miss.”

“So Mr. Poindexter was away when she died, then?”

“No, miss. He came back just before the end. Awful cut up about it, he was. ‘Why didn’t somebody tell me how bad she was? Why didn’t you send someone to find me?’ he shouted. ‘I’d never have taken that stupid trip if I’d known.’”

I moved toward the bedroom door. “In here, wasn’t it?”

She nodded.

“I’ll only be a moment,” I said. “I must have dropped my glove when I went to open the drapes to take a last look at her.”

Martha opened the door and we stepped into the gloom. The odor of death was now more pronounced. I couldn’t exactly describe it, but once you’ve smelled it, you recognize it forever more. The sweet, sickly scent of decay, to put it bluntly, I suppose. I saw Martha visibly recoil.

“It’s all right. You really don’t have to be here with me,” I said. “If you could just show me where to turn on the electric light.”

She did, and harsh yellow light flooded the room.

“I’ll only be a minute,” I said. “I’ll turn the light off again when I’m done.”

I moved quickly, pretending to search around the floor, not sure whether she was watching me or not. When I couldn’t see her I darted into the dressing room and quickly dipped a piece of cotton wool I had brought with me into the stomach mixture. I was just about to drop it into the greaseproof pouch I had made for it when a booming voice demanded.

“What is going on in here?” Mrs. Bradley appeared in the doorway.

“Miss Murphy?” she demanded, her eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradley. I came back because I thought I had dropped my glove when we came to pay our last respects to Fanny yesterday.” I spoke slowly, trying desperately to come up with a good reason for being in her dressing room. “And Emily felt faint yesterday so I went into the bathroom to wet my handkerchief for her.”

“She doesn’t carry smelling salts like any normal woman?” Mrs. Bradley still didn’t look entirely convinced.

“I don’t know. I just acted on the spur of the moment. I always find that cold water works wonderfully well for me.” I closed my purse and moved quickly toward the door. “I’m so sorry to have troubled you. I must have dropped my glove somewhere else. On the train, perhaps. I’m always losing gloves.”