“His mind was somewhere else. Once I saddled his favorite mare. He stood there for a bit, holding on to the reins, and then walked off.” Dunn clenched his hands. “I should’ve asked what was the matter, even if it wasn’t polite. We lived in his house. We lived on his money. We knew he didn’t have no one else. And not one of us bothered to ask him if everything was all right.”
This was the first emotional response to Mr. Sackville’s death Treadles had encountered. He gave the young man a moment to pull himself together before asking gently, “I take it he was a good master?”
“The best,” said Dunn. “He gave me one of his own watches my first Christmas here—had it engraved with my initials, too.”
“May I see?” asked Treadles.
The watch Tommy Dunn produced was very fine, of comparable quality to the one Treadles had received from the late Mr. Morton Cousins, his excellent and much lamented father-in-law. And on the cover of the watch, a large letter D with a small T to the left and a small E to the right.
“A very generous gift, indeed.”
“And he gave me a new fob for it last Christmas, but it’s so fancy I only wear it to church.”
“The others who were in his service, did they receive as handsome gifts?”
“Mrs. Cornish got nice vases and picture frames. Hodges got silver cufflinks. And Penny Price got huge puddings and cakes that she didn’t have to share with anyone.”
“Mrs. Meek and the young one, Becky Birtle?”
“They ain’t been here long enough. Becky came in spring and Mrs. Meek even later than that.”
They thanked him and asked him to fetch Hodges.
Treadles had anticipated a trim, natty man, in the mold of his late father-in-law’s valet. Hodges, however, was wide-shouldered to the point of burliness—and his nose must have been broken a few times in his youth. But he was well turned out and when he spoke, he sounded much more polished than his smashed nose would have suggested.
He couldn’t help the police with what happened during the days and hours immediately preceding his employer’s death, since he’d been away on holiday to the Isle of Wight. But he did confirm that Mr. Sackville had suffered gastric attacks for many years—“Since when he was in school, I believe.” He complimented Mrs. Meek on being a skilled and caring cook—“She was always conferring with me about how he looked and trying to ferret out what foods to avoid.” And he firmly declared that in five years of working for Mr. Sackville, he’d never had a harsh word from his employer—and couldn’t think of anyone who would want to harm a man who never gave any trouble at all.
Treadles thanked him and requested that he convey word to Jenny Price that she was wanted for questioning.
Hodges’s eyes widened. “But Jenny Price is a half-wit.”
“Be that as it may, we still must speak with her.”
Jenny Price wasn’t a young girl, as Treadles had assumed, but a heavyset woman in her mid-thirties. She looked worried when Mrs. Meek, who brought her in, left the drawing room, but her eyes lit with pleasure as she discovered the plates of biscuits, cakes, and sandwiches that had been laid out for the visitors from London.
She moved astonishingly quickly—and polished off several biscuits before Treadles recovered from his surprise.
“Ah, Miss Price, we have some questions for you.”
She looked at him blankly while chewing on a piece of seed cake.
Treadles tried again. “Jenny, is it?”
She nodded.
“Can you tell me anything about the day Mr. Sackville died?”
“They took ’im away.”
“Do you remember anything else from that day?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing at all?”
Jenny Price, her mouth now full of anchovy sandwich, didn’t bother to respond. Treadles asked more questions about Mr. Sackville, life at Curry House, and her work in the kitchen. And managed to receive not so much as a mumble in response: Jenny Price had no more answers to give.
Treadles and MacDonald admitted defeat and escorted her back to the kitchen. Mrs. Cornish happened to be in the kitchen, talking to Mrs. Meek. Treadles asked the housekeeper to show him the rest of the rooms belowstairs, to make sure that they did not make for easy entries.
Mrs. Cornish agreed, but with visible reluctance. Treadles gave an apologetic nod—he wouldn’t want the police to inspect his home either. But suspicious deaths had a way of trumping the wishes of the living.
The housekeeper’s private quarters consisted of a small parlor and an even smaller adjoining bedroom. Above the fireplace in the parlor hung a framed photograph of the staff—an older batch, before the arrival of Mrs. Meek and Becky Birtle. Another framed photograph, of a vivaciously pretty young woman, sat on Mrs. Cornish’s nightstand.
Treadles nearly made the mistake of asking whether the young woman was a niece before he realized she was none other than Mrs. Cornish, from half a lifetime ago. It occurred to him that the housekeeper wasn’t that old now—likely younger than Jenny Price.
“May I ask, Mrs. Cornish, why you gave a place to Jenny Price?”
“Oh, I didn’t, Inspector. Mrs. Struthers—the former Mrs. Curry—she took Jenny in about ten years ago.”