“How was he nice?”
She looked toward a row of postcards on the mantel, which was but a length of darkened wood beam that must have been salvaged from some other structure. The Birtles’ ancient cottage was a far cry from the modern splendor of Curry House. The ceiling was so low Treadles could scarcely stand straight. The smoke-darkened walls and the scarcity of windows gave the entire interior an air of permanent gloom.
“Mr. Sackville talked to me.” Again she seemed to be speaking to herself. “He was the only one who did. Everybody else only told me to do this and that.”
“I thought young maids had no leave to speak to the master. How did you and Mr. Sackville become so friendly?”
“We met on the coast path. I took a walk one Sunday afternoon and so did he. When I saw him, I said I was sorry to be in his way. He said a young lady never needed to apologize for going about her business. Then I told him that I worked for him and that Mrs. Cornish would have my hide if she knew I spoke to him.
“He laughed and said, ‘Never mind Mrs. Cornish.’ Then he asked me if I wouldn’t walk with him for a bit and tell him about myself.”
That easy demeanor and friendly curiosity must have made a powerful impact on the girl. “What did you tell him?”
“Hardly anything. He asked ’bout where I was from. How I liked Curry House. If the others treated me proper. And I said Yorkshire, yes, sir, and yes, sir. He said then if I was too nervous to talk I didn’t need to say ought else.”
“How much distance do you think you covered?”
“A mile. Maybe a mile and a furlong.”
Around twenty-five minutes then, depending on the terrain and their walking speed. “So you said nothing else the rest of that time?”
“No. But two days later I was in the study dusting. He came in for some papers and saw me with a book in my hand. I thought he’d be angry at me for touching his things, but he only asked what book was it. I told him it was a book about Japan. He asked if I liked it.” She emitted a wistful sigh. “And we started talking.”
“Was it always questions on his side and answers on your side?”
“He let me ask him questions, too. If he read all the books in the house. If he’d ever touched an electric switch. If he remembered a time before the queen was the queen.”
“He answered everything you asked?”
“Not everything. Not when I asked him why he went to London.”
Treadles’s ears perked. “How—and when—did that come about?”
“It was my fourth week at the house. Mrs. Cornish made me clean the upstairs sitting room again. Said it weren’t done proper the first time. That was when Mr. Sackville came in. He asked me why I looked put out, I explained, and he said it looked perfectly proper to him. I said it was a right travesty”—the girl pronounced the word carefully and with relish—“that what was good enough for him weren’t good enough for Mrs. Cornish. He laughed and said that of course a housekeeper was a greater expert on the cleanliness of the house than the master and I ought to listen to her. But he was going to London that day. Was there anything that he could get for me from London, to make me feel better about having to clean the sitting room twice?
“I said I didn’t have enough money to buy anything. He said it would be a gift. So I told him that I didn’t get a good look at London when I passed through and I’d like a nice postcard—then it’d be like I got to see at least one good place. He came back with half a dozen for me. Real pretty ones.”
Treadles glanced at the mantel. “Those ones?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Treadles moved to the fireplace and examined the postcards. They each bore puncture marks at the corners. “You had these on the wall of your room at Curry House?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Did Mr. Sackville acquire anything from London for anyone else?”
“I don’t reckon so. He said not to say anything to anyone or they’d all want him to fetch things.”
“Why do you suppose he did that for you?”
The girl blushed. “He said it was because he was a person to me. That to the others he was only the master of the house, the one they must serve for their wages.”
“Did he bring you back other items?”
Becky Birtle’s lips protruded. “No. He didn’t. Next time he was to go, he asked me if I wanted anything. But he didn’t go in the end—had an awful stomachache the day of. The next time he did go, but he had to get off the train at Exeter and spend the night, because he had such a horrible gastric attack.”
She gasped. “You don’t suppose those gastric attacks—don’t they say arsenic poisoning don’t look that different from bad tummy troubles?”