“Did these attacks happen before Mrs. Meek became the cook?” Treadles already knew the answer; it was the reason he hadn’t arrested Mrs. Meek.
“For sure they did.” Becky Birtle gasped again. “Stacks of Bibles! I was sick as a dog that night. You don’t suppose, Inspector, that I got poisoned, too?”
Treadles sat up straighter. “Did Mr. Sackville eat the same food as the staff?”
“No, his food was cooked and served separate from ours. But wait—” she thought for a moment. “That was when we were still getting food from the inn. And that week there was a wedding and Mrs. Pegg was cooking for it too. I think everyone at Curry House did eat the same food that week, soup and fish pies and boiled beef.”
Mrs. Pegg was born and brought up in Stanwell Moot. By all accounts, she’d had no dealings with Mr. Sackville whatsoever.
“Was anyone else sick that day?”
“No, only me.”
“Was there anything that only you and Mr. Sackville ate?”
She hesitated.
“What was it?”
“Before he left that day, he was in a good mood. When I ferried up a scuttle of coal, he saw that my fingers were stiff cold—Mrs. Cornish loaned me to help with the wedding and I was caught in the rain coming back to Curry House. So he asked if I wanted a bit of whisky to warm up.”
Treadles’s brows shot up. “Mrs. Cornish has been looking for a whisky decanter, missing since Mr. Sackville’s death. She couldn’t find it anywhere in the house. Did you take it?”
Becky Birtle, who had a very direct gaze for a young girl and had been looking at Treadles for some time, lowered her face.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Have you drunk from it again?”
“No! I don’t even like whisky.”
“Then why did you take it?”
“Because—because he was really lovely to me that day and I wanted something to remember it by.”
“Wasn’t he always very nice to you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t see much of him after that.”
“And why is that?”
Becky Birtle flushed to the roots of her hair and shook her head.
“This is a murder investigation, Miss Birtle. Do answer my question.”
“But this is . . . private.”
“A great many murders have been committed because of what people do in private.”
“But—but I didn’t do anything, this is just . . . private.”
Her reluctance seemed deep-seated. Treadles went on to the next item on his list. “The morning you went to give Mr. Sackville his morning cocoa and found him unconscious, why didn’t you open the curtains?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“So it’s true, you didn’t open the curtains.”
“I mayn’t have.”
“I have been given to understand that it would be highly inappropriate for you to approach him while he lay in bed. And yet you stated this is what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything bad. My first few weeks at Curry House I ran into him at every corner. I thought we were friends. And then I don’t see him for a good long time and I thought—I thought I’d take his hand and jiggle it. A good-morning-surprise-it’s-me. Like you would with a mate, if you went to visit them and they was still asleep.”
“So there was nothing illicit going on between you and Mr. Sackville?”
“No! That’d be—he must be even older than my dad and my dad is old!”
Her incredulity seemed genuine. “Is there anyone in the house who might believe that your rapport with Mr. Sackville isn’t quite so innocent?”
The girl recoiled. “What? Why would they think like that?”
“Because it isn’t normal for the master of the house to develop a friendship with a young maid.”
“But why are you asking—you think it has something to do with Mr. Sackville’s murder?”
“A number of things could have happened if one of the other members of the household believed that something illicit went on between you and Mr. Sackville. That person might be enraged on your behalf, convinced that you’d been taken advantage of. That person might be enraged on her own behalf—what if she thought she had a romantic understanding with Mr. Sackville? It could be for monetary reasons, too. The person might believe he is to be the chief beneficiary of Mr. Sackville’s will—and didn’t want him getting close to anyone else. Do you see what I mean?”
“I—I guess so.”
“Then can you tell me who might have had suspicions?”
She twisted her fingers. “Will that person become a suspect?”
“With no obvious motives, and in a household this small, everybody already is a suspect. You wouldn’t be broadening our field of suspects, Miss Birtle, but narrowing it.”
“I suppose that’s all right then,” she said uncertainly. “And it really wouldn’t make him a suspect, I don’t think.”
A him. “Was it Tommy Dunn?”
“Tommy?” she laughed. “Tommy wouldn’t care if I fell off the cliffs.”
“I understand he was initially receptive to having another young person at Curry House. What changed?”