“It’s a way to make a living.”
I looked around the kitchen. Washing must be rather a good living, by the looks of it—Petra Jennings had a cottage to herself that was above what most servants could afford, and her iron was one of the new electric ones. “How well did you know Frances Forsyth?” I asked.
She deftly flipped a man’s shirt onto the ironing board and continued working without looking at me. “Miss Frances never gave me any trouble,” she said, her voice cautious. “She had terrors and spells, but she was always sorry about it afterward. She could be moody—angry or weeping. Some days she’d sleep straight through the day without getting out of bed. She wasn’t normal, but she never gave me any trouble. Mrs. Forsyth wasn’t pleasant to work for, I don’t mind saying, but the wages were good enough.”
“Miss Jennings,” Alex said. Something in his tone made her put down the iron and turn to look at him again. “You were there the day Frances died.”
She stared at him like a snake stares at a charmer. “Yes,” she said.
“Can you tell me where you were that day? Exactly what happened?”
“It wasn’t me that found her,” Miss Jennings said. “I was in the kitchen. It was Helen—oh, I don’t remember her last name. She was a maid. She was the one that found her.”
Alex nodded. “Go on.”
She blinked, but still she looked at him, something in her expression beginning to chill me. “Helen was screaming and screaming. I came running up the stairs from the kitchen. I went to the front door, but it was already open, and Mrs. Forsyth was standing on the front step, looking. She didn’t say anything. She was a cold woman, and a mean mistress, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“What else?” Alex asked, his voice quiet.
“I looked past her. You were there, sir. You had taken off your overcoat and put it over Miss Frances so no one could see. Helen was being sick in the bushes. One of the gardeners came around the corner, and you shouted at him to call a doctor.”
The kitchen was quiet for a moment. I could not imagine the horror of it. I could not.
“What else do you remember?” Alex asked at last.
“Nothing, sir. I went back into the house. The servants were all talking in the kitchen. I didn’t want to be out front anymore, didn’t want to see. Eventually the doctor came, and the police. They asked us questions, and then they went away.”
“Did you see anyone else when it happened?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you see Mr. Forsyth?”
“No, sir. I don’t believe he was home.”
“What about Mr. Wilde?”
She shook her head. “He wasn’t there, sir.”
“Yes, he was,” Alex coaxed. “Do you not recall?”
She paused, then shook her head again. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see him. If he was there, I don’t recall it.”
It went on like this for a few more minutes, with Alex prodding her memory, but Miss Jennings had nothing more to say. Finally, we rose to take our leave.
“You won’t tell anyone you talked to me, will you?” she asked as she walked us to the door. “I told you, I don’t talk about the family. I don’t want a reputation as a gossip.”
“It’s quite all right,” Alex said. He turned to her on the step and put on his hat. “You have my discretion.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
He walked down the step toward the motorcar, but when I moved to follow, Petra Jennings gripped my arm. “I know you won’t listen to me, but I’ll say it anyway,” she said.
I paused and looked at her. “What is it?”
“Your husband.” Her face was washed of color in the overcast light, her eyes large in her narrow face, her grip cold on my arm. “Everyone said he was dead.”
“He was a prisoner,” I explained. “He’s home now.”
“Is that so?” Her gaze was hard. “He came to the house out of nowhere, all the way from France. He asked me questions about Miss Frances, about her sketchbook. He asked me where it was, what kind of things were in it. And the next day, Miss Frances was dead. What do you think that means?”
“He was in his motorcar when it happened, pulling up the drive,” I said.
“I didn’t see that,” she said. “I only know what I saw. He had put his coat over her when I came outside. That’s all.” She let me go, and I followed Alex into the motorcar. I did not look back at her when we pulled away.
“What was that about?” Alex asked me.
I unfolded the road map and looked for the route to Torbram. “Someone overheard you,” I replied.
“Overheard what?”
“You asked Petra Jennings about Frances’s sketchbook the day before she died. Someone overheard you and got to it first. Got to Frances first and killed her. Miss Jennings thinks that because you were the one asking questions, the killer is you.”