Her smile relaxed a little. “Mrs. Bennett is in the kitchen, I believe, dealing with the wine. She was there half an hour ago.”
“Are there other maids here besides yourself?” I asked, shakily remembering Dottie’s directive.
“Two others, ma’am. All of us arrived the day before yesterday.”
So there was no constant staff of loyal servants kept on at Wych Elm House while the family was not in residence. The entire staff seemed to be newly hired. I thanked the maid and found the door that led downstairs to the kitchen, but as I approached it, for some reason I heard the maid’s steps behind me. I turned to tell her there was no need to follow me, but I found she was gone, and there was no one there at all.
In the kitchen I came upon two women over sixty, one of them sorting through a box of wine bottles and the other sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. When I entered, they dropped silent in embarrassment, and the seated woman made to rise.
“Please,” I said. “I’m only Mrs. Forsyth’s paid companion.”
The woman promptly sat back down, and the two exchanged a brief look of surprise. It seemed Dottie had not bothered to tell anyone about me. As it was, I was stuck halfway between being a servant and a member of the family, which made everything awkward.
The woman with the wine bottles was Mrs. Bennett, the housekeeper, and the woman sitting down was Mrs. Perry, the cook. Both had tidy hair under caps and strong, rough hands. They were women of England’s servant class, brisk and unshakable, who had likely been sweeping and dusting and pounding dough into pie crusts since they were thirteen. A class that was quickly vanishing into a world of tinned suppers and carpet-sweeping machines. They were wary at first, given my uncertain status, but since I had no desire to go back to Dottie after the nasty scene in the dining room, I pulled back a chair and sat at the kitchen table instead.
“I suppose you know Mrs. Forsyth very well, then,” Mrs. Bennett said to me. Her tone was casual, but I knew she was fishing for information.
“Yes,” I replied, thinking that as of today, I did not know Dottie at all.
“I’ve heard she can be a difficult mistress,” Mrs. Perry said bluntly. “It doesn’t frighten me. I’ve dealt with difficult mistresses before.”
“So have I,” Mrs. Bennett said. “In my last place, the mistress lost two children, one after the other. Both died at birth. She was never the same after that. It hits them hard, some women harder than others.”
“I suppose,” I said. She must be referring to queer cousin Fran.
“I’ll never believe the things they say.” Mrs. Perry lifted her chin disapprovingly. “I don’t take to gossip.”
Mrs. Bennett closed the box of wine bottles and made a dismissive shushing noise. “Tales to frighten children, that’s all it is.”
“What tales?” I asked.
Again the two women exchanged a look, but this time their professionalism overruled the need for gossip. “As I said,” Mrs. Bennett repeated, “silly tales for children.”
“Please,” I said, suddenly ravenous to know. “Mrs. Forsyth never speaks of her death, and my husband wouldn’t tell me.”
It was Mrs. Perry who finally answered me. “The girl was mad,” she said, her voice tight with disapproval. “They kept her locked up, out of sight, until one day she escaped her room. Jumped from the roof, she did, from the gable right up at the top of the house. She wasn’t but fifteen.”
For a long moment, I could not speak. The room receded. I remembered getting out of the motorcar, looking up at the high gable. Walking across the cobblestoned path beneath it. Dottie, I thought, no wonder you were unhappy to come home.
Mrs. Perry broke in again, her voice grim. “A man died in the woods that same day,” she said. “Some said the girl must have done it, though he was ripped to pieces, so I don’t see how she could have done such a thing, mad or not. As I say, I don’t take to gossip. They shut up the house after it happened, and all of them left. But now they’re back, and we’re to expect the son, who’s been in a hospital. I hope he isn’t going to be any trouble.”
“If it’s shell shock, he might be quiet as a lamb,” Mrs. Bennett supplied. “I had one of those two employers ago. Barely said a word, the poor boy.”
I pushed my chair back and stood. “I should go,” I said. “Mrs. Forsyth will be looking for me.”
“Tell her the rooms are prepared, just as she requested,” Mrs. Bennett said to my retreating back.
I turned back and looked at her. “How many?” I asked, thinking of the girl I’d seen in the parlor, forcing the question from my throat. “How many bedrooms are prepared?”
Mrs. Bennett frowned, as if I were slow in the head. “Why, four, of course,” she said. “For yourself, Mr. Martin, and Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth.” Her lips pursed briefly. “They sleep separate.”
I had nothing to say to that. I turned in silence and left the room.
CHAPTER FIVE