Away in a Manger (21 page)

“Hello,” I said. “I'm Molly. They sent me to help you.” I looked around at the silver dishes, candelabras, saltcellars, and condiment dishes piled on the table. “You look as if you could do with some help,” I added.

“I could indeed,” she said. “They stuck me back here, away from all the fun. Here, grab a cloth and there's the tin of polish.”

“You're called Edith, are you?” I asked as I started working away at a large dish.

“That's right.”

“You been here long, Edith?”

“About a year now. I took over when Fanny left to get married.”

“And how is it? Good place to work?”

“It's all right. It's a job.”

“It must be hard learning the ropes as the new girl,” I went on.

“New girl?” She laughed. “I'm one of the old hands now. Almost all the servants here are new. Mr. Eustace fired everybody and brought in new people when he took over.”

“Took over?” I asked. “Is Mr. Montague dead then?”

“No, he lingers on, but they're saying he can't last much longer. And he hasn't been in any state to run things for a while.”

I lowered my voice. “It's not for me to say but it seems odd to have a big party when the master lies dying, doesn't it?”

“Does to me too,” she whispered back. “But Mr. Eustace was determined to celebrate his engagement and to show his new bride how things are done at Fairview. No expense spared, I can tell you that.”

“Is Mr. Montague still in the house? Won't the noise of a party upset him?” I asked.

“They moved him up to the third floor. He has a full-time nurse now and she looks after him. A regular hatchet face, that one. Barks orders as if she was a sergeant major and never a thank you if you do something for her.”

“What's Mrs. Carter like?” I asked, still keeping my voice low.

“Not as nice as Mrs. Braithwaite was. She was lovely. It's my belief that the master wouldn't be lying here taking his last breath if she was still around. She cared about him, she really did.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

Edith glanced at the half-open door before replying. “Mr. Eustace gave her the boot last spring. He said she was disrespectful to him and had been snooping. So she was out, after being here for thirty years. I know the master wouldn't have liked it if he'd been well enough to know what was going on.”

“Where is she now?” I asked.

“She lives with her son in Great Neck. He's opened an automobile repair shop there, on account of how many people around here drive automobiles. Can you imagine that a man could make a living fixing automobile engines? Whatever next.”

I put my dish, now sparkling, to join the others and started on some saltcellars. Having been assigned to this task, I could hardly leave Edith to it. So I worked as quickly as I could. At least I'd already learned some interesting facts, but my journey would be wasted if I couldn't see Mr. Montague in person. From what Edith said, it sounded as if he might no longer be compos mentis.

At last we finished the silver and I went back into the kitchen to find other servants eating their midday meal. There was a big tureen of vegetable soup as well as slices of ham, cold roast beef, bread, and pickles on the table.

“It's catch as catch can today,” the cook said. “I've no time to make our food, so grab, eat, and get back to work.”

I helped myself and was nearly finished when the cook said, “Ruby, put that down and take up the master's hot milk.”

I jumped up before she could react. “She's only just sat down,” I said. “I'd be happy to take it up for her. I've finished.”

“That's nice of you, young lady. Very charitable. I don't know if they told you but they moved the master out of his normal suite up to the third floor so that the noise doesn't bother him too much tonight.”

“I'll find my way, thank you.” I picked up the cup and found the back stairs that servants always use. My feet echoed in the narrow stairwell as I went up and up. I was quite out of breath by the time I came to the third floor and opened the door onto a rather Spartan hallway. It was completely silent and I tiptoed forward, not knowing which door to open. I had discovered two unused bedrooms and a small kitchen with a spirit stove before I tried the door at the end of the hall and found myself in Mr. Montague's bedroom. There he was, lying on a narrow bed, looking so pale and unmoving that at first I thought he was dead. Then I saw his sheet rise and fall to gentle breathing. Fast asleep then. There was a fire burning in the grate and the room had the sweet, cloying smell of sickness to it. Did I dare to wake him—to tell him my real mission and show him the picture I hoped was of his daughter?

I stood there with the cup of hot milk in my hand, unable to make up my mind. If I woke him and showed him the picture, it might give him such a shock that it killed him. But the news of grandchildren might give him hope to keep on living and get well again.

“What do you think you are doing, girl?” a sharp voice demanded. A tall, thin woman in a severe dark blue uniform stood there, glaring at me.

I spun around, almost slopping milk into the saucer. “I'm sorry,” I whispered, “I was told to bring up Mr. Montague's hot milk. I didn't know where to go.”

“Never disturb Mr. Montague. Now you know, don't you?” she snapped. “I've told them in the kitchen before—the milk gets put in that anteroom next door. I've a little stove there to warm it up again when Mr. Montague awakes.”

“I'll put it there now,” I said. I glanced back at him. “Poor Mr. Montague,” I said. “This must be so distressing for everyone.”

“We all have to die sometime,” she said. “And what did he have to live for?”

There was no hint of compassion in her face, and I wondered who had chosen such an unfeeling creature as Mr. Montague's nurse when presumably he could afford the best care. Eustace Everett, of course, I decided. He'd be only too happy if his uncle died and he inherited the estate, the business, the wealth. Then I took this thought one step further: If he had really killed his cousin, could he now be actively working to kill his uncle? I followed the hostile nurse to the little kitchen and put the cup on the counter. An empty cup and saucer stood there, along with several medicine bottles.

“Would you like me to take this cup down to be washed?” I asked.

“No. Leave it,” she snapped. “Go back where you're needed.” Then she spun around as a moan came from Mr. Montague's room. “Coming, sir,” she called. “Just fetching your milk.

“Go on. Off with you.” She stood there, glaring at me, waiting for me to leave. I headed to the stairwell, but as soon as her back was turned I doubled back, creeping close to the wall. I was just in time to watch her take the lid off a tin and carefully spoon something into the milk, then stir it up. And I just had time to flatten myself in a dark doorway as she came through with the cup to Mr. Montague's room.

Now my suspicions were completely roused. Of course the powder that she had stirred into his drink could be nothing more than sugar, glucose, or some kind of fortifying mixture. But the way she had snapped at me when I offered to take away the empty cup was ringing alarm bells. I knew I had to act quickly. I tiptoed into the anteroom and took out my handkerchief. I carefully spooned some of the contents of the tin into the handkerchief, wrapped it carefully, and tucked it into my pocket. Then I hurried to the back staircase before the nurse could see me.

It seemed like a good time to make my escape. I realized I'd have no chance to talk to Mr. Montague in his current state, and I'd learned all I was likely to learn with a house full of new servants. Besides, I wanted to visit his old housekeeper, Mrs. Braithwaite, before I took the train back to the city.

I came down the stairs and out into the servant's hallway. A quick visit to the uniform closet and I was in my own clothes again. Making my exit through the back door wasn't quite so easy. The door was beside the kitchen, where any number of people were working. That left me only one choice—to try my luck through the front. I retrieved a candlestick, pushed open the baize door, and was “above stairs.” The floors were marble, dotted with fine Persian rugs. There were classical statues in niches and large potted palms. I passed a footman who looked at me with surprise.

“I was told this candlestick was needed in the dining room,” I said, holding it out to him.

“I don't know who told you that,” he said, taking it from me. “These candlesticks are for the morning room where they'll be putting the presents. Honestly it's chaos. Nobody seems to know what they are doing today. I'll be surprised if the party isn't a complete disaster.” And he flaunted off, brandishing the candlestick, leaving me alone in the main hall. I had just reached the front door unnoticed and unhindered when I heard the crunch of wheels and muffled thud of hoofbeats on the snowy drive and a fine carriage came to a halt. I was trapped, standing on the front steps, not able to run and not wanting to retreat back inside. My worst fear was that Eustace himself had arrived, but when the coachman sprang down to open the door, he helped out a pretty and very young woman.

“Hello,” she said when she saw me. “Don't tell me you're one of my guests? You're really, really early.”

I toyed with telling her I was a friend of her godmother, but realized I wasn't exactly dressed to impress. “Oh, no, miss,” I said. “I was sent to deliver a present from the city.”

“A present? How exciting.” She beamed at me. “What is it? Do tell.”

“I'm not allowed to say, miss,” I replied coyly. “And it should be opened with your fiancé, shouldn't it?”

“I suppose so. Isn't it fun getting engaged and married?”

Then she skipped up the front steps like a small child. I turned away feeling overwhelming pity. How could a bright and lively young thing like her find herself tied to such an objectionable man as Eustace Everett? And an even darker thought crept into my mind. If he was marrying her for her fortune, would she also end up having a mysterious accident or illness?

 

Twenty-three

As I started back to the railway station I rather wished I had told her I was a friend of her godmother's. Then she might have offered me the use of her carriage to take me to the station. Instead I was in for a long walk in the bitter cold. And snow was starting to fall gently too. But I was in luck again. As I passed the gates of another mansion, a butcher's delivery wagon was coming out. I flagged him down and was back in the hamlet of Great Neck in no time at all. It was easy enough to find Bert's Automobile Repairs and from there to be directed to his house, where I hoped to find his mother, Mrs. Braithwaite. She answered the door herself, a pleasant-looking older woman, wearing a floury apron.

“Sorry, but you've caught me in the midst of Christmas baking,” she said.

“I won't take up much of your time but I need your help,” I said. “It's about Margaret Montague.”

“Margaret?” Her face lit up. “You've news of her? I've been so worried.”

“I think I do have news, but it may not be all good,” I said. “My name is Mrs. Sullivan. And I've just come from Fairview.”

She brushed down her hands on her apron. “Come in, do. In the kitchen, if you don't mind. I've a pecan pie I can't let burn.”

The small kitchen was delightfully warm and she poured me a welcome cup of coffee.

“You've heard from Margaret, have you?” she asked.

“I'm currently looking after her children,” I said, and started to tell her the whole story.

“Out begging on the streets? Poor little mites,” she interrupted. “That doesn't sound like Margaret at all. She'd never have abandoned her children. She was always such a kind and warm girl. You just had to love her. I was so fond of her myself. It broke my heart when the master said we were never to mention her name again.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Braithwaite,” I said. “Do you think Mr. Montague would still react the same way if he met his grandchildren?”

“I don't believe he would, ma'am,” she said. “In fact in later years, he said to me once, ‘Maybe I was too hasty, Maude. Now I have no one.'” She looked at me with sadness in her eyes. “And now I understand he might be dying. Poor man.”

“Was he sick when you left Fairview?”

“He wasn't well, but nothing like I've heard recently. They say he has a full-time nurse.”

I didn't share my suspicions about the nurse but instead I said, “The nurse wasn't there when you were dismissed then? Exactly when was that?”

“This spring. March, it was. I couldn't believe it when Mr. Eustace told me. He claimed I'd been disrespectful and he wanted someone with more modern ideas than me. But I think it was on account of the letter.”

“Letter?” I asked.

She nodded. “A letter came for Mr. Montague. I saw it on the salver in the front hall, and I thought I recognized Miss Margaret's handwriting. I was going to take it straight up to the master but Mr. Eustace arrived. ‘I think this might be from Miss Margaret,' I said. And he said, ‘You know we've been forbidden to mention her name again. Give that to me. It would only upset my uncle.' And he took it and stuffed it into his pocket. And right after that I was told my services were no longer needed.”

“How sad,” I said. “Margaret wrote to her father. She might have been welcomed back and still been alive now.”

“You're sure she's dead?” Mrs. Braithwaite asked.

I opened my handbag and took out the photograph. When she saw it she put her hand to her mouth and gave a little cry. “Oh, my poor darling girl,” she said. “Do they know what happened to her? What fiend did this?”

“She was fished from the East River, but she was already dead when someone threw her body in,” I said. “And between the two of us, Mrs. Braithwaite, I can't help wondering if Eustace Everett didn't engineer the whole thing. If he'd retrieved the letter he could have written to Margaret in New York, telling her to meet him, that he'd drive her out to see her father. And on the way he killed her.”