The strangled servant, p.13
The Strangled Servant, page 13
The maid stopped. “That was your friend that died?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think she and Master Conn…”
“I don’t know. I do think she meant to speak with him that night. Did he visit the assembly rooms, do you know?”
The woman shrugged. “It’s not for me to say.”
Poppy was silent. She had no business questioning a servant about her master. Encouraging such disloyalty was most inappropriate for a houseguest, even if the man in question was a drunkard.
They were just descending the staircase when the maid said, “You might try asking Gareth, the footman. He waits on the family when they’re out, so he would know.”
They were at the foot of the staircase when her uncle appeared. “Poppy! We wondered where you had gotten to. What were you doing upstairs?”
“I lost my way.”
“Ah. Come along now.” He nodded to the servant and offered Poppy his arm. “It is a grand old house, but very large. It is easy to lose one’s way, I think.”
They did not stay long afterward. Outside, her uncle climbed into the carriage as footmen attended. Poppy waited as a footman assisted her aunt, and another commented near her, “It is you who’s asking about Master Conn, Miss?”
Poppy turned and met the trained emotionless face of a footman. “I beg your pardon? Yes, I was asking.”
The man coughed, “You might find someone willing to talk at the Crosskeys, Miss. Around ten at night, tonight. Might ask for Hennessy.”
“Thank you,” she said as he handed her into the carriage.
He gave her a knowing look, then looked straight ahead as he’d been trained.
All the way home, Poppy wondered how on earth she was going to get away. Fortunately, she did not have to speak much, for her aunt chatted enough for two. Once home, she pleaded the need for rest and went to her room and shut the door.
That night at dinner she felt restless. Her aunt commented over her plate of boiled mutton, “Did you notice the sitting room at Blackgate Park had a large fireplace? I never noticed it before but these old houses are so grand, I find I see new things each time we are there.”
Poppy chewed her mutton and was quiet.
“But you, Poppy, wherever did you get to? You were gone so long we wondered,” her aunt said.
“I was looking for the privy but ran into Neville instead.”
“Oh. That boy looks to be very wild, I think.”
After dinner Poppy pleaded a headache, along with her aching foot and went to bed early. She knew that she had only two hours to wait until her guardians were abed.
Once she heard her uncle’s snores from upstairs, Poppy fastened on her cloak, boots and gloves and headed out, wearing a dark dress. She thought about taking her uncle’s horse but it was more of an old nag and she didn’t want to risk disturbing her relatives’ sleep. Instead, she took her walking stick and began walking.
The walk into town was through the little neighborhood and down a hill, past a few shops until she reached the town proper. There snuck in the middle of town squatted the little pub, the Crosskeys. She had seen it before but never gone in.
Still, she had walked all that way. It was time. She took a deep breath and walked in.
The place was well-lit and noisy. The smells of ale, small beer and smoky tallow candles filled the air. She attracted no small bit of attention, but within a moment a young man came to her and said, “You’re the girl asking about Master Conn?”
“Yes. Are you Hennessy?”
He nodded.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asked.
“I’ll not say no.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Glass of small beer,” the man said.
“That’ll be six,” the barman said.
She fished in her reticule for some coins and put a sixpence on the bar. The coin disappeared and was replaced with a dull glass of beer. Hennessy took the glass and led the way back to a little table for two.
She perched on the end of a seat and felt quite novel sitting there. It felt largely like a place for men. One or two women were moving about, but these were serving girls.
Hennessy drank. “You were asking about Master Conn.”
“Yes. The lady said you were driving him to the assembly rooms the night that girl died.”
“Aye I was. He didn’t stay long though. He came and left in a black mood.”
“When was this?”
“Around ten o’clock it was. Half ten maybe.”
“Do you know what he was angry about?”
“No, Miss. But when he got home, he rode out again and Mistress did not see him again until morning.”
“Thank you.”
“Is no trouble, Miss.” He swallowed more of his beer. “If you don’t mind my saying so, a girl like you shouldn’t be asking questions about the master.”
She smiled. “I know. I’m trying to find out what happened to my friend.”
“I’m sure he had nothing to do with that.” He stiffened and looked straight ahead.
Her shoulders slumped. She’d wasted her time coming here. She rose and said, “Thank you,” when a hand clamped on her shoulder.
She turned around. There stood Neville Conn. “Looking for me?” he grinned.
She stiffened. “Remove your hand.”
He did, with a sly smile. “I hear you’re asking about me. I’ll answer all the questions you want in private.”
“I am very well here, thank you,” she said primly. She turned back to Hennessy, but he’d disappeared. More than one bar patron was watching them now. Even the serving girls had stopped, clutching pitchers of beer.
She said, “Excuse me,” and tried to walk past Neville, but he caught hold of her traveling cloak and tugged, it, stopping her mid-step.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said.
“Unhand me.” she snarled, tugging her cloak free of his grip. They glared at each other when the sharp sound of a pistol’s hammer being cocked broke the silence.
“Now Mr. Conn, I’d hate to have to tell Lady Cameron that I found you in a pub mistreating a lady,” a familiar voice said.
Neville blanched. His eyes darted to a figure behind her. “And who are you, to address me so?” Neville asked.
“Constable Henry Dyngley. Let the lady go and we’ll say no more,” he said.
Neville smoothed down the folds of his overcoat. “This girl and I were just talking.”
“All the same, I’d prefer you drink somewhere else.”
“As you please, Constable.” He looked daggers at the man. As he passed by her he muttered, “I will see you soon, Miss Morton.”
She tried not to tremble. A moment passed, then she heard a door opening and closing. Dyngley said behind her, “It’s all right now.”
She turned around. Constable Dyngley lowered his pistol. “Come, you’ve had enough adventure for one night,” he said loudly, “I know you thought some beer might settle the good reverend’s stomach, but you can find some medicine at the market.” He motioned for her to precede him out of the pub, and she needed no second bidding.
She walked quickly out and leaned against the wall, breathing in the cool night air. It was chilly and the constable walked out a second later. The door shut behind him and a moment later they could hear the noise and chatter start up again.
She turned to the constable. “Thank you—”
He rounded on her. “My God, Miss Morton, what were you thinking, going into a pub so late at night, and alone? You’re lucky I was there. With a man like Neville around no one would have defended you.”
“I was perfectly fine on my own.”
He laughed. “I’ll believe that when I see it. What possessed you to go out? Who was that man you were talking to? He left in a hurry.”
Poppy felt heat rise to her cheeks. “He was a servant in the employ of Lady Cameron.” She told him the events of that afternoon.
Once she finished, Dyngley’s face was full of angry shadows. “And so you thought you would slip out at night and question the man, in a room full of people, any of whom could tell your uncle what they had seen? I don’t know what you are about. I had thought you a woman of sense.”
“I am,” she said, “I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“That is precisely the problem, none of them will know you as anything but the clergyman’s niece. If I hadn’t mentioned your uncle, any one of them might be thinking you were a common doxy.”
Poppy’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon.”
“What are they to think, seeing a girl out at night? Unless she’s a serving girl, there’s only one reason she’s got to be in a place like that.”
“I take your meaning, sir,” she said stiffly.
“I’m glad. Where is your horse?”
“I did not ride, I walked. But I need no help from you.”
“Nonsense. You cannot walk home alone so late at night. What if something happened to you?”
“Nothing will. I live out beyond the village. It’s as quiet as a graveyard.” Saying the words made her shiver.
“Come, I will see you home.” He frowned at her until she followed him to his horse. She ignored the warm feeling his hands on her waist gave her, and sat stiffly during the ride back to the parish house. Even with his warm breath by her ear, she felt the night’s chill and was secretly relieved of his offer to return her by horseback.
Dyngley’s mare arrived at the little path to the parsonage all too soon, and he pulled on the reins lightly to nudge the horse to stop. He let her down a little ways from the house and he said, “Good night Miss Morton. If it’s an evening’s entertainment you’re after, I’m sure we think of better amusements for you than interviewing servants.”
She marched back to the house, opened and shut the front door behind her, and tiptoed upstairs to her room. Suddenly movement caught her eye, and she spied a dark figure sitting on her bed.
“Hello, Poppy,” her aunt said. “Care to tell me where you’ve been?”
Chapter Eighteen
“Poppy,” her aunt started, “Do you mind telling me what you were doing outside?”
“Uh…” Poppy started.
“And before you say you were sleepwalking, remember that I was a young girl too, once. A girl dressed in her traveling cloak, gloves and boots going out late at night means one thing.”
Poppy opened her mouth to speak.
“Were you at a tryst?”
“No.”
“Then what on God’s green earth were you doing out there?” she hissed. “Do you realize it’s half-twelve at night? No decent thing goes on at that time, and imagine my surprise when I come in here to check on you and find you gone. What am I supposed to think?”
“Aunt, I…”
“Tell me the truth, girl. You were with him, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Aunt Rachel shook her head, her hair ribbons flying. “Poppy, I thought you had more sense than this. Tom did not show himself when you were first accused of murder, what makes you think he will stand by you now?”
“Aunt?”
“No, we have been too lax with you, I’m sure. I know you’ve fancied Tom since you were children but this is no reason to—”
“Aunt Rachel, I was not with Tom.”
“What? You weren’t?”
“No.” She blushed. “I had learned from one of the servants that Mr. Conn might have had words with Mary before her death, and the servant wished to speak with me. Constable Dyngley escorted me home.”
“He did?”
“Yes. Nothing untoward happened.” She looked her aunt dead in the eye. “I promise.”
“He did not touch you?”
“Only to help me down from his horse.” Her aunt raised an eyebrow, and Poppy smiled. “I promise you, he was a perfect gentleman.”
Her aunt sniffed. “Maybe, but will he think you a perfect lady after tonight? It would not surprise me if he thought less of you for being out so late.”
Poppy looked down. She had not thought of that. But what surprised her more was that she cared.
“What did this servant have to say?” her aunt asked.
“He drove Mr. Conn from the dance that night but said he rode out again and didn’t return until dawn. This means he could have been there when Mary’s carriage was attacked.”
“I don’t like it, Poppy. This is nothing a young lady like yourself should look into, especially when your own reputation was only recently restored by that constable. Don’t give him reason to regret it.”
Poppy frowned. “I want to know what happened to Mary. She could be out there alone or hurt.”
“That girl got what was coming to her. She never was a good friend to you, Poppy; you’re old enough to see that now.”
“Aunt…” Poppy started. “We had words that night and I want to make it right.”
“Is it so important to you? Everyone believes you are innocent now.”
“I want to know she’s all right.”
“I understand your concern, but there are better ways of finding out information than skulking about at night with men. Even if they are handsome,” she said, thinking aloud.
“Aunt…”
“Yes, Poppy. Go to bed. Or must I lock you in at night?”
“No ma’am.”
“I’ll see you in the morning. Speak none of this to your uncle.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
The next day Poppy slept late. When she awoke and joined her aunt and uncle, her uncle eyed her slight limp and said, “Poppy where is your walking stick? You look as though you’ve walked a mile.”
She had. She avoided her aunt’s gaze and said, “I do not remember. I was feeling so much better yesterday I must have set it down and forgot where I put it.”
He shook his head. “I shall have to make you one. You need to learn to take better care of your things.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
There was no news to report about Mary. That was good in a way. She was free to open up her heart to Tom and tell him how she’d loved him for so long. Now with Mary gone, there was no rival to her affections for him.
And yet, he had barely shown his face once she’d been accused of murder. Nay, even when she had been declared innocent, he had seen her once, when normally she would see him three days out of seven. What had changed?
Her moment came the next day when she walked into the village. Her foot ached, but without her walking stick, she walked, her foot feeling tight. As she walked by the shops, eyeing the chandler’s, the butcher’s, baker’s, and the doctor’s surgery, she felt unusually nervous. Why she could not say.
There was Tom, strolling idly through town.
She saw him across the road and waved, saying, “Tom!” and startling two elderly women near her. He must not have seen her and instead turned away into a shop. She waited for horses and carriages to drive past, and she crossed the road, holding onto her bonnet.
It was an old straw thing, with an attempt at fashion by tying it with a thick blue ribbon that almost matched her light blue pelisse. She sorely missed her walking stick and by the time she reached the shop, she wished she hadn’t walked at all.
It was a bootmaker, and as she stepped inside she was hit with the strong scent of leather and polish. Bright buckles shone and she eyed a number of smart-looking dancing shoes and sturdy walking boots for men and women.
The bell rang as she entered. At her entrance, the shopkeeper, a man with a bald pate, noticed her but took no notice, for which she was relieved. Tom, however, was accompanying another girl.
Poppy stepped forward. “Tom.”
He looked up from examining a pair of dancing shoes. “Miss Morton.”
The fashionable girl on his arm glanced to see who he was addressing. Within a second she dismissed Poppy as poor, with pretensions at middling. From her tired straw bonnet to her faded blue pelisse, the trail of dust on her hem, down to her plain serviceable walking boots, told the truth of it. She had little money and what attempts she made at keeping with the trends were truly a pretense.
Poppy surveyed the girl who looked so confident on Tom’s arm. She had red hair and freckles which dotted her nose. She wore a fetching blue walking dress and matching straw bonnet. She carried a reticule and looked every inch the young marriageable ingénue. Poppy hated her on sight.
Amusement and annoyance flitted over Tom’s features. She knew that look well but never had seen it directed at her. He asked, “Whatever are you doing here, Miss Morton?”
“Perhaps she’s in need of better walking shoes,” the young woman said, eyeing her footwear.
He smiled down at her and said, “Miss Morton, allow me to introduce Miss Hawkes, just come from Oxfordshire.”
Poppy curtsied briefly, while the girl offered her a smaller inclination of the head. Then she stared at her. “Miss Morton? Miss Poppy Morton?”
“Yes.”
The girl looked up at Tom. “This is the girl who you said…”
He laughed. “Come, let us get some fresh air. All this shoe polish is making my head spin.”
He escorted her past Poppy out of the shop, and as the door closed she could hear the girl say, “That’s the girl who killed the young woman? She doesn’t look like a killer.”
“They never do.”
“She looks like a clergyman’s daughter. A church mouse.”
“You’re not far off. She’s the niece of our local parson. I was saying just the other day, she is so altered from the girl I once knew, I should never have known her…” he trailed off.
Poppy turned red. She wanted to go out there and demand he tell the truth, that she had nothing to do with Mary’s death.
The bootmaker was looking at her. She said, “Excuse me,” and sailed out the door.
She walked outside into the afternoon sunlight, holding up a hand to shade her eyes. She stepped out into the light, when a man cried, “Whoa there!”
A hand pulled her back, as a carriage rode by, mere feet from running her over. It was a young man, dressed smartly in a smart green overcoat with gold buttons in a soldier’s style yet not a uniform. He said, “You were almost killed. Why weren’t you looking?”
