WILSON ESCORTED ME to the front entrance of the house. The door was opened immediately by a uniformed maid. Her dress was a sober dark blue, but the white, lacy apron and cap appeared more decorative than functional. She had a black arm band on her sleeve. She looked to be of middle age, middle height, middle weight.
“This is Miss Frayne,” said Wilson.
“Please do come in, Miss. The mistress is in the drawing room.”
There was a trace of a Welsh accent in her voice.
“I’ll drive you back when you’re ready to leave, Miss,” said Wilson.
Before I could accept or refuse, he left. I surrendered my mackintosh and sou’wester to the maid and followed her.
The foyer was a mix of old-fashioned ornate and more contemporary simple. A thick plain carpet, burgundy flocked wallpaper (too much), light oak trimmings (always in style), a crystal chandelier (awe inspiring). The staircase curved up from the foyer itself (the best feature). The maid paused in front of a door to the right, tapped, and went in.
Probably in summer, the room was bright and pleasant as there were deep windows to one side, but today it was both cold and dim. There was a low fire in the grate and only two lamps were on. The green velvet curtains were drawn. The outer world reflecting the inner. The two Jessop women were seated by the fireplace. I had the feeling they hadn’t been doing anything but sitting in silence.
As I entered, a small brown and white terrier leaped up and rushed at me barking ferociously. Like most small dogs, it thought it was a mastiff. And I suppose I was some kind of rodent. It certainly gave the impression it was about to take a nip to find out.
“It’s okay, Duffy,” I said in my most canine friendly voice. The dog was not convinced.
Ellen Jessop also jumped up.
“Stop that. Bad dog.”
Duffy ignored her. She hadn’t yet made her position clear.
The senior Mrs. Jessop’s voice rang out.
“Cut it out.”
Duffy stopped barking immediately, took a twitchy sniff at the air in front of me and with a little grumble, went back to the chair and collapsed. Mrs. Jessop patted its head.
“Silly girl.”
The dog ignored her.
“I’m sorry Miss Frayne,” said Ellen. “She’s very protective. Gerald rescued her from the streets about a year ago. She still seems to act based on the survival instinct.” She gestured to the armchair by the fireplace. “Please have a seat.”
I did so. The senior Mrs. Jessop was in the other wingback. She leaned forward a little so she could see me.
“We have forewarned the servants that you will be speaking to them. You can use this room if you wish.”
I did not wish. This room was so drenched with grief, so cold and dark, I thought any frank discussion between me and the faithful servants would be stilted at best, or worse.
But it might be better if I talked to them in a more familiar place. Perhaps the kitchen?”
She gave me a frosty look. “We are not totally in the Victorian age, Miss Frayne. For some time my servants have had their own quarters including a parlour. Would that be more suitable?”
“Sounds as if that would be ideal.”
“I should tell you that we have heard from the detective and he will be here at three o’clock.”
She pulled herself to her feet causing Duffy to leap up at the ready.
Rationally, I knew Mrs. Jessop could not have lost weight in the last few hours, that the illusion was because she wasn’t wearing her outdoor clothes, but she looked as if she were shrivelling away by the minute.
“I am going to my room. Ellen will help you with the servants. I shall come down at three.” She walked slowly to the door with the little dog trotting after her, nary a backward glance at me although I knew better than to move without her permission. Ellen left with them.
“I’ll just be a moment,” she said.
I took the opportunity to look around the room. Two wingback brocade armchairs, a matching three-piece chesterfield, good carpet, nice lamps. Nothing unusual in the furnishing. They weren’t any different from any modestly well-to-do household. What was unusual was that there was no mirror over the marble fireplace. Nothing that would reflect images. I guessed the curtains would be drawn before dark and that this would be true of any room in the house. No wonder the servants had their own quarters.
There was a single framed photograph draped in black silk on the mantelpiece. It was Gerald Jessop, in a captain’s uniform as he must have looked when he joined the army. The senior Mrs. Jessop had said he was twenty-four. He could have been younger. Slim, blonde, well-defined features; he was smiling into the camera, the sun shining on his fair hair. A golden boy indeed.