Annie Havers didn’t faint. She kept her eyes riveted on Miss Isobel’s shawl – which was now draped over her lap – and the tiny stitches of cream thread that ran through it. If she focused on following the way the threads tucked in and around each other to form the herringbone pattern, the room stopped spinning. She took a deep breath, concentrated, and by sheer willpower, she didn’t topple.
As she watched Miss Isobel rave about Miss Catherine, a seed of anger flamed in the back of Annie’s mind, its heat low and blue and pulsing. She continued to focus on Miss Isobel’s shawl as the policeman escorted first Isobel, then Blackie and then Marie into the dining room for a formal statement. She watched them go knowing that soon it would be her turn.
Annie Havers prided herself on her loyalty. Her dad spoke often of the meaning of friendship. His motto was True friends stick together through thick and thin. He was especially adamant about loyalty during times of crisis, towards those who helped you and to whom you owed a debt. He reminded her every chance he got that the price of betrayal – though not immediate – would be costly.
Annie remembered when she was just a wee thing on holiday with her parents and their friends at the seashore. One of the children in the group took Annie’s favourite chocolate when Annie wasn’t looking. Annie ran to her dad, expecting him to take up for her and get her chocolate back. He hadn’t. Instead he took her aside and squatted down so his eyes met hers. She could still feel the warmth of his hands on her shoulders.
‘Never be a tattletale, Annie. It’s disloyal.’
‘But she took my chocolate,’ Annie replied.
‘Then go ask for it back. Resolve your differences directly with your friends. My love, no one likes a tattletale.’
‘But what if she doesn’t give it back?’ Annie said.
‘Then keep a better watch on your chocolate.’ Her dad tugged on her braids, kissed her forehead, and walked back to the group of adults. She could still picture the back of him as he walked away. She forgot whether or not she’d asked the child for her chocolate, but Annie remembered later that night she found another bar of chocolate under her pillow.
At the time, she didn’t really understand what her dad meant. Some farfetched notion of loyalty did not lessen the injustice of thievery, nor did it assuage the anger at losing her precious chocolate. Annie never forgot how important honour was to her dad. At his funeral, his friends – and he had many – spoke of it. She wondered what her dad would think about her now, lying to get away from her mother, only to live in a house where a man had been murdered.
Now it was her turn to give a statement to the police, and in doing so defy Miss Isobel. She now understood what her dad had meant all those years ago.
Annie walked into the dining room. A uniformed policeman – a young man with red cheeks and darting eyes – held the door open for her. She braced herself and stepped through. The door shut behind her. By daylight the room didn’t hold the magic that it held during the dinner two nights ago. Without the candlelight’s reflection off the silver and crystal glasses, and the shimmer of the sparking golden champagne and blood-red wine, the room looked like any other room in any other musty old house. The only light came from the chandelier overhead, which hadn’t been lit during the dinner. Its glaring light drew attention to the aged wallpaper and the threadbare spots on the carpet.
Chief Inspector Bellerose sat at the far end of the long dining table. His sergeant sat next to him, paper in hand, pencil at the ready.
‘Miss Havers, good. Come in. Have a seat.’
Annie swallowed the dry lump in the back of her throat.
‘No need to be afraid, Miss Havers. I just want to ask you a few questions. Sergeant Perkins here is going to take notes while we talk.’
Chief Inspector Bellerose rose so he could pull out the chair for her. After she was situated, he resumed his seat. A tattered notebook lay before him on the table. He opened it and read. The silence filled the room and took on a life of its own. Annie wanted to squirm, but she sat on her hands and forced herself to stay still. Her mother had always told her she was a patient child. She reminded herself that patience is a virtue.
Finally, Chief Inspector Bellerose closed the notebook and looked up to meet Annie’s eyes. He smiled – not a cunning smile, designed to take her off guard, but a real smile. When he spoke his voice was soft.
‘I’m going to ask you a few questions, Annie. I know you work for Miss Isobel, and that she has certain opinions about what happened last night. I just want you to tell me what you saw. Nothing more. You won’t get in trouble for anything you say, Annie. I aim to get at the truth.’ Chief Inspector Bellerose glanced at his notebook. ‘You were out of the house last night?’
‘Yes, sir. I went to the cinema and got home around half past ten or thereabouts.’
‘And Mrs Carlisle was gone at that time?’ While Chief Inspector Bellerose asked the questions, Sergeant Perkins wrote furiously.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘She was gone when I returned.’
Chief Inspector Bellerose paused.
‘Tell me how you came to work here, Annie.’
He knew. He knew she’d lied her way into the job. Annie wanted to jump up and run out of the room. She dug her fingernails into her palms, focusing on the pain rather than on the sheer panic at the question.
‘I’ll tell you everything, but I’ll not go back to my mum’s,’ she said. ‘Not while she’s married to Harold Green. If you make me go back, I’ll run away.’ Tears threatened. Annie clenched her fists harder.
‘I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep, Annie. I give you my word that if you are honest with me, I’ll help you. Now why don’t you want to go back to your mum’s?’
‘My stepfather –’ Annie hesitated. She felt the emotions spiral inside her head as her control slipped away. The events since her mother’s marriage and her arrival at the Carlisle house bubbled deep in her belly like a pot of soup on the stove that came to a boil. The words came spewing out of her mouth. Powerless to stop them, Annie let them come, unedited sentences spoken like a confessor to a priest.
‘He came to my room. In the night when my mum was asleep. He stood in the door to my room above his horrible butcher shop and told me that I was his little girl now. He told me there were things I could do that would make him happy. He sat down on my bed. Just as he leaned over me, I screamed. My mum came running. She was ever so mad at me. I knew that if I told the truth, we’d be out on the street. We hadn’t any money and no place to live. Things have been difficult since my dad died. She married Harold for security. So I pretended I’d had a nightmare. After Mum and Harold left my room, I locked the door.
‘The next day, after Harold left for his shop and Mum went to market, I stole a suitcase, packed my belongings, and ran away. I found an advert in the newspaper for a maid, no experience necessary. I slept in the train station and came straight to Kensington. Miss Isobel hired me, you see.’ Salty tears spilled over and sloped down Annie’s cheeks. Chief Inspector Bellerose handed her a handkerchief. She used it to dab her eyes, but still the words came.
‘And then Freddy Sykes – that’s Mr Carlisle’s friend – he tried – he tried – he pushed me against the wall. Miss Catherine came just in time. She kicked Freddy hard. And when my mum came to fetch me, Miss Catherine said no. She wouldn’t let me go back to Harold, and that I was to be a paid companion.’ Spent, Annie stopped talking. Her breath came in rapid gasps. She hiccupped and wiped her eyes. ‘And now she’s gone to her aunt’s. I was to go there after my morning chores. I’ll not go back to my mum’s.’
Unable to keep up with Annie’s rapid-fire monologue, Sergeant Perkins stopped taking shorthand. He sat, pencil poised, until a nod from Chief Inspector Bellerose, so subtle that any casual observer would have missed it, told him to stop writing and pay attention. When Annie stopped speaking, Sergeant Perkins – doing his part in a specifically choreographed dance – got up and poured Annie a cup of tea. He added cream and sugar, stirred it, and put it on the table in front of Chief Inspector Bellerose, who in turn pushed the teacup to Annie.
Annie kept her eyes focused on her hands. They rested on her lap now, red welts in her palms where she’d dug her nails into the soft skin there. What was she thinking, telling Chief Inspector Bellerose about Harold?
‘Here, Miss Havers,’ the inspector said as he pushed the tea to Annie. ‘Have a sip. My gran always said that hot tea with milk and sugar will cure anything that ails you.’
Annie looked up at him, her eyes wide. ‘Mine, too.’ She reached for the tea and took a sip. ‘And bread and butter.’ Annie’s stomach growled a loud rumbling reminder that she hadn’t yet had breakfast. Her confession to Chief Inspector Bellerose had lifted her burden; the release and the freedom it brought were palpable. Her words cleansed her, similar to the times when she had a bad stomach ache. After she got sick, the pain was gone.
‘I’d like to ask you a few more questions, Annie. Did you know that Mrs Carlisle was leaving?’
‘Yes, sir. We arranged to go to her Aunt Lydia’s house. I agreed to stay on and help with the committee meetings, but I was to go this morning. Miss Catherine gave me cab fare.’
‘And last night,’ the inspector said, ‘what time was it that Mr Carlisle claimed to have been drugged and received the ipecac from his sister?’
‘I don’t know. I was asleep when Mr Blackwell banged on the door. He forgot his key.’ Annie didn’t tell the police that Blackie was too drunk to stand up.
‘Two more questions, Annie. Did you know that Miss Catherine was leaving her husband?’
Annie shook her head. ‘No, sir. I knew she was going to her aunt’s, but I thought she was just going for a visit.’
‘Do you think Miss Catherine could have come back here after she left yesterday?’
‘No, sir. Why would she?’ Annie realised why after she uttered the words. ‘Sir, Miss Catherine didn’t kill her husband. I know it.’
‘How do you know, Annie? Anything you can tell me would be helpful.’
Annie took her time formulating a response. She thought of her own mum and dad – when her dad had been alive, and the way they were together. They lived each day with care for the other. Annie remembered her mum stirring a pot on the stove and her dad coming up behind her and kissing the back of her neck. She remembered the notes her mum would leave when she went on an errand, loving notes for Annie and her dad.
‘Sir, I don’t believe that Mr Carlisle and Miss Catherine loved each other. Killing is a passionate thing, isn’t it? It takes a certain amount of anger to do a murder. I just don’t think Miss Catherine had that much feeling about Mr Carlisle one way or another.’ She stopped speaking and let her words hang in the air. Maybe she’d said too much. She didn’t care.
‘Thank you, Annie,’ Chief Inspector Bellerose said. ‘You are free to go. If I need to speak further with you, I’ll contact Miss Catherine’s aunt. If you gather your things, I’ll have Sergeant Perkins take you to Mrs Carlisle’s aunt’s house.’
Annie nodded as she pushed away from the table. She was just about to walk out of the room, when Bellerose called her back. ‘Annie?’
‘Yes, sir?’ She turned around to face him. The look on his face had changed now; he gave her a flinty gaze.
‘Would you like me to have a word with Mr Green and Mr. Sykes? I’ll see to it that neither one of them bother you again.’
‘No, sir. It wouldn’t go well for my mum if you did. Harold’s all she’s got.’
‘But Annie –’
‘Please, sir. My mum would suffer. I’ve caused her enough pain.’
‘Listen to me. I am a policeman and I don’t like to hear when children are mistreated. You go to Mrs Carlisle. If you need any help, come to me, Annie. We have women constables who can help you. Sergeant Perkins will see that you have a means to contact me. I mean what I say, Annie. If Harold Green puts you in danger, do not go back there. I can promise to help you on that count.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Annie once again walked towards the door. This time she felt Chief Inspector Bellerose’s gaze on her back. She let herself out of the dining room – there was no young officer to hold the door for her now – and stepped out in the hallway. She took a deep breath, relieved to have shared her various burdens with the inspector.
‘Annie,’ Miss Isobel said.
Annie turned and faced Isobel. She knew in an instant that Isobel heard everything Annie said to Chief Inspector Bellerose.
‘You betrayed me, Annie. You betrayed this family.’ Isobel stepped close to Annie. Annie stepped back. Isobel stepped closer.
‘Your bags are packed. I want you out of this house. You can keep your new clothes in exchange for your wages. I could ask you to pay me back all the money I’ve spent on you, but I won’t. I want you gone. And don’t expect a reference from me. Go. I can hardly stand to look at you.’
‘I’m not going to lie to the police, Miss Isobel. Not even for you. Miss Catherine didn’t kill Mr Carlisle and you know it.’
Isobel laughed. ‘You are a fool, Annie. She came back. Surely you can see that’s possible.’
Sergeant Perkins opened the door. ‘That’s enough, Miss Carlisle. Leave the girl be.’
‘I’m going to call your superior right this instant,’ Miss Isobel said. ‘You and that chief inspector of yours clearly are not capable of handling a situation such as this. My brother is – was – a very important man …’ Her voice trailed off into tears.
‘Come on, lass. I’m to go with you.’ Sergeant Perkins picked up the valise that Isobel brought down the stairs. Annie followed him out to the kerb, where a police car waited.
Sergeant Perkins saw Annie situated. He climbed into the front of the car and, with a nod to the driver, they were off. She closed her eyes, unable to take in everything that had happened. She’d found Mr Carlisle’s dead body, and – in a move that could only be considered reckless – she’d told a policeman about Harold Green. What was she thinking? What had she done?
Annie had last been to Bloomsbury as a ten-year-old. Her dad had conjured a special treat for her mum and her and had surprised them with a trip to the British Museum, followed by a picnic in one of the beautiful garden squares. Annie remembered the lazy buzz of the bees and the vivid flowers as though it were yesterday. Her father had told her about all the different trees, and made up stories about them, imbuing them with personalities of their own. There was the wise old rowan and the whimsical oak.
Today she stared out the window, unseeing, as the taxi passed the Ritz Hotel and the Palace Theatre. Sergeant Perkins and the driver spoke to each other, but Annie tuned out their voices. She couldn’t stop seeing Mr Carlisle’s lifeless eyes, staring at her in a never-ending plea for help.
The police car pulled to a stop in front of a row of flats made of blood-red brick. Sergeant Perkins got out of the front seat and opened the door for Annie. The policeman who drove handed Annie’s valise to Sergeant Perkins.
‘I’ll come in with you, see that you’re all right,’ he said. ‘I need to have a word with Lydia Paxton.’
Annie smelled cooking meat from a café down the street. Her stomach rumbled. She was ever so hungry. She took a deep breath and followed Sergeant Perkins. He knocked on the door. They didn’t look at each other while they waited.
The door was opened by a woman who had the same red corkscrew curls as Miss Catherine, but this woman’s hair was streaked with grey threads. It was arranged in a precarious bun, held in place by two crisscrossed paintbrushes. She had the same kind eyes and full lips as Miss Catherine, but where Miss Catherine was tall and willowy, this woman was short and a wee bit stout. Where Miss Catherine wore expensive clothing, handmade by fine dressmakers, this woman was dressed in men’s trousers and a baggy button-up shirt, the front of which was covered in paint. ‘Can I help you?’ She peered at them over the top of her gold-rimmed spectacles.
Annie swallowed, not quite sure what to say.
Sergeant Perkins flashed his identification before the woman’s eyes. Before he put it away, she said, ‘No so fast. May I see that, please?’
He handed the leather wallet to her. She studied the card. ‘You lot should have photographs on your identification. What’s happened?’ Her eyes lit on Annie and softened. ‘And who’re you?’
‘I’m Annie. Miss Catherine’s companion. We were to come here, only Miss Catherine’s gone and Mr Carlisle – Mr Carlisle – I found him –’ Annie reached the end of her ability to cope. She wanted her mother, but chastised herself for that childish thought. Her mother wasn’t available to her any more. Annie Havers was on her own.
‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Aunt Lydia stepped outside and put her arm around Annie’s shoulders. ‘I’m Lydia Paxton, Catherine’s aunt. Please come in, both of you.’ They stepped into a hallway painted in cheery yellow. A red carpet covered the wood floor. Off to the left, a narrow stairwell led to the upstairs rooms. A handbag and a satchel of books sat on the bottom stair.
‘If I could have a word, ma’am,’ Sergeant Perkins said.
‘Of course.’ She turned to Annie. ‘Why don’t you wait in my studio? You can pull the sheet off the sofa and have a seat.’ The woman pointed to the room off to the right. She took Annie’s valise from Sergeant Perkins and set it at the bottom of the stairs.
Sergeant Perkins and Lydia stepped further into the hallway. The sergeant did most of the talking, but he whispered, so Annie couldn’t hear what he said. She headed into the brightly lit room. A large couch had been pushed against the wall and covered with a paint-splattered sheet. Annie didn’t bother to sit down. The walls were filled with paintings, most of them large vivid prints of flowers, painted with such detail they looked real. An old wooden door resting on two sawhorses served as a table. Jars of paintbrushes, tubes of paint, and sketchbooks covered the surface. A soup tureen filled with a large bouquet of flowers sat in the window on an old milk crate. Some of the petals had dried and fallen to the floor. Two easels were set up near the table, both covered with a sheet.
At home among art and the art supplies, Annie relaxed for the first time since she’d discovered Mr Carlisle’s body. She loved this room, loved the smell of the paint. She didn’t even mind the chaos, which was comforting to her in some strange way. She eyed the large window and imagined the light that would flood in the room – perfect for an artist.
An open sketchbook on the table tempted Annie. She so wanted to look at Lydia’s sketches, but didn’t dare do so without permission. Instead, she moved around the room and studied the paintings that covered the walls. All of them had the same signature, ‘Lydia,’ in the bottom right corner. When she came upon a cover of one of her favourite childhood books, Henry the Horse, she reached out to touch it. There in the corner was the signature.
Soon Lydia and Sergeant Perkins came back into the room. They found Annie standing before one of Lydia’s paintings, studying the masterful brushwork.
‘I love your paintings. They are wonderful. You’re so lucky to be able to spend your days here.’ Annie reached out to touch the painting, but pulled back her hand at the last minute.
‘Are you an artist too?’ Lydia came into the room. Sergeant Perkins leaned on the doorjamb.
‘Not professional, like you. But my dad was going to send me to art school …’ She stopped speaking.
Lydia Paxton filled the space created by Annie’s silence, as if she sensed the girl’s discomfort. ‘I am the illustrator for the Henry the Horse series. That book pays my bills. I also paint florals, a secret passion of mine, but they don’t sell as consistently.’ Lydia sat down on the couch.
‘Annie, Sergeant Perkins told me what has happened. You’re welcome to stay here until Catherine comes. Would you like that?’
Annie didn’t bother to hide her relief. ‘Yes, please. Thank you.’
‘Then I’ll just wait in the car,’ Sergeant Perkins said. He put his hat back on, smiled at Annie, and let himself out the front door.
‘Would you like something to eat?’
Annie’s stomach rumbled. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ve not eaten yet today.’
‘Very well. I’ve got ham and a slice of apple pie for your pudding.’
Annie followed Lydia into the kitchen. Lydia sat with her while she ate hungrily from the plate that was placed before her. She could have eaten second helpings of everything, but didn’t want to appear greedy.
‘How about I show you to your room and you can lie down for a while? You’ve had a terrible shock. A proper rest will do you good. And then you can take a hot bath and eat another meal.’
‘I can do the cooking, Miss Paxton. I’m rather good at it,’ Annie said.
‘Not in this house, love. Children don’t do the work here.’ Lydia stood. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your room.’
Lydia had just reached the stairwell to fetch Annie’s bag, when they were interrupted by banging on the front door. Annie’s heart stopped. Her mouth went dry. Surely her mum and Harold hadn’t heard of the murder yet. She looked around, plotting an escape route while Lydia opened the door.
‘Isobel,’ Lydia said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘My brother is dead. Catherine murdered him. I demand to see her.’
‘She’s not here, Isobel.’ Lydia’s voice was low and calm.
‘I don’t believe you.’ There was a pause in the conversation. ‘Her maid is here. Where is she?’
‘I think you should leave,’ Lydia said.
‘You are a disgrace. Look at you, dressed like a man. I blame you for Catherine’s reckless ways. You weren’t fit to raise a child. I’m surprised –’
‘I’ve work to do, Isobel. If there’s nothing else?’
‘I demand –’
‘Then I’ll wish you a good day.’ Lydia slammed the door.
Annie stood, mouth agape, impressed at Lydia’s bravery.
‘I’ve just poked the hornet’s nest, and I don’t care,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ve always wanted to do that. Poor Annie. I’ve shocked you haven’t I? I’m sorry. Isobel has been a thorn in my side since Catherine married into that family. Now, follow me.’
Lydia showed Annie into a tiny room behind the kitchen with a stained-glass window that cast colours of the rainbow in the dancing light. A trundle bed was in the corner.
‘You can have this room. I’ll put Catherine upstairs in her old room.’ Lydia got a quilt out of a cedar chest and made up the bed. ‘You have a nice rest, Annie. I’ll come get you in a couple of hours.’
Annie lay down on the bed, surprised that her eyes felt heavy. Try as she might, Annie couldn’t stop seeing Benton Carlisle’s death stare. She tried thinking about Lydia’s paintings and the brushstrokes it took to create them. Thinking about brushstrokes always lulled Annie to sleep. She painted in her mind, heard the whoosh of the brush on the canvas. The imaginary sound rocked her into the deep dreamless sleep of the emotionally exhausted.