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Whether it was thunder or the snap of a lion’s roar, the day began with rain as its prologue. Ethel stirred around four in the morning, her head a dome of eerie thoughts. Dreams of burglars that hid in the shadows gave way to restlessness, and so creeping downstairs, Ethel sought paradise in labour. She examined the pantry, put on the kettle, and stoked the fires. She hoped to start breakfast before Beulah awoke. To surprise her friend in bed with breakfast, might become the preamble to brighter days, a step away from the melancholy that drew its pall over Eden Hall. Ethel knew it was, even if she knew it wasn’t.
Beulah came downstairs after an hour and helped finish the breakfast. They both had to go through papers today. “Wills, bills, and whatnot,” Ethel mumbled as she hefted up a sack of flour. “But I think we should go pay a visit to Fritz before all that. Let’s be sure to make extra bread to gift.” She was kneading the set dough from the night before. A streak of flour blazed across her forehead.
Beulah nodded. “The poor man... and let’s make some for Mrs. Kennedy as well, for allowing him to stay.”
By mid-afternoon, they had adorned their coats and buttoned their gloves in preparation for their soggy promenade. The constant clap of thunder followed by the applause of rain had halted to an ornery grey for their departure. Though the roads were mires, the wagon would be stout enough to ferry them down to Dorchester.
Ethel tucked a basket of bread beneath her arm and looked over to Beulah. “Have you got the umbrellas?” she asked, nodding thanks as Beulah approached to hand her one. They stood on the inside of the door to wait for the wagon.
As if on cue, a set of footfalls thumped across the hollow porch, and Ethel moved to open the door. She came up short and almost blundered into Constable Bertram before bounding back across the threshold.
“Mr. Bertram!” Ethel gasped, clutching at her chest. Bertram was stoic, as unmoving as the columns framing the verandah, though he must have been just as surprised as she. “I thought you were Al with the wagon,” she explained, taking in a deep breath to calm her nerves.
Constable Bertram looked wet, like he had been walking in the rain all his life. His hair beneath the rim of his hat was sodden and dripping with water, while the long hem of his coat was soaked up to his waist.
“Do you want to come in? Get dry?”
He shook his head and doffed his hat, looking between both women as though only expecting the one. “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Ethel. I was hoping to get here earlier, but my coach got stuck in the mud. Are you unavailable at the moment?”
Ethel stepped back to allow the constable to stand inside the dry foyer. “We were just about to leave, actually. An old friend of ours, Fritz Humphry, had a heart attack a few nights ago.”
Bertram’s shock split across his stolid features and he looked away, as though puzzling with a jigsaw. “Is he all right? What happened?”
Ethel smiled, though it was more a frown made light. “We think perhaps the shock of—” She looked away. “The shock of it all was too much for him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m relieved to say he’s reported as fine now. We were, in fact, about to leave to bring him and his keeper some bread.”
Bertram’s chest deflated, as though set free from any worry. “I was hoping perhaps to speak to you a bit. Would it be all right if I asked to share your wagon?”
“I think Miss Ethel deserves a wee break from the pol—”
“No, Beulah, it’s all right. He’s trying to help Dolly, remember?” At least, Ethel hoped that was his aim. If nothing else, finding Ernie’s killer and bringing him to justice was paramount, right? “I’d be glad to share,” she continued, following his stare as it flitted towards Beulah.
Ethel frowned, her back teeth grinding. Why would Constable Bertram trust me, and not trust Beulah? No doubt when discussing the case, he didn’t wish a potential suspect to be present. But Beulah was innocent. A police’s mistrust is a part of his job... Ethel determined she’d have to help him come to the same conclusion.
“Beulah,” Ethel called, turning on her heel. She took her by the hands and squeezed, hoping that the gesture said enough. “I need you to stay here. I need you to prepare the den for later. Constable Bertram will escort me to Mrs. Kennedy’s.”
Beulah looked agape but nodded. A knowing stare was exchanged between both women before Miss Murphy strode forward to press another basket beneath the constable’s arm. “Don’t let the bread get wet,” she grumbled to him, looking back with concern in her eyes. “Are you certain, Miss Ethel?”
“I’ll be safe. I’m sorry to leave you.”
Beulah laughed, a hopeful woe beading in her eyes. “Well, I suppose some time to myself would be good. If you cry in the dark all the time, you’ll get wrinkles,” she said as she unbuttoned her jacket.
Ethel sniffed, but mirrored her mirth, stepping in to offer the woman a fond farewell.
“Have her back before supper please, Constable.”
“I’ll only be as long as Miss Ethel permits,” he replied, donning his hat with a nod as he moved to descend the porch stairs.
Ethel watched him go. What had he arrived for?
Thanking Miss Murphy, she returned to the porch and walked until the constable let her pass. Ethel saw the mud wagon down the road, lobbing clumps of dirt in its wake. A few men were out with their horses, and the poor beasts were caked right up to their bellies. She imagined the introduction of automobiles to Charlottetown, great metal caskets moored in the mud. Sure, you’d stay dry, but you’d never get anywhere.
With Constable Bertram’s help, Ethel climbed the small stair to enter the wagon. It creaked from side to side as both passengers arranged themselves. There were windows on either side of the coach, with wood slats that had been installed to keep the mud from splashing into the cab. They were open only enough to let in a bit of light.
“I... know these last few days have been hard, Miss Arsenault.” Bertram began after a considering pause, “and I know that Dolly’s arrest has... only compounded the situation for you—”
“It seems you know everything, Constable Bertram. Have you come with good news? Are you to now relay the culprit behind my brother’s murder?” The snap of her voice was accompanied by instant regret as she sighed and looked towards the floor.
“I’m sorry, Miss—”
Ethel held up her hand. “No. I’m sorry, Constable Bertram. You’re right, it has been a hard few days. But despite your inclination towards my sister-in-law’s guilt, I know you are trying your best on my family’s behalf. I am truly grateful.”
Constable Bertram cleared his throat and rummaged in his coat for a pipe. Outside, they passed another coach mired in the mud and a few jolly kids who seemed fond of making a mess of their attire.
“I wanted to tell you that your sister-in-law, Mrs. Arsenault, is being treated well at Falconwood, and if you wish to visit her, arrangements can be made.”
Ethel glanced across and caught his eyes. The cold of the rain had stained his cheeks with a flush of crimson, and the cut of his jaw carried the colour to his ears. He puffed upon his pipe as they rode along, his moustache settling above his lip in a manner resembling earnestness, but as his eyes flitted from her face to the window, Ethel caught a whisper of boyish unease.
She was touched. It was like a chain had gone slack around the barrel of her chest. Ethel determined she would go and see Dolly as soon as she was able. Falconwood was situated on the northeast coast of the Hillsborough River, and with the roads in such a state, Ethel was certain that Aloysius would beg her to wait a few more days. But it was something to look forward to, at least, that was what she hoped.
“Thank you, Constable. I appreciate that.” A spark of emotion plumed in her belly but was short-lived.
“You say you’re going to visit your friend?”
Ethel cleared her throat and ran her hands down the braided band of the breadbasket on her lap. The other sat beside Bertram on the stagecoach bench. “Mr. Fritz Humphry,” she agreed with a nod of her head. Ethel slid her teeth along her bottom lip and sighed. “He’s worked with my family for years. He was a labourer of my father’s back in the day. He doesn’t say much, but Mr. Humphrey’s been around since I was a girl, and we are all very fond of him.”
“He joined you on your journey here from Greens Shore, Summerside?”
Ethel inclined her head. “Ernest sent Mr. Carlow to collect us all. In the slight case that the journey proved cumbersome, Mr. Humphrey wanted to accompany Beulah and I. He resolved he’d take the trek back to Summerside alone when we had settled.”
“And the shock of your brother’s death caused—”
“The heart attack, yes.” They were focused now, the slight distractions outside the coach muted by the conversation. The tone in his voice was an orchestra, and Ethel couldn’t help but hear a low base of suspicion.
“Who found Mr. Humphrey, Miss Ethel?” He looked out the window, watching as streets went by as though bored of the topic. Ethel wondered if Mr. Bertram thought all women were that dull.
“Aloysius found him.”
“Is that what he said?”
Ethel pursed her lip, befuddled by the questions. “Why, yes. But I don’t understand your train of thought, Constable. Do you mean to insinuate that Mr. Carlow is somehow suspect?”
Andrew frowned, chewing at his cheek as he let the pause linger.
Ethel held his gaze.
“He’s certainly suspect. Al Carlow is a man who is under the employ of your brother. He is unceremoniously courting your serving woman, who is a close friend of the family, and mayhap your brother forbade it?” He tossed his head, as though evaluating the likelihood of the theory. “Or maybe, Ernest didn’t even know. But let’s theorise that Ernest Arsenault came in, thought there was a burglar, attacked, and was shot dead because Al was sneaking into your maid’s chambers.” He stopped and caught her eyes, waiting to see if the levity of his theory was too much for her to bear. There was a hint of concern in the quake of his brow, but as Ethel froze, waiting for her body to respond, her mind knew that if even a hint of woe shone through, the constable would bar her from his investigation. It couldn’t be too much for her.
She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, inhaling deeply before replying, “So you think Mr. Humphry, while this was happening, was there or overheard, and Aloysius attacked him?” She snorted and sat back in the cab. “Why would Al do that to Fritz, and then send him to his sisters to recover?”
A slight twitch caught Andrew’s lips, and his moustache curled upward on one side before vanishing. He leant forward and levelled his gaze. He was now completely engaged. “Aloysius may not have meant to kill your brother. It could have been an accident. Perhaps it was, and he attacked Mr. Humphry for witnessing it all, but couldn’t bear to kill another.”
Because Al Carlow is a good man.
“It could also be that Miss Murphy refused to let him.”
Because Beulah is innocent.
“So Aloysius helps Fritz, and then later when Fritz wakes up, explains the situation. Miss Murphy begs on Al’s behalf.”
Beulah is innocent but a tad deceitful?
“And Fritz agrees to say nothing, if only because he doesn’t wish one tragedy to become a disaster.”
See? Everyone’s still good. But they did a bad thing. By accident... and are lying about it.
He sat back and crossed his arms and she recognized his curious stare.
You want to know whether I think it’s possible that the people you’re mentioning could hide Ernie’s death from me? Even if they thought it was for the better and it was out of their concern for yours truly?
She didn’t know. The instant answer had been no, but then the puzzle seemed to form, and the picture, though grand, made some kind of sense. Beulah would vouch for both men... but would she really hide a secret like that from her? It had only been a couple of days. Mayhap Beulah was waiting for things to settle? Ethel shook her head. Was this the best-case scenario?
No. A burglar would be.
A burglar meant that everyone was innocent. “That is one theory, Mr. Bertram,” Ethel finally replied.
The constable agreed. “I hope to have it expelled by this afternoon. I don’t think that's the case.”
Ethel nodded at the sincerity of his slight smile. Relieved, of sorts, to know that he didn’t truly suspect her family. Except, perhaps Dolly...
“I know it’s only been a day but have you noticed anything missing at Eden Hall?”
Ethel shook her head, comforted that his suspicions had finally veered towards the best-case scenario.
“I have not been there long, and Dolly had so few maids that it’s hard to know what is missing. But... I did find that a brooch of hers was absent from her jewellery collection, though why someone would take that and not the others is questionable.” Ethel bit her lip and looked outside beyond the panels flecked in muck. That brooch from the store looked exactly like Dollys... but I saw that brooch there before the murder. Is there a connection?
Her mind was scrambled and compounded by the tasks she had yet to conquer today, Ethel waved the white flag. She explained to the constable what the brooch looked like, telling him from where it was missing. Bertram agreed it was strange that a thief would take it and leave the rest behind, but perhaps it had been set outside her chambers and the burglar stole it without having to enter her room.
Perhaps there is no burglar. Or there is, he came, and the thing that killed Ernie was still haunting the Hall.
Her stomach heaved, making a sound. Ethel quickly found her kerchief.
“Are you all right, Miss Ethel?” Mr. Bertram asked, leaning forward to offer aid.
Ethel shook her head and swallowed past her panic. “Y-yes, Mr. Bertram. Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Would you mind terribly if we were to change the subject? I’m afraid we are almost there.”
It wasn’t too much for her. They were almost there, and the stinging scent of mud was briny near the water. “Of course, Miss Ethel,” he said, tapping his pipe. “And thank you. You’ve given me much to think about.”
Ethel was certain she’d never sleep again. “You’re welcome, Constable Bertram.”
The coach stopped. He stepped out and offered a hand to help her down. “Mister Bertram is fine, if you don’t mind, Miss Ethel?”
Ethel smiled and took his hand. “Not at all, Mr. Bertram,” she said.
