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Flick had used the public call box then dashed to the gaol. Isabella rang the Prior’s house. The major domo answered, and she gave him the message for Edward Malvaise that their next meeting would be Wednesday morning. She stayed in her room, sketching, improving the illustration of the garden, thinking about colors for the portrait. When she could not stand the silence any longer, she ventured downstairs again. Maybe a spot of tea, she thought and ventured to the lounge.
Nuala sat tucked into the settee. She cried into her handkerchief, tears flowing and breath catching, signs of her broken heart. With a day of grief behind her, no wonder Sibby had covered for Nuala yesterday. The young woman cried now as if the news of Webberly’s death was recent. What had set her off?
“Nuala.” Isabella risked a comforting hand on the maid’s shoulder. “What is wrong?”
“I—shouldn’t tell. I shouldn’t.” A fresh sob sent her back into her sodden handkerchief.
“Is it about Mr. Webberly’s death?”
A sound from the hall made her turn around. Had the open door shut? She hadn’t shut it. With Nuala’s weeping, she could understand people avoiding the lounge.
She turned back to the maid. “Tell me what is wrong.”
Nuala lifted her head. “I don’t know what to do,” she wailed.
Isabella winced. That would have been heard clearly all the way into the pub. She lowered her voice, hoping the maid would imitate her. “Do about what?” she asked ungrammatically.
“I know who killed him.” Nuala had lowered her voice, just not enough for words that should be whispered. “Oh, what should I do?” That returned to a carrying wail.
“You know—?” Isabella stared. How could Nuala know such a thing? Common sense kicked her. “You must tell that nice Constable Amsley, the one that Sibby is seeing.”
“He won’t believe me. No one will. They think George is dead because of money or because he broke Mrs. Filmer’s heart. That’s not true. That’s not the reason.”
“It’s not? What is the reason? Nuala, you can tell me.”
“Nuala!” That distant shout was Mr. Pollard. “Get out here now! Where are you?”
The maid jumped to her feet. “I have to go.”
Isabella blocked her. “You cannot leave without telling me. At least tell Sibby when she comes to work.”
“Nuala!” Mr. Pollard yelled. His voice was much louder. He must have opened the door to the hall.
The young woman hesitated, then she reached under her enveloping apron. She tugged from a pocket a folded and crumpled envelope, the flap open. “You keep it,” she whispered and sniffed. “You show that constable. I can’t.” Wiping her eyes, she hurried from the room.
Isabella unfolded the envelope. The address read George Webberly, Greavley School, Upper Wellsford. Printed in block letters. With a London postmark. Feeling like she tampered with evidence, she drew out the single sheet.
More block letters. Seven words. You killed them. Now you will die.
A threat against Webberly. Reality, now.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
