Family Problems
Monday, March 26
“Bath ahead,” the coachman shouted. Anne felt a tingle of apprehension. Her meeting with the wealthy Rogers family drew near. She stirred nervously, wondering how she would be received. Differences of social rank mattered less in Bath than in London, she had heard. That was encouraging. She glanced out the carriage window at newly green fields, hedge rows blossoming, swallows swooping among the cottages along the road. The weather had been overcast and warm all day but now a cool westerly wind cleared the sky. As the carriage entered the city on London Road, it passed by serried ranks of gracious honey-colored terrace houses. Anne gasped with pleasure. Her anxiety ebbed away.
Her travelling companion, Mrs. Mowbray, a wealthy widow from Hampstead and frequent visitor to Bath, had also been gazing out the window. Now she turned toward Anne and exclaimed, “The city is at its best this evening. The wind’s blown away the haze and smoke that gathers in the river valley.” As an afterthought, she added, “Shall we make a slight detour? I could show you some of Bath’s marvels.”
Anne gladly agreed. Once she had assumed her duties at Combe Park, she might not be as free as she’d like for sight-seeing.
At her companion’s instruction, the driver turned off London Road and drove to a large two-story stone building between Bennett and Alfred Streets. “The Upper Assembly Rooms,” she pointed out. “Grand place, isn’t it!” Low, slanting rays of the sun bathed the building’s surface, turning its honey color into gold. Monumental, nobly proportioned, it occupied an entire city block. Did even London have such a fine building? Anne wondered.
“In an hour,” her companion continued, “the cream of society will come here to gossip, drink tea, dance, gamble. For myself, I prefer private parties where I can find smaller, more agreeable company, chat freely, and win a penny or two at whist.”
They drove on through a large circle of handsome identical attached houses crowned with balustrades of giant stone acorns. “The Circus,” Mrs. Mowbray remarked. “Only the very rich can afford to live here.”
“Have you heard of Combe Park?” asked Anne, recalling the wealth attributed to Sir Harry Rogers. She was eager to learn how her future employer was regarded.
“Yes, indeed,” the widow replied. “Bath’s pride. I’ve been there on a few occasions. Sir Harry’s a splendid host—select company, good food and music.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “And gambling for high stakes. Too high for me.”
How high will the stakes be for me? wondered Anne to herself, aware that her sojourn at Combe Park would truly be a gamble. “A hornet’s nest,” Mary Campbell had said.
By the time they left the Circus, the sun had set; street lamps were lighted. Elegant men and women appeared on the wide sidewalks. Finally, Anne alighted at the York, Bath’s most comfortable inn, and bid good-bye to her companion.
As the carriage drove off, Anne felt charmed by the appearance of the city in which she would spend the next several weeks. But, what manner of mischief, she wondered, went on behind its beautiful facades?
***
The morning after Anne arrived, she was awakened by a maid entering her room with a large tray. Behind her came Anne’s friend, Harriet Ware, her large brown eyes sparkling with delight. “Sorry, Annie. I couldn’t meet you here last night. On Monday evenings I dance at the Bath Theatre. But I’ve ordered breakfast for the two of us. Hope you don’t mind. Your room’s really the best place to talk. Afterwards, I’ll take you to Combe Park.”
Anne roused herself, threw on a robe, and embraced her friend. Then, holding her at arm’s length, Anne glanced at her fine yellow woolen gown and its intricate brown embroidery. A costume rather beyond a dancer’s means. “Bath’s been remarkably good to you, Harriet!” They had last seen one another a year and a half ago. Anne took stock of her friend. She had grown into a self-assured young woman at ease in the world.
“Thank you,” she replied, flushing slightly. “Now, tell me exactly why you’re here. You wrote earlier about working at Combe Park.”
Anne sat facing Harriet at the breakfast table over coffee, warm rolls, sweet butter, and ginger marmalade. “I’ve agreed to tutor the Rogers’ eleven-year-old deaf boy.” She went on to speak about the death of Charlie Roger’s young tutor, Mary Campbell, and the boy’s painful inability to communicate with his family, and they with him. “This turn of events distressed Mr. Braidwood, and he asked me to step in. I really wanted to return to Paris, but I couldn’t turn him down.” Anne hesitated, then added, “You know why, Harriet.”
“I was there. The market place in Islington. Last year. It’s etched in my memory. Mr. Braidwood helped save you from Tom Hammer, Jack Roach, and his cronies.”
“So, here I am,” Anne said. “What can you tell me about Mary Campbell and her accident?”
Harriet finished a bite of her roll and sipped her coffee. Her face took on a somber cast. “I knew her well. She was a lively, pretty girl with a willowy figure. I gave her dancing lessons, showed her the Pump Room and Spring Gardens. At first, she seemed happy at Combe Park, caring for Charlie, going to parties. Lately, she appeared troubled but she didn’t want to complain. Said she’d work things out.”
“Did she have any friends?”
“Captain Fitzroy took a liking to her. I saw them together in the ballroom and in the garden.”
“Captain who?”
“Fitzroy. Irish. Handsome gentleman. Lives at Combe Park. You’ll meet him today.”
“Do you have any idea what Mary’s troubles were?”
Harriet shrugged. “Perhaps Fitzroy became too ardent. Once she told me, he’s best kept at arm’s length. After she died, a rumor in the town claimed she had stolen silver spoons from the Rogers’ cabinets. I’d say someone was maligning her.”
Anne started at Harriet’s reference to the spoons, the first she’d heard of them. A dubious rumor. Stealing seemed out of character, to judge by what Braidwood had said about the girl.
Harriet detected Anne’s surprise and wagged a finger. “Bath loves gossip; rumors are its common currency. We hardly believe a particle of what we hear, but we repeat it anyway.”
“How did the accident happen? Braidwood would like to know for her parents’ sake.”
“She fell down the servants’ stairway in the middle of the night and broke her neck. A footman found her dead. I’ll show you the spot.”
“Yes, I’d like to see it.” Anne reflected for a moment. “Poor Mary! What a pity! And what a loss for little Charlie.” She leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers at her lips. “Tell me what you know about his family.”
“I often meet his parents—Sir Harry more than Lady Margaret.”
A certain overtone in her voice aroused Anne’s curiosity. “What sort of man is he?”
A blush spread over Harriet’s smooth creamy skin. “About fifty. Tall and strong. Barrel-chested. Square ruddy face. Women find him handsome, charming in a rough way.” She paused, gazing inward at her image of the man. An uneasy, enigmatic smile played on her lips. She took off her bonnet and released a cascade of dark brown wavy hair on to her shoulders. “He’s full of energy and ideas. Things happen when he’s around.”
An uneasy look in her friend’s eye alerted Anne. “Do you know him well?” She felt the need for caution. Her friend was a dancer and singer, very beautiful, still young and a little foolish.
Harriet appeared only slightly embarrassed. “He comes to the dressing room after performances and speaks to me as well as to the other girls. I’m one of his favorites, I suppose. He invites me to sing and dance at Combe Park. Pays well. Most evenings, it’s the liveliest place in Bath. The best food, drink, and music. Guests can flirt on the dance floor, or in the garden if the weather’s fair. There’s gambling, for those who want it. Much more fun than the stuffy Assembly Rooms where dull, respectable people gather to gawk at one another.”
Anne smiled in tentative agreement. She too might prefer the parties at Combe Park. “Sir Harry seems to enjoy playing the generous host,” she remarked. “I’ve heard his fortune comes from West Indian trade. How did he manage? Slaves and sugar are risky business.”
Harriet spread marmalade on a bun, bit into it, then laid it down. “Harry’s the son of a shipwright,” she explained. “Went to sea as a boy, worked up to captain of a Bristol slave ship, then charmed and married the owner, a wealthy widow. With her money he expanded his trade in slaves and West Indian goods, especially sugar. His wife died after six years, and he inherited her wealth.”
Harriet’s familiarity with the life of Harry Rogers intrigued Anne. “Did Harry and the widow have any children?”
“No,” Harriet replied. “But he took in his nephew, William Rogers. Sent him off to school. His manners need polish, so he’s spending the spring season in Bath.” Harriet grimaced. “You’ll meet him today. A big fifteen-year lad. Resembles his uncle but lacks his charm and energy.” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “I’d better warn you, don’t trust him. A cheat and a bully. I’ve heard he annoys the servant girls and teases poor little Charlie.”
“Who is in charge of William while he’s here?” Anne asked.
“Harry’s hired a tutor, Mr. Edward Critchley, who arrived a couple of months ago. Watch out for him too. They say he’s learned, reads Greek and Latin, French, and Italian, and studies the stars with a telescope. But I think he’s odd. Makes my skin creep. He looks down his long skinny nose and sniffs at me as if I smell bad.”
“Thanks for the warning,” said Anne. “But I’m more concerned about Sir Harry at the moment.”
“He’s rich!” said Harriet with a touch of awe. “During the American war he made a small fortune financing privateers. His shipping business still turns handsome profits, and so do his investments. He invites wealthy people to his parties and makes deals with them. They think he has a nose for money.”
Anne’s curiosity grew livelier. “The son of a shipwright! How did he get the ‘sir’ in front of his name?”
“He bought it! I don’t know how. Then he married Lady Margaret, an Irish baron’s young widowed daughter. In a way, Harry bought her too, paid off her father’s debts.” Harriet’s eyes sparkled with irritation. “Lady Margaret indeed! Holds her nose up in the air. Doesn’t see me or the other girls when we come to the house.” Harriet mimicked the woman, pursing her lips in distaste.
“You are to the manner born,” Anne chuckled.
Harriet rose from her chair, glided back and forth across the floor, primping, issuing orders to imaginary servants. Arms akimbo, she turned to her friend. “No need to be born to the manner, Annie. With enough money and the right connections, any actress could play the baroness.”
“True.” Anne smiled patiently.
Harriet returned to her chair. “Lady Margaret soon gave birth to Charlie, heir to Sir Harry’s fortune. At first, he doted on the boy and set great hopes on his future.” She frowned. Her voice darkened. “When Charlie became deaf, Harry began to dislike him. That’s what I’m told. The situation has grown much worse since Captain Fitzroy arrived here late last month with Lady Margaret. He’s her cousin, they say.”
Anne sat up, puzzled. “What does the captain have to do with Charlie?”
“I’d rather you see for yourself,” replied Harriet, shaking her head and sighing. “Harry turns away from Charlie as if he can’t stand the sight of him. It’s sad.”
***
“Combe Park,” shouted the coachman from the driver’s seat as he brought the carriage through the entrance. They passed between a large outbuilding on the left and the retaining wall of a grassy upward slope on the right. Ahead stood the rectangular block of a great house, built of the same honey-colored stone found in Bath’s finest buildings. As the carriage neared the house, the road offered Anne and Harriet a brief northward view over Bath and the River Avon under a thin veil of midafternoon mist. The carriage continued on to the house’s south side and its main entrance.
A tall footman approached, lowered the carriage step, opened the door, and extended his arm to help her descend. Anne gasped, then immediately recovered her composure. He was a black man in crimson livery trimmed with silver. A silver band circled his neck.
“Lord Jeff,” whispered Harriet in Anne’s ear.
While the women walked to the door, the black servant lifted Anne’s trunk from the rack on the back of the carriage and pointed the coachman toward the stables where he could water his horses.
Harriet leaned toward Anne. “Sir Harry’s probably in his study, watching us.” With a tilt of her head she led Anne’s gaze to a window to the right of the entrance where a figure dimly appeared. “He really enjoys showing off his slave.”
Anne stopped in her tracks, as if shot. She glanced over her shoulder at the footman a few paces away, her trunk resting lightly on his hip. She stared incredulously at Harriet. “A slave? Here in England?”
“Where’ve you been, Annie!” whispered Harriet in mock amazement. “There are thousands in London, Bristol, and Liverpool. And many in Bath too. Mostly domestic servants. They come with the West Indian trade.”
The black man showed the two women into the study, a large well-lighted room facing south. A beautiful Turkish carpet covered the floor. Sir Harry rose from behind a mahogany desk and strode toward Anne, took her hand, and kissed it. “Welcome, Miss Cartier!” He stepped back, head canted, inspecting her. “I’m happy to see that Mr. Braidwood has sent us a woman this time rather than a girl. He has assured me of your competence as a tutor. And Harriet has mentioned some of your other talents.” He threw a mischievous glance at Anne’s friend, who had begun to blush. His gaze shifted back to Anne. “Singing, dancing, and tumbling. We shall put you to good use at Combe Park.”
Anne thought it wise to let Sir Harry know from the beginning what could be expected of her. Later on, she would offer to entertain occasionally. “I have come mainly to be helpful to your son, Charlie. When might I meet him?”
“At dinner. Mr. Critchley’s looking after the boy temporarily. They’re taking a walk in the garden.” Rogers put his hand at her elbow and guided her to the door. “Dinner will be in two hours. Lord Jeff’s in the hall and will show you to your room.”
At the door, Anne turned to Sir Harry. “If I may be allowed to ask, sir, why do you call him Lord Jeff? It would seem an odd name for a slave.”
Rogers smiled, his eyes hooded, then beckoned the footman. “What is your Christian name?”
“Jeffery, sir.” The man spoke out clearly in a deep soft lilting voice.
“And who was your father?” Rogers affected a serious mien.
“A great warrior in Africa, a noble in the service of his king.” The footman appeared to raise his chin a little higher.
“So, Miss Cartier, there you have it: Lord Jeff!” Rogers burst out laughing.
Anne stared at the black man. His face was impossible to read. Was this some kind of cruel joke?
Rogers’ mood turned serious. Pride flashed in his eyes. He stepped out into the hall and gestured to Anne’s large trunk. Jeffery hoisted it effortlessly to his shoulder. Rogers patted the black man’s upper arm, bulging in the sleeves of his coat. “Like his father, Jeff’s also a great warrior, the best boxer in Britain. He’ll soon prove it, too.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jeffery, his lips frozen in the hint of a smile.
***
Anne’s room was located in the southwest corner of the chamber story. Jeffery went in first with the trunk, laid it down, and pulled the drapes aside. As Anne and Harriet entered, the sun broke through the clouds and flooded the room with light. The footman bowed and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
From the center of the room, arms crossed on her chest, Anne examined the furnishings with a critical eye. A few nondescript engravings hung on the cream-colored walls. A large sofa stood against a wall. There were a table and some upholstered chairs by the window. The furniture and rugs were worn and mismatched, though of decent quality. An ornate mirror stretched nearly from floor to ceiling.
Harriet, who had been observing Anne, remarked, “A curious mixture, isn’t it. After the original owner died, the heirs took out whatever could be moved and sold.” She pointed to the mirror. “That’s built right into the wall, or they would have taken it too. When Harry leased Combe Park a few years ago, he furnished the house with items from an estate sale. These chamber story rooms mean little to him. It’s different downstairs where he meets the public.”
“The wealthy people he wants to impress,” Anne remarked, surprised again by her friend’s knowledge of Sir Harry’s affairs and her familiar use of his name.
Harriet shrugged. “I suppose that’s true.” This line of thought seemed to carry Harriet into deeper, troubled waters. Creases of concern appeared on her brow. “Sometimes I think he puts a price on everything, even people. But that’s how men are.”
***
While Harriet rested on the sofa, Anne lay restless on the bed, her mind preoccupied by Mary Campbell’s fate. She roused her friend. “We have a little time before dinner, Harriet. I want to see where Mary fell to her death.”
“Then come with me.” Harriet led her down the hall into a narrow unlighted side corridor. A plain door opened to a small landing from which steep stairs ascended to the floor above and descended to the floor below. “She was found down there.” Harriet pointed to the landing below. “The doctor who examined Mary said the fall bruised her head and body, but she died of a broken neck.”
Anne stood silently staring at the stairway. “It’s easy to see how she could have tripped on her skirts or caught her heel on a step.” She imagined servants hurrying up and down, often careless or distracted. “I’m amazed that the builder of this house thought so little of his servants’ safety.” She shook her head. “What puzzles me most is why Mary was here in the middle of the night.”
Harriet appeared reluctant to reply. “Malicious gossips say she was hastening to a tryst with a lover. Captain Fitzroy is one of those mentioned.”
“That’s hard to believe,” said Anne. “But I haven’t seen the captain. Come, Harriet, this place depresses me. Let’s go back to my room.”
***
A short while later, Jeffery announced dinner and led the way downstairs. The two women were waiting in the hall outside the dining room, when a tall thin man approached with little Charlie. Anne greeted the boy with a kiss. His eyes brightened but he remained silent and stiff, working the corners of his mouth as if about to cry. He seemed thinner and more withdrawn than when she had last seen him.
Mr. Critchley bowed slightly to Anne. “We’ve been out for a walk in the garden to work up Charlie’s appetite for dinner. Sir Harry thinks the boy needs more meat on his bones.” Critchley was a middle-aged man, wizened-faced, as if life had drained out of him. Everything about him seemed long and thin: legs, arms, fingers, hair, head. He spoke with a cultivated tongue in nasal tones and in precise clipped phrases. His eyes were set deep and narrow. He looked down at Charlie and patted his head. Anne thought the boy shuddered.
“I’ll leave him with you,” remarked the tutor, offering the semblance of a smile. Harriet also excused herself and followed him into the dining room. Anne was alone with the boy.
Tears filled Charlie’s eyes. Trembling, he attempted to speak but could not form the words. “I’m so glad to see you,” he finally said. “I want to go back to Hackney. All my friends are there. I hate Bath, and especially this place.”
Anne hugged him, calmed him with the promise of a long talk after dinner.
The family had gathered near the table to meet Anne. The first person to approach her was Lady Margaret, a stunning beauty in a silk gown worked with gold on a green ground, a wheatsheaf of emeralds in her lustrous auburn hair. She inspected Anne with a cursory glance. “You have trained with the deaf in Paris, Miss Cartier. How interesting.” Her voice lacked even a trace of enthusiasm. “I’m sure Charlie will appreciate your instruction.” She glided toward her chair at the lower end of the table. Sir Harry gave Anne a broad smile and patted her on the arm. He sat himself at the opposite end of the table. Critchley mumbled something through tight lips and sat to the right of Sir Harry. Finally, William Rogers sauntered up to her and smirked. “We’re an odd bunch, aren’t we!”
“William!” exclaimed Lady Margaret.
The young man ignored her and took a chair to his uncle’s left. Sir Harry seemed unperturbed by his ward’s display of insolence. Anne and Harriet sat opposite one another in the middle of the table, and Charlie next to Anne and to his mother’s right. The chair to her left remained empty.
“I thought your cousin said he was coming to dinner,” said Sir Harry, addressing his wife, a clear note of irritation in his voice.
“Business in the city has delayed him slightly. He is in his room, dressing, and will join us after the soup.” She gave an order to Jeffery at the sideboard. He began to ladle clear broth from a porcelain tureen, then helped a maid serve the table. Leaning around Anne, he placed a steaming bowl on her plate. For a moment, his musty scent enveloped her. His hand was huge, his fingers thick. She noticed scars on his knuckles. From the boxing, she supposed, though she knew little about the sport. She watched him serving the soup to the others, then later clearing away the bowls. He moved gracefully, light of foot and supple of body. Amazing for such a large man.
In the interval following the soup course, Captain Fitzroy entered the dining room. Lady Margaret gave him a sidelong glance, then touched the empty chair to her left. He stood, his hands gripping the back of the chair, while she introduced him to Anne. He stared at her quizzically for a moment, as if she were somehow familiar to him. “Mademoiselle Cartier from Paris,” he remarked in French. “Perhaps we’ve met in the Palais-Royal. Or, at the variety theater.”
“Perhaps.” Anne smiled with a shrug of her shoulders. She could not recall ever having seen him, but he might well have watched her performing on stage. She sat back and observed him speaking to his cousin. His hair was black and wavy, hers was rich auburn; his eyes soft blue, hers green. But there was also a likeness. Similar fine facial features: high forehead, aquiline nose, full sensuous mouth. His skin had browned and coarsened from years in the military. Hers was still clear, and as smooth as Dorset cream.
Anne glanced to her left at Charlie, who stared at Fitzroy across the table. She studied the boy’s beautiful profile, his black wavy hair, then nudged him. He turned to her, his soft blue eyes expectant, a sweet smile on his fine featured face. Good God! It dawned on her, what Harriet had earlier insinuated. The captain was Charlie’s father.
Surely not, Anne thought. Nature had merely played a trick among relatives. Persons hungry for scandal had leaped to an absurd conclusion.
At that moment, she sensed a hush had come over the room. All eyes had fixed on her, watching her reaction. Her throat tightened, rendering her speechless. She felt her face flush with embarrassment. Sir Harry sat back, his usually animated face now a rigid, unsmiling mask. His wife reclined in her chair, her chin thrust out as if defiant. Captain Fitzroy settled into his place, spread a napkin on his lap, seemingly oblivious to the conspiracy of silence around him. From across the table, Harriet winked, “I told you so.”
It was Harriet who broke the spell. “Sir Harry. Tell us about the boxing match you’re arranging for next week.” She glanced at the black footman standing impassively at the sideboard. “Is Lord Jeff getting ready?”
Rogers forced a smile; he appeared to appreciate Harriet’s intervention. “Yes, indeed. He trained all morning in the tennis hall, sparred with Sam the Bath butcher.” Conventional table conversation then took over. The tension in the air dropped to a bearable level. Anne carried on as if nothing untoward had happened. But she couldn’t help thinking: something dreadful is going to happen here.
***
After dinner, Harriet left for the city and Anne returned to her room in the chamber story. She paced back and forth, reflecting on her meeting with the family. Their indifference to Charlie distressed her greatly. They had ignored him at the table. Even more troubling was the intimation of scandal concerning his parentage.
She approached the large wall mirror, removed the pins from her hair, and shook it loose. Her brow creased with concern. Behind the family’s facade of polite manners, a crisis was building, though she couldn’t see the shape of it clearly.
In front of the mirror she managed to unhook and untie herself from her clothing. She had just changed into a dressing gown when someone knocked on the door. She opened to Charlie Rogers, who stood uncertain in the antechamber between their rooms. At her beckoning he entered hesitantly. She guessed he had come to unburden himself.
He attempted to speak but was so upset that he slurred and garbled the words. His lips quivered and he cried. Anne put her arm over his shoulder and held him until he grew calm. Then, she faced him and encouraged him to tell her what was the matter.
“When I try to speak, people ignore me or make a face. At Braidwood’s school I can talk to people and they listen.”
As he grew more composed, his eyes began to dart around the room, as if he were afraid someone would spy on him. His gaze seemed to catch on the wall mirror. Anne became suspicious. If he whispered in her ear, she assured him, he could safely tell her what was wrong.
He nodded, then warned her in his flat monotone, “Don’t look. There are peep holes in the frame of that mirror.”
“Do you know if anyone is spying on us now?”
“I don’t think so. Master Critchley and William have gone to Spring Gardens this evening.”
She studied the mirror closely and discovered holes in the deeply recessed eye sockets of a faun sculpted on the left side of the mirror’s frame. She checked the matching faun on the right side and found two similar peep holes.
“How did you find out about these?” she asked.
“One day, when I was on the servants’ stairway, I saw Master Critchley and William in front of the storeroom next to your room, trying to see if anyone was coming. They didn’t see me, so they sneaked in. A few days later, I was in the storeroom getting a blanket when I saw the door handle move. I guessed it was them. I ducked under a table. They came in. I watched them open up the wall. When they left, I did what they had done and found the peep holes.”
“Show me.” Anne went into the hallway and looked up and down. No one in sight. She gestured to the boy. He took her by the hand and led her into the storeroom, a place for drapes and bedding. Charlie pulled a hidden lever in a tall case. It turned on a pivot, opening up a shallow windowless closet. Two stools stood against the opposite wall below two sets of peep holes, each concealed by thin sliding panels. Anne opened one of the panels and peered into her own room. With mounting anger, she imagined Miss Mary Campbell standing in front of that mirror, brushing her hair, disrobing.
She closed the panel and returned with the boy to her room. Were the men content merely to watch the young tutor? A suspicion began to dawn on Anne. Could this violation of the girl’s privacy have had anything to do with her death?
“Did you ever see Master Critchley or William bother Miss Mary?”
“Yes, Mr. Critchley. One day I saw him sneak into her room. I told her, and she went in and caught him. He shut the door behind them. So I went into the storeroom to watch through the peep holes.”
“What did you see?”
“Miss Campbell had her back to me. I don’t know what she said. She was shaking her finger at Mr. Critchley. Six silver spoons were on the table. Mr. Critchley was facing me up close, so I could read his lips. He said, don’t tell anyone or he’d say she stole the spoons. Then she’d be hung. She threw the spoons at him and pointed to the door. His face looked angry. He picked up the spoons and left.”
Anne stopped the boy. He was trembling. His speech was becoming fast and impossible to understand. She sat down with him on a bench and held him again until he quieted down. Then she asked what he knew about the theft of the spoons.
“I think Mr. Critchley took them. He pinches things when no one is looking. But I’ve seen him do it. The next day, when I was in the kitchen, he brought the spoons to Cook. He said he found them somewhere.”
The boy glanced at Anne, his face blank, as if overwhelmed by what he had seen. Anne struggled to suppress the horror she felt. Finally, she asked, “What happened to Miss Campbell after the man left her room?”
“She told me she would talk to my mother in the morning. That same night she fell down the stairs.”
Could there be a connection? Anne wondered. Critchley might have feared being exposed. Had he killed her that night? Unsupported conjecture, Anne realized, but worth keeping in mind.
In any case, something had to be done to shelter the boy from the tutor’s evil influence, though she didn’t know what. She didn’t trust his parents enough to bring the matter to either of them.
She consoled the boy. “We’ll be best friends. Pretend you didn’t tell me anything.”
The boy smiled and touched his heart.
“I have an idea, Charlie. Bring me your modeling clay and your paint and brushes.”
Half an hour later, Anne and Charlie stepped back, inspecting their work. They nodded to one another and laughed. The two fauns framing the mirror stared at them through new, brightly painted, bulbous eyeballs.