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A DOOR SLAMMED, AND Cora jerked her eyes open.
“Forgive me, miss,” a woman wearing a maid’s uniform said. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s just that I’m carrying all this tea,” the maid said apologetically. “Mind if I draw the curtains?”
“Go ahead,” Cora said, her voice groggy. Tea sounded absolutely delightful.
Shuffling sounded, and Cora realized some papers were being moved to the side and a tray set on the table near the door. The woman drew the drapes, and light spilled into the room.
The air remained far too frigid, and the rubber water bottle at the foot of her bed felt uncomfortable. She tightened the blanket about her. It seemed an inadequate barrier against the cold.
“I’ll come back and light the fire,” the new maid said. “But we thought you would like your tea now.” She hesitated. “Do you need any help dressing?”
“I can manage,” Cora said.
Relief inundated the woman’s face. “Oh, good. I ain’t never dressed anyone before. I would try not to pull the buttons off, but...”
“It’s fine,” Cora said. “I’m happy to manage on my own. Where is Gladys?”
“Oh, you miss ‘er already,” the maid said, her voice mournful. “I knew you would.”
“No,” Cora said quickly. “I-I was just curious.”
She hated the distraught sound in the woman’s voice.
“What’s your name?” Cora asked.
“It’s Becky, miss. And Miss Clarke—we ‘aven’t seen ‘er. I’m not supposed to be ‘ere. Golly, it is awfully grand.” She tilted her head toward the paneled ceiling.
“Yes,” Cora agreed.
“I wouldn’t be ‘ere,” the servant continued. “But the ‘ouse is full. Cook is busy with breakfast, and Gladys is gone.”
“She left? In this snow?” Cora glanced through the window.
The snow still fell, and large untouched snow drifts formed into a series of hills that Cora was sure had not existed when she arrived. The sky was a forbidding gray, and Cora’s stomach tightened.
Gladys had wanted to speak with her yesterday. Had it been important?
Had she known who the murderer was? Had she left to avoid him?
Or her?
Cora frowned.
Surely not.
After all, Gladys would have found a way to tell her or one of the head servants, if she’d known the murderer’s identity. It had sounded as if Gladys had had some sort of gossip. Had it been more serious than Gladys realized?
Cora rose from the bed. “We need to find her.”
The new maid’s eyes filled with tears. “I am that bad, am I?”
She handed Cora a teacup and saucer.
Milky tea spilled onto the saucer, and when Cora took a sip, the liquid was cold. Cora refrained from remarking on either imperfect state.
“Nonsense,” Cora assured her. “I’m just worried about her.”
“Nah,” the maid said. “Don’t worry. Gladys is always fine. She’s awfully clever. Even uses a typewriter.”
“Does she?”
The servant beamed. “Right complicated it is too knowing where all ‘em keys go.”
“Are you very good friends with her?” Cora asked.
“She’s my cousin,” the maid said. “Got me this job too. Only on a trial basis.” She frowned. “I don’t think the trial is going well. Cook says I’m lucky there are so many guests ‘ere and that there’s a blizzard and they can’t get anyone else.”
“I’m sure you’ll feel right at home with the job soon,” Cora said, and the maid beamed.
“I’ll go light the fire,” Becky said, nearing the Oriental screen that sat before it, guarding the room from any wayward sparks.
“Splendid.” Cora took a sip of tea. Earl Grey was becoming her favorite, and she appreciated the subtle hints of lemon.
An anguished scream filled the air.
Becky!
With trembling hands, Cora quickly fumbled her teacup back in its saucer. She sprang from the bed and scurried toward the maid. “What happened?”
Becky turned to her, her face white and distraught. “I’m afraid I found Gladys, miss.”
“How? Where?”
Becky pointed slowly to the fireplace.
A pair of legs stuck out. The legs could be termed shapely, and the ankles could certainly be termed thin. The shoes were glossy, patent leather, even though ash clung to them.
“I’ll—er—get her down,” Becky said, approaching the body.
“N-no. Perhaps the police—” She stopped as Becky jerked down the body.
It was Gladys.
Not Gladys as Cora knew her.
Not laughing.
Not touching up her makeup.
Not about to launch into some great gossip.
No, this Gladys was dead.
Cora’s heart constricted.
It was the second time she’d seen a dead body.
Gladys lay on her back, her eyes wide with shock. Bruises ravaged her neck.
“It’s ‘er,” the new maid wailed. She sank her head down. “Can you save ‘er, miss?”
Cora shook her head. “No one can. See how stiff her body is? She must have been dead for hours. Perhaps all night.”
“Oh, Lord.” The servant sank to her knees. “Poor Gladys.”
“Yes.”
It was tragic.
Oh, so tragic.
Guilt surged through Cora.
Gladys had wanted to tell her something yesterday evening, but she’d allowed Wexley to chase her away. Gladys had termed it gossip, and Cora had acquiesced to Gladys’s belief that it might not be important and was perhaps needlessly ridiculous.
Footsteps pattered in the corridor, no doubt alerted by Becky’s scream, and soon everyone stood in Cora’s room, assessing the maid’s body.