CHAPTER 25

A BEREAVED VISITOR

“OH MY.” Marjorie’s face paled to what in books is called ashen. As white as fresh-fallen snow. As if visited by a ghostly apparition. As shocked as curdled cream.

“No!” Mrs. Sivam looked every bit as dreadful. “She’ll think that Lakshay killed him!”

“Grannie Jane?” said my sister. “What shall I do?”

Grannie moved stitches back and forth on her knitting needle. “You will go to greet her, my dear. Take Agatha with you, for good cheer. Ring the bell in twenty minutes and we will join you.”

“Not I,” said Mrs. Sivam. “How could I face her?”

“This will be your opportunity to set matters straight,” Grannie Jane said, firmly.

Marjorie stood, her face a picture of woe. My poor sister! It wasn’t her fault that Roger Corker had received stab wounds from two different weapons. But the stabbings had occurred in her library, and now she must offer kindness and solicitude to a devastated stranger. Lucky me to watch how this unfurled! With a guilty and delicious quiver of anticipation, I followed close on Marjorie’s heels along the hall, while she practiced words of condolence. We are so sorry for your loss…my utmost sadness that you find yourself…how can I express my sorrow on your grievous…

“This is awful, Aggie! What words can possibly make the slightest difference? The poor woman! How do you suppose she heard the news?”

“She likely expected him to visit on Christmas Day when he returned from Owl Park,” I said. “Imagine sitting down to one’s Christmas tea, a nice slice of fruitcake, and having a message come that your sweetheart has had his neck pierced!”

“Aggie, stop! It’s too grim to think of. And now here she is to seek solace and answers from a household of strangers! Should we not be the ones visiting her in her hour of despair? Though how could we know that the poor man had a sweetheart? And goodness knows in what dreadful place an actor’s fiancée must live.”

“Any of the phrases you’ve been muttering will work perfectly,” I said. I imagined that Mrs. Sivam should have a few words to say as well. She might say, It may have been my husband who made you a widow before you were even married…or…My sincere condolences that your betrothed seems to have been a drunkard before he died…or…Your dream of a happy wedding has been shattered by the ancient curse upon an emerald I carry about in a box…

“Marjorie,” I said. “You need only survive twenty minutes before Grannie Jane joins us. She is ever so good at visits with the bereaved.”

“I shall be counting every second,” said my sister. She paused at the door of the drawing room, took a deep breath, and transformed into the young Lady Greyson, in full possession of grace and poise.

Miss Beatrice Truitt stood before the fire, close before the fire, leaning in as if her very blood had frozen and she’d prefer to melt than shiver another moment. As Mr. Pressman had informed us, she was dressed from head to toe in mourning. A dress of silk crape, a short cloak, a widow’s cap with heavy veil, all in dull black that did not reflect the light, as was the custom. One should not permit one’s clothing to display a sheen during one’s darkest hour.

She turned at our approach and accepted my sister’s outstretched hands with gratitude, her head bent low and stifling a sob. I knew without looking that Marjorie’s cheeks would also display tears. I nearly wept myself at her distress. The introductions were made, and Miss Truitt agreed to sit. Marjorie peppered her gently with questions. Had she come far? Would she take tea? Had she been long engaged to Mr. Corker? What shocking news to hear on Christmas Day!

Our guest responded sweetly, in a voice not much above a whisper. She had not come too far, only from Exeter. She would like tea, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. She had been acquainted with Mr. Corker for some two years, but engaged for only these past three months. Shocking? Yes. Far beyond shocking—and what progress had the police investigation made?

“Pull the cord, will you, Aggie? We’ll order tea and have Grannie join us.” Marjorie’s hands, turning over themselves in her lap, betrayed her great discomfort.

“The police…” she said. “It is a Detective Inspector Willard who leads the case, and he is very clever, it seems to me, though these things take time, I am afraid.”

“Interviews,” I whispered to Marjorie as I sat, after ringing the bell. Marjorie patted my knee.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Aggie. The police have interviewed everyone in the house, all the guests and servants. And a search has been conducted, though…” Her voice died away as she entered the murky waters of how much a stranger should be told about the other crime committed within these walls. “Though I do not know how a search might assist in apprehending a…a…”

“A killer, Lady Greyson?” said Miss Truitt. “I must learn to say it plainly. Though I cannot begin to understand why anyone would murder my poor dear Roger.”

For this we had no answer, and thus a lengthy moment of silence.

“We have been wondering the same thing,” said Marjorie, finally. “How could we not?”

Another painful interlude where none of us spoke.

“Tell me,” said Miss Truitt. “Is it true that one of your houseguests is suspected of the crime? Did I not read in the newspaper—on my journey—that someone else is missing? Or is my…my sorrow muddling my sense?”

Marjorie took in another slow breath. “It is best not to pay much heed to the newspapers,” she said. “The fellows so often get things wrong. We must put our trust in the police and their steadfast endeavors.”

She had deftly avoided answering the question, but there was no comfort in her words. The tea arrived at last, and a moment later, Grannie Jane and Hector came in, with Mrs. Sivam following nervously.

We had an interlude of introductions and condolences, tea-pouring and biscuit-passing. At the very moment when we might have sunk once again into the Awkward Well of Despair, Miss Truitt lifted the veil from her face and pinned it back momentarily so that she might sip her tea.

She lifted the cup to her lips, having put in a slice of lemon, and looked me straight in the eye.

I nearly dropped my macaroon.

I’d seen those eyes before.

And they were not the eyes of a stranger named Miss Beatrice Truitt.