Chapter 19 #3
Though I was baffled as to what exactly Mrs. McClintock was doing with it.
If her actions in bringing it to the laundry were innocent, surely there would have been no need for stealth.
To be fair, this was just one person’s interpretation of events.
Perhaps Mr. Armstrong was only reading sly intention after the fact, now that he knew vitriol had been used against Miss Whitlock.
We would need to ask the other servants who were present that afternoon their impression of events.
Gage thanked Milngavie’s valet and warned him to keep quiet about what he’d told us for the time being before dismissing him.
“Do you think he’ll listen?” I asked my husband once the young man was out of earshot.
“I think he’s worried the others will be angry with him for involving them in the matter.”
“He doesn’t realize you’ll be circumspect.”
“As much as possible.” He turned to look at me, a deep furrow forming between his brows. But whatever thought had caused it, he didn’t have a chance to share, because the first of our witnesses had arrived.
I recollected Alfie’s valet, Mr. Cooper, from our visits to Langstone Manor on Dartmoor.
Anderley disliked the fellow intensely, calling him a repugnant toad, and I couldn’t say he’d given me any more favorable an impression.
From the moment he entered the housekeeper’s sitting room, his pompous demeanor was on display, with his neck arched as if to look down his nose at us even though Gage towered over him.
Mr. Cooper was no good at hiding his thoughts, so it was abundantly clear that he found our questions to be a waste of his time, but he answered them, nonetheless.
Yes, he’d been ironing clothes in the laundry on Monday afternoon. No, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Yes, he remembered Mrs. McClintock joining them. She’d been returning something. A bottle of some sort. No, he didn’t know what of.
The last remark was said with such derision that I thought Gage might be driven to wring the man’s intricately tied cravat.
I certainly wanted to. But at least Cooper had corroborated Mr. Armstrong’s claim that Mrs. McClintock had placed a bottle on the shelf in the laundry.
Though he’d read nothing sly or sinister in her actions, merely that she was replacing it.
Both lady’s maids—Lady Brougham’s and my sister’s, Jenny—recalled being in the laundry room and seeing Mrs. McClintock enter, but neither had seen the bottle.
I was rather disappointed that Jenny had not seen more, for I trusted her.
But she’d been focused on treating a stain on a delicate piece of lace and so had not been paying particular attention to her surroundings.
Last was Jemmy’s valet, a man rather in the mold of Mr. Cooper, though it was evident this fellow at least did not wear a corset.
There wasn’t enough meat on his bones to require one.
I found myself most interested of all the witnesses to hear what this Mr. Simpkins would say, but his responses were disinterested at best. At least until it came to Mrs. McClintock.
Then it was evident he was suspicious of our curiosity about her.
He claimed not to have seen a bottle, but by that point, I thought he might have baldly lied if it meant protecting someone he either admired or considered a friend.
Once we’d finished, Gage insisted on conferring with Anderley outside the door before he released Mr. Simpkins.
I guessed that he wanted to ensure Mrs. McClintock had been secured elsewhere so that Jemmy’s valet couldn’t forewarn her.
Once Gage had dismissed him, I joined my husband in the corridor, learning that Mrs. Birnam’s maid was waiting with Bree in the butler’s sitting room.
“First,” Gage instructed Anderley, “show us the laundry.”
He led us through the servants’ domain, and I did my best to ignore the inquisitive glances cast our way by those we passed.
There were two maids in the laundry when we arrived—one of them Lady Brougham’s—but they both obeyed Gage’s request for them to step out for a moment without complaint.
I surveyed the room, finding it much like any other laundry, except perhaps a bit larger than most. I could easily imagine the staff conversing with each other as they worked at the tall tables.
Meanwhile, Gage and Anderley shuffled through the bottles stored on a long shelf above the sinks.
There was no sign of the bottle of oil of vitriol, and nothing that might resemble it.
“Where is the manor’s oil of vitriol stored?” I asked.
“With poisons and other caustic substances in a locked cabinet off the kitchens,” Gage replied. “My father insisted on it. And Mrs. Taylor has the only key.”
I suspected he’d adopted such precautions because of his experiences as an inquiry agent.
Gage and I had resorted to similar measures in our homes, not because we didn’t trust our staff and guests, but because we understood how often mistakes occurred.
One white powder might look like any other, except that it could kill you.
But Miss Whitlock’s death had certainly been no accident. And I felt a terrified surge of both hope and dread that we were finally about to find out who had done it and why.