Chapter 11 Lies of Loyalty
The first lie Agnes Flint told Inspector Carver was small enough to pass for loyalty and large enough to alter a death.
She told it in the morning room, because Marianne Dacre had decided that the morning room was less vulgar than the servants' hall and less intimate than the library.
The curtains had been drawn wide though the day was still weak, and the rain left thin grey threads on the glass.
A fire had been lit, but no one seemed warmed by it.
The chairs had been arranged as if for a visit of condolence, and the neatness of the arrangement made the interrogation more cruel.
A woman could lie more easily in disorder.
Here, every polished table, every porcelain dish, every folded newspaper seemed prepared to remember exactly where she stood and what she said.
Agnes stood near the hearth with her hands folded over her apron.
She had changed out of the dress she had worn during the night, but she had not changed the fear in her face.
Her hair was pinned too tightly, and one strand had escaped near her ear.
Constance noticed it because Agnes noticed nothing of herself.
The maid's eyes moved once toward the door, then toward the corridor beyond it, as if every answer she gave had to travel through the house before it became safe.
Carver sat with his notebook open on his knee. He did not raise his voice. His calmness made the questions more severe. Men who shouted could be dismissed as angry. Men who waited were more dangerous.
"You are Lady Dacre's maid," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"How long have you served her?"
"Since before her marriage, sir. I came with her when she came to Dacre House."
That answer moved through the room like a draught.
Helena, seated by the window under Marianne's instruction and against her own will, did not look up.
Marianne stood behind a chair rather than occupying it, as if grief itself were a guest she declined to receive.
Roland had placed himself near the sideboard, where he could pretend not to listen while hearing everything.
Dr. Bell was absent, called away after his examination, though Constance suspected his absence had less to do with medicine than with the relief of being beyond Carver's eyes.
Constance had no formal right to stand in the room, yet Carver had not sent her away.
He had looked at her once, in that measuring manner of his, and perhaps had decided that whatever she knew would come out more easily if she believed herself still tolerated.
She stood beside a small table with a basket of unopened correspondence upon it and kept her hands still.
"Then you know her habits," Carver said.
"As much as any servant may, sir."
"More than most, I think. A lady's maid knows the hour her mistress rises, what she wears, whether she is ill, whether she is frightened, whether she has slept."
Agnes's mouth tightened. It was the smallest movement, but it was enough. Carver saw it. So did Constance. Helena saw it and lowered her gaze as if to spare Agnes the additional punishment of being observed by the person she meant to protect.
"Her ladyship slept poorly," Agnes said.
"Last night?"
"Often, sir."
"I asked about last night."
Agnes looked at Helena then. Not long enough to beg instruction, only long enough to remember love. "Yes, sir. Last night."
Carver wrote a line. "At what hour did you last see Lady Dacre before Lord Dacre's body was found?"
The answer should have been simple. Constance knew that from the way Agnes's throat moved before she gave it. Honest answers often arrived quickly because they had no need to dress themselves. Lies looked for a cloak first.
"Near eleven," Agnes said.
Marianne's head turned a fraction. Helena's fingers closed around the arm of her chair. Roland stopped pretending to examine the silver.
Carver's pencil rested, waiting. "Near eleven. Where?"
"In her ladyship's dressing room."
"Was Lady Dacre alone?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did she seem distressed?"
"No more than any lady might seem in a house where there has been trouble."
"What trouble was there before Lord Dacre died?"
Agnes understood her mistake a moment too late. Her eyes flickered. "I meant only household unease, sir. His lordship had been displeased. There had been raised voices earlier."
"Whose voices?"
"I could not say. The doors were closed."
Constance watched Carver mark the evasion without pressing it. He was gathering a net, not throwing a spear.
"When you left Lady Dacre near eleven," he said, "what was she wearing?"
"Her black silk wrapper and a shawl."
"A shawl of what colour?"
"Dark blue, sir."
"Not the gown with the blood on the sleeve?"
Agnes went very still.
Helena said, quietly, "Inspector, my maid cannot be expected to remember every garment in a household disturbed by death."
Carver did not look at Helena first. He looked at Agnes. "Can she not? A lady's maid remembers garments. That is part of her occupation."
Agnes lifted her chin. "The blood was not there when I saw her, sir."
"That was not the question."
"It is the answer that matters."
The room chilled. Even Marianne seemed faintly surprised, not by the insolence perhaps, but by its direction. Agnes had not defended herself. She had defended Helena.
Carver closed the notebook halfway. "Miss Flint, I am not your enemy unless you make the truth my enemy as well.
If you know how blood came to be on Lady Dacre's sleeve, say it.
If you moved a garment, say it. If you destroyed one, say it now before another person tells me first. Loyalty is a noble quality in sermons.
In an inquiry concerning violent death, it has a habit of becoming obstruction. "
Agnes's face lost colour, but she did not yield. "I dressed her ladyship as I was asked. I undressed her as I was asked. I did not kill his lordship, and I did not see her ladyship kill him."
"That is two denials and no answer."
"It is all I have, sir."
Constance felt, with an unpleasant certainty, that it was not all Agnes had. The maid's lie had changed shape in the air. It had begun as a shield. Under Carver's attention it had become a door, and behind it stood something Agnes would rather be accused of herself than open.
Roland made a restless sound. "Inspector, surely there is a point at which servants' nerves become less useful than evidence. My brother is dead. My sister-in-law is unwell. The house is being held in a state of indecent suspense over the recollections of a maid."
Carver turned to him. "Lord Roland, servants often see what families pay one another not to see. I find their nerves extremely useful."
Roland coloured. "I meant no insult."
"Most insults from gentlemen are not accidents, only habits."
A silence followed, sharp enough that Constance nearly looked down to hide her reaction. Helena did not look at all, but there was something altered in the line of her mouth. It was not amusement. Amusement would have been dangerous. It was the ghost of recognition, quickly buried.
Marianne stepped forward. "Inspector, my brother's death must be investigated, of course.
No one in this family would suggest otherwise.
But I must object to a tone that treats grief as concealment and rank as guilt.
There are duties owed to the dead. There are also duties owed to the living.
Lady Dacre has endured a shock. Lord Roland has lost his brother. I have lost mine."
Carver rose. He did it slowly, not as a gesture of respect but as a way of meeting her authority on his feet.
"Lady Marianne, I have never yet known a corpse to be assisted by delicacy.
If your brother was murdered, grief will not find who did it.
If he was not murdered, fear of scandal will still have made several people in this house behave as if he were.
Either way, I intend to understand the difference. "
"And if there is no difference?" Marianne asked.
The question sounded philosophical. Constance heard something colder beneath it.
Carver's gaze held hers. "There is always a difference. The difficulty is that respectable houses are often built to hide it."
Helena stood then. The movement was controlled, but Constance saw pain cross her face before discipline erased it. Agnes saw too and half stepped forward before remembering herself. That half step was more revealing than any answer she had given.
"Inspector," Helena said, "if you wish to accuse my maid of protecting me, you may do so openly. She has served me faithfully. She has had little reward for it beyond my gratitude and the displeasure of this house. Do not make her loyalty seem uglier than the things it has been required to endure."
Carver's expression changed, not softened exactly, but became more attentive. "Lady Dacre, do you claim Miss Flint is lying?"
Helena did not answer quickly. Constance felt the cost of that pause. A guilty woman might pause to invent. Helena paused because truth could injure someone else.
"I claim," Helena said, "that servants in houses like this are often forced to choose between truth and survival. Gentlemen call that choice dishonesty when it inconveniences them."
"That is not an answer either."
"No," Helena said. "But it is the beginning of one."
Agnes made a small sound, almost a protest. Helena did not turn toward her. She kept her gaze on Carver because looking at Agnes might undo them both.
Carver looked from mistress to maid and back again.
"Very well. We will begin again later. Miss Flint, you are not to leave the house.
You are not to remove or clean any garment belonging to Lady Dacre without my permission.
You are not to burn, wash, cut, fold away, or misplace anything that may bear upon this inquiry. "
Agnes's eyes dropped. "Yes, sir."