Murder at Morrington Hall. Clara McKenna

the height?

      The maid blanched, and her lip trembled before she stared into her lap again.

      Now we’re getting somewhere. “Or a guest visiting for Lord Lyndhurst’s wedding?”

      “Yes, one of the Americans, maybe,” she said, latching on to Brown’s suggested alternative.

      “Did you speak to this stranger or hear him say anything?” Constable Waterman said.

      “No. But I did wonder about the vicar.”

      “You did?” The surprise in Constable Waterman’s voice reflected Brown’s own.

      “We were specifically told not to disturb him,” the maid explained. “But the library door was ajar.”

      “You feared this stranger might have disturbed the vicar?” the constable said.

      The maid nodded. “That’s why I peeked into the library.”

      “You went into the library after the stranger left?” Brown demanded, unable to contain himself.

      The maid’s shoulders bowed, and she shrank into herself, clutching part of her apron in her lap.

      “You did nothing wrong, Miss Eakins,” Brown said, commanding the softest tone his rough voice would allow. “But we want to learn the truth.”

      The maid looked at the constable and then at the inspector again, both of whom nodded encouragingly.

      “I didn’t go into the room. But I did push the door open a bit more and peek in.”

      “What did you see?” Brown said, cooing to the frightened maid.

      “Nothing. The room was empty.”

      Brown remembered the position of the body, hidden from view, at the foot of the chesterfield sofa. She wouldn’t have seen the dead man. So that much of her story was true.

      She went on. “So, I didn’t worry about it again, until I heard what happened. You won’t tell Mrs. Nelson I peeked into the library, will you?”

      Could this be her cause for alarm? Why she appeared so nervous?

      “But you never did, did you?” Brown said.

      The woman looked blankly at him for a moment before her eyes lit up with understanding. “No, I didn’t.”

      “What time was this?” Brown asked again.

      “About the time the Americans arrived.”

      Brown nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Miss Eakins. You have been most helpful. You may go.”

      The maid scurried away like a scared rabbit. She knew exactly when she’d entered the library. The clock ruled life in these country houses. So why not say so? Because she was still holding something back. Had she seen a man running through the saloon? It was worth checking into. The inspector sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

      CHAPTER 8