“And you were the chambermaid assigned to Mr. Oliver’s room?”
She nodded. “Room three, yes. And several other rooms besides.”
“Please describe the last time you saw Mr. Oliver alive.”
“I took him his dinner last night.”
“How did he seem to you? Worried about anything? Agitated?”
“I couldn’t say, your honor. He doesn’t really speak to me. He unlocked the door for me and sat down again, going straightaway back to work.”
“He said nothing to you?”
Mary winced in concentration. “When I came in with the tray, he said, ‘Ah, it’s you,’ but nothing else that I recall.”
“And earlier that day?”
“Every morning was about the same. I’d take up his breakfast at nine sharp. Then I would gather his laundry, and tidy up a bit. He didn’t want me to stay long.”
“And were you the only maid who attended that room?”
She blinked rapidly. “Yes. For the most part. Now and again, one of us fills in for the other, when we’re busy or running behind.”
At her vague answer, questions began ringing in Frederick’s mind, but Smith went on.
“And this morning?”
“Started out as always. I took his breakfast upstairs just before nine. Then I rounded the corner and saw Mr. George on the floor with a bloody head. I thought he was dead! I screamed and dropped the tray. I must have fainted because next thing I remember, Miss Lane was bending over me, patting my cheek and calling my name.”
“Miss Lane?”
“She’s a guest here. I used to work for her family years ago, so we are some acquainted.”
“And what was she doing outside room three?”
The girl shrugged. “Heard me scream and came running. Sir Frederick Wilford too.”
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“No, your honor.”
“Very well. Thank you, Miss Hinton. We’ll let you know if we need to speak to you again.”
She bobbed a curtsy and returned to stand at the back of the room.
When it was time for dinner, Rebecca found Lady Fitzhoward sitting on a padded settee outside the coffee room, apparently listening to the proceedings.
“You go on, Miss Lane,” she said. “Tell them to put it on my bill as usual. I am finding this too interesting to miss.”
“But are you not hungry?”
Lady Fitzhoward waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll have something sent to my room later.”
So Rebecca endured an awkward dinner on her own. As it turned out, Lady Fitzhoward had not missed much. The courses were late in arriving and not up to usual standards, the staff no doubt put behind schedule and distracted by the day’s events. All around her, diners at their tables whispered among themselves, eyeing the other guests askance as though everyone was a possible killer.
Sir Frederick was not at dinner either, no doubt sitting in on the inquest, interested or even duty-bound as magistrate to attend.
Thomas was there, and Miss Newport dined with him, defying convention. The two smiled at one another and talked in low, intimate tones throughout the imperfect meal.
