She widened her eyes and shifted in her chair. “Of course, Inspector.”
“How long have you worked as Mrs. Dalton’s maid?”
“Since she was still called Miss Stroud,” she answered, her voice quavering somewhat. “I was given the position when she was seventeen. So, thirteen years I’ve been with her.”
The maid’s chin trembled, but she exhaled and kept her composure.
“The coroner has confirmed that Mrs. Dalton was about four months pregnant.” He watched Miss Sweeny closely for her reaction; she kept her eyes on the scarred wood table, lashes fluttering rapidly. Jasper guessed, “You knew of her condition?”
She gave a single nod.
“And as Mr. Dalton is unable to father children,” Jasper went on, “Mrs. Dalton was conducting an affair?”
Miss Sweeny’s pursed lips contorted as she again seemed to hold a surge of emotion at bay. But then, she nodded tightly.
“Who is he?”
Whenever Jasper questioned someone who knew an answer, yet did not want to give it up, the person would seem to fold inward. Shoulders hunched, head bowed, eyes down. This was how the maid remained for several moments.
“I require a name, Miss Sweeny, and I know you can provide it.”
He didn’t want to threaten her with time in a holding cell, but if she insisted on silence, he would do it. Thankfully, after another few seconds, she wilted.
“Mr. Decamp.”
Had Jasper been standing, the answer might have driven him back a step. He couldn’t believe it. “The viscount’s butler? He must be twice her age.”
Miss Sweeny gasped and finally looked up at him. “No! Not that Mr. Decamp. Stephen. The butler’s son.”
“I see,” he said. “And does Stephen Decamp also work for the viscount?”
Most often, whole families were in service together, employed by the same titled family.
“He is his lordship’s steward,” the maid answered. That caught Jasper by surprise. He’d expected him to be a footman or valet.
“That’s quite a trusted position,” he replied. As his steward, Stephen Decamp would have overseen the viscount’s entire estate, his lands and holdings.
Miss Sweeny nodded. “Mr. Decamp was raised alongside Mr. Cowper, I’m told.”
Frederick Cowper and Stephen Decamp would have been of two different classes, but that might not have mattered to two boys growing up on the same estate.
“Are they close?”
If they were, he wondered if Frederick would have known about the affair. And if so, why he might have lied to Jasper at the morgue, saying he could not think of who Helen’s lover might be.
But the maid frowned. “No, not anymore. They had a falling out.”
“When?”
“I don’t know exactly. Years back,” she said, sounding vexed. “Why do you ask?”
The details surrounding the falling out between Frederick and the younger Decamp intrigued Jasper, but there would be someone more knowledgeable than Dora Sweeny to tell him what had transpired. Nadia, perhaps. Or Millicent Cowper.
“Stephen lives on the estate, I take it?” he asked, moving on.
The maid nodded. “He has a farm. Keeps of few of his lordship’s studs there.” A gleam of interest shone in her eyes. “You don’t believe Mr. Decamp had something to do with my lady’s murder, do you?”
“Did Helen receive a message on the night of the storm? Or was it earlier that afternoon?” he asked rather than answer her question.
