Tennant asked Alfred about the missing key. He, like the other servants, knew nothing about it.
After Alfred left, Tennant said, “I don’t know about you, Sergeant Armstrong, but I grow more and more curious about that key.”
“If it doesn’t turn up, we’ll have to force the chest open.”
Tennant nodded. “Let’s have one more look around.”
* * *
Her coachman drove Julia and the Kensington constable back to Blenheim Lodge. Aside from the policeman at the door, nothing seemed unusual. Julia reached for the doorknocker and changed her mind. She asked the constable, “Is it unlocked?” When he nodded, she entered.
Julia stood for a moment, listening. The door to the morning room stood ajar, and a fire crackled in the grate, so she tapped and went in. It took her a moment to locate Mary. A still, alabaster-faced girl hugging her knees stared from the window seat with red-rimmed eyes. Then she shook herself and swung her feet to the carpet.
“Doctor, forgive me. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Inspector Tennant sent for me.” Julia took her hand. “My dear, I’m so sorry.” Mary’s icy fingers felt as though they might snap at the slightest pressure. “You’re cold. Come away from the window.”
Julia led Mary to a chair by the fire. The girl smoothed thewhite painter’s smock that covered her dress and sat. “I’m sorry to receive you like this.”
“No matter.”
“I’d gotten an early start in the studio. Then they came for me. An accident, they said. But he . . . he used my paint.” Mary shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. “He used my Paris Green to . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Julia said gently.
Tears welled. Mary blinked and turned her face away. “I had no idea about the arsenic until you told me,” she said, her voice shaking. “When I mentioned it to Charles, he said Louisa—oh.” Her hand flew to her mouth.
“What did your brother say?”
“It was only a joke. A silly joke. Charles told me to lock it away. That Louisa was so fed up with his moods, she might add it to the absinthe I brought home from France. Good God, I can’t believe it.” Mary closed her eyes. “But he hadn’t been the same since . . .”
“Since his accident?”
“Before that. Since I returned from Paris in the autumn. After the accident, he’d grown moodier still.”
“Mary, I’d like to take your pulse and listen to your heart. May I?”
The girl stared at Julia, hollow-eyed. Finally, she nodded.
Julia took her wrist and timed the beats on her pocket watch. Then she took the stethoscope from her bag and asked Mary to remove her smock and unbutton the top of her dress. Julia listened, satisfied with what she heard.
“I’ll leave you with a mild sleeping draught. You can decide if you need it.” She closed her case. “Shall I check on your sister-in-law?”
“Doctor Scott was here and left something to help her sleep.” Mary leaned on her elbow, looking into the fire. “Doctor Scott . . . Charles had some nagging ailments. Sleeplessness. His eyes were giving him trouble, and Scott thought spectacles might relieve his headaches.”
“Was he taking anything for them?”
Mary shrugged. “I don’t know. I know nothing. Nothing about Charles’s pain. Nothing about what drove him. Nothing.” With each repetition of the word, Mary struck the flat of her hand against the armrest. “Oh, God,” she cried, her voice breaking. “How could I not know?” She covered her face with her hands, sobbing.
Julia kneeled by her chair and put her arm around the girl’s shaking shoulder and let her cry.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Mary tried to get up. “I must check on Lou.”
“If Louisa is asleep, it’s better to let her be.”
Mary slumped back in her chair and fished in her pocket. “I never have a handkerchief when I need one.”
Julia gave Mary hers and sat across from her. It was all so familiar: the shock and confusion, the regrets and recriminations.Six years . . . nearly seven.
