“What are you doing?”
It’s not often that someone manages to sneak up on me, but I’m so distracted by the cupboard I didn’t hear her approach. I jump, violently, clutching at the clothes and dislodging many of them from their hangers. They fall in a crumpled heap by my feet, releasing more of that distinctive perfume.
The speaker is an older woman with graying hair and a frosty smile. I turn on the charm offensive, aware that I’ve been caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar.
“Hello!” A bright, light voice that I hope puts her in mind of sunshine and bunny rabbits and rainbows and distracts from my evident snooping. “I didn’t see you there.” I press a hand to my chest, emphasizing my weak constitution. “I was just looking for somewhere to put my things.”
Her mouth sets into a hard line. “Jack told me that you were sleeping next door.”
I fix a puzzled look on my face. “Did he? I was in here last night.”
“I see.” Judgment is etched into every line on her face.
“Sorry, can I help you?”
“I’m Martha. The housekeeper.” Still unsmiling.
Of course Jack has a housekeeper. An archaic role that should have died out with the late Victorians, though the upper classes are famously hopeless at looking after themselves. I can, I realize, use this to my advantage. Because, if the literature is correct, housekeepers possess a wealth of knowledge about the families they work for. Knowledge that could be useful. I stride toward her, hand outstretched. “I’m Iris. Lovely to meet you. Jack’s told me so much about you.”
If she thinks this an odd statement, she gives no indication other than a slight lift of her brow. “If you need somewhere to put your things, I’ll move those.” She gestures toward the wardrobe.
“Oh, please don’t worry,” I say quickly. I don’t want her to move these clothes. Not when I can learn so much from them: the sort of person Alice was, where she went, what she did. Not when I might be able towearthem. “I can have a look in the room next door. I’m sure there’s space there. I just thought I’d…check.”
A poor excuse—even to my own ears—but thankfully she gives a sharp nod and decides not to press the issue. I don’t relax my stance. It’s all too easy to slip up if you prematurely assume the threat has dissipated.
“So how long have you worked here?” I ask airily.
“Coming up on thirty-five years.”
“Gosh, that’s a long time. Must know everything about the Reynoldses.”
I turn, smiling sweetly, to see her eyes narrow. “You do come to know a lot about the family, yes.”
I think of what Jack said about this house holding bad memories for him. “I’m sure. What were his parents like?”
“They were always very kind to me.” Her tone is just clipped enough to signal the end of this particular line of questioning, and I decide not to push her. A tricky customer: I sense she’ll be hard to dupe. I give her an indulgent smile.
“How wonderful to have been in the same job for so long.” As suspected, her face does not soften, so I make my exit. “Anyway, I’ve got some bits to sort in my room. But it wassolovely to meet you, Martha. Let’s have a cup of tea together soon.”
I leave her standing in the middle of Jack’s bedroom and retreat to the one allotted to me. After five minutes or so—five minutes where I stand with my ear pressed to the door, convinced she is checking Alice’s cupboard for any missing items—I hear her pass by my room and go back downstairs.
Martha’s presence in the house is a hindrance for the rest of the day. I want to continue searching Jack’s bedroom, but I can’t shake the feeling that she doesn’t trust me, so I refrain. Instead, I spend an hour or two in the other bedroom and then—when that becomes too tedious to endure—venture downstairs in search of something to eat.
Martha is at work in the sitting room, so I tiptoe quietly past the door and down the long corridor that leads to the kitchen. I’m surprised, yet again, when I see it. It’s archaic in all the wrong ways. Where the rest of the house leans into its history—brooding oil paintings andantique furniture—this room is in serious need of modernization. The ancient range in the corner pumps heat into the room, so it’s just slightly too hot. The battered fridge in the corner could be a first edition, and not the valuable kind. It’s small, poky, airless. A culinary prison cell.
Jack told me to help myself to anything I wanted, so I survey the contents of the fridge. It’s all high-end stuff: glass bottles of milk from an upmarket dairy, cardboard punnets of strawberries. I’m simple in my food tastes, preferring plastic white bread to the seeded sourdough loaf that’s been set on the side, but it’s my only option, so I pop a piece in the toaster and open a few drawers as I wait.
It’s all pin neat. No mishmash of cooking utensils here. In the third drawer down, I find a stack of recipe cards. Handwritten, in a slightly jagged hand. I pull them out. They don’t look particularly old. One, a recipe for cupcakes, still bears a smear of some floury mulch on the corner. Was this Alice’s handwriting? These cards would fit with the holier-than-thou image I’m sure she went to painstaking ends to uphold.
The toaster pops. The only option for spread is fat-free plant-based “butter.” I wrinkle my nose.
Martha comes to find me just as I’ve finished eating. “I’m off now. Here’s my number.” She holds out a piece of paper. “If you ever need me.”
I don’t know why she thinks I’ll need it, or her for that matter, but I take it from her. There’s a long pause while she stares at me, like she wants to say something else. I suppress a sigh. I hate hoverers. Just come out and say what you’re thinking, rather than leaving the other person to deduce your meaning. “Was there something else?”
“Can I have yours?”
I frown at her. “What for?”
