“You worked at the Dominion Hotel, am I right?”
An expression of wonder fills her. “Saints above, so I did. ’Twas a castle, it was. I watched it being built from the start. As a girl, all I wanted was to work there. Then I met Mrs. Evans.” Her face falls. “She was grand.”
Matthew, on the other hand, has brightened. “I am a bit of a researcher,” he tells her humbly, “and I came across her name in some old newspapers. There was a murder, I understand, around the time you were there. Do you recall anything about that?”
I’m startled to see a sad shine in the old woman’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do. ’Twas the beginning of the end,” she says with a sigh.
The three of us exchange a glance. I’m unsure how to continue after a statement like that.
Fortunately, Louis is an experienced interviewer.
“As a chambermaid at one of the most famous hotels in the world, you must have met some interesting people.”
“Sure. There were some lovely people, and there were others.” Her eyes sharpen as she looks between us.
“It’s all right, Miss Ryan,” Louis says. “You can tell us anything.”
“You’re a reporter,” she says to him. “If you are writing about The Ward and the Dominion, you must have heard of Mr. Carboni. A bad, bad man.”
“He was questioned about that murder,” Matthew puts in.
“Aye, but sure he didn’t do it.”
We stare at her, surprised.
“No, not Mr. Carboni. But he pointed the police right at Damien and me.”
I remember that from the newspaper article Matthew had shared. “Damien,” I say quietly. My great-grandfather.
Her smile is soft. “Damien was the love of my life, God rest his soul.” Incredibly, her right hand rises on its own accord, settling on her chest, just under her throat. Right where the little silver locket would once have rested. I cannot look away.
“According to newspapers, Damien disappeared at the same time as you,” Louis says. “I’m assuming you went together.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask, but I don’t want you to worry. The answer, whether it is yes or no, will not be printed in my article.” He observes her intently. “Did either you or Damien kill Mrs. Evans?”
Her reaction is immediate. “Oh, heavens above, no! I loved Mrs. Evans. She was the nearest thing I had to a mother. And Damien, well, he might have run errands for Mr. Carboni, but he couldn’t harm a fly. Besides, he knew I loved her.” She fixes Louis with a sombre expression. “No, ’twas Bianca pulled the trigger. She borrowed money from Mr. Carboni to save herfather, and he treated her like dirt under his shoe. Bianca was heartbroken, my dear girl. Just heartbroken. She nicked Carboni’s gun and was bent on killing him.”
She closes her eyes, and I am hanging on a thread, waiting.
“She came to me the day after. Damien and I were already set to flee, for we’d seen our names in the paper to do with the murder, clear as day. We knew the police would come for us, and we hadn’t a minute to spare. Just as we’re about to go, in burst poor Bianca, wide-eyed as a fawn. She told me she saw Mr. Carboni and Mrs. Evans arguing in the corridor. She was so angry, she lost her wits. She pulled the trigger and hit Mrs. Evans by mistake. The newspapers said nothing of her. They only spoke of Damien and me. She begged us to take her with us when we ran.” Her chin sinks to her chest. “So we did.”
Sally Butterworth has left the door partly open, and I hear people behind me in the corridor, talking in quiet tones, their soft shoes shuffling past. A care person speaks with one of the residents, her voice raised slightly to reach his hearing aid.
Rosie Ryan sits silently on her chair, battling grief that is almost a century old.The beginning of the end, she’d said.
“What happened?” I whisper.
Her sad gaze meets mine and holds it. “Oh, child. If only the story ended there. Saints preserve me, I’ll carry the rest to my grave. The three of us ran, sure, but Mr. Carboni’s divils were hard on our heels. Bianca still had the cursed gun with her. Lord save us, I’ll never know what madness took her, but she was wild with fear. We heard the men behind us, and she fired at them. They fired back. And she…”
“She died in the tunnel, didn’t she?” Matthew asks gently, and I realize he is thinking of the skeleton discovered during the renovations in 2019. The body no one has been able to identify. Now we know. A new name to add to the archives.
Rosie nods, and a tear shines in the wrinkled corner of her eye. “I’ve not thought about that day in an age. It’s too much. Lord above, I miss that girl.”She heaves a sigh that lifts her whole body, then settles her back in place. “Bianca was a right firecracker, she was. Damien and I fled through the tunnel, and it spat us out by the railway tracks. We were headed to the bus station, though we’d no idea where we’d end up. ’Twas to be a grand adventure. Damien ran ahead, calling back to me, but I was slow. You see, I was expecting his baby. We were proud as could be, fit to burst, but I was sick from the child, and I was too slow. He started running back to me, and oh…”
Nobody in the room moves as Rosie relives a horror we can’t see. I sneak a look at Matthew, afraid we’ve done something wrong. What if she suffers a heart attack because of all these questions and the memories that surface?
“I told him not to come back. I said I was fine,” she whispers. “But he didn’t listen, did he?”
