It did not take long.
“Fine,” Kincaid bit out. “Have at it. But I doubt you’ll obtain any helpful information. She’s just a scullery maid.”
Accepting the challenge with a toss of her head, Joanna marched past Kincaid and sat down in a leather wing chair opposite Abigail. Kincaid, his countenance inscrutable, took up a position beside the window, pushing the curtain aside to peer out at the street beyond. His lean body was casually postured, but she knew by the tension in his shoulders that he was listening keenly to every word.
“Well then,” she began, giving the maid an encouraging smile. “I suppose I should start by introducing myself. I am Joanna Thorncroft. You can call me Jo, if you’d like. My sisters do. Jo when they’re happy with me, and Joanna when they’re not. Do you have any sisters, Miss Groshen?”
Abigail twisted her fingers together on her lap. “Three. I—I’m the youngest.”
“That would be my sister Claire.” As she spoke Claire’s name aloud, Joanna felt a pang in her chest. She hadn’t allowed herself the chance to miss her sister, as every time she thought of sweet, gentle Claire, it filled her with sadness. She wished they could have all made the journey to London together, but Claire was where she was supposed to be, and it was a relief to know someone was watching over their grandmother. Even if Ruth remained adamant that she didn’t need any special care. “I’m the eldest, and Evie is in the middle. I don’t know what I’d do if there was another one.”
“It made for a busy household growing up.” Abigail managed a trembling smile. “My sisters are all maids as well.”
“It’s a fine profession.” She leaned forward. “How long have you worked for Miss Bancroft?”
The maid flicked a frightened glance at Kincaid. “Umm…”
“Don’t mind him,” said Joanna with a dismissive wave. “I know he comes across all gruff and brooding, but I can assure you he’s as harmless as a potato.”
A warning snarl emanated from the window.
“See?” she said brightly. “All growl and no bite. You’re perfectly safe, Abigail.”
“If you say so,” Abigail said doubtfully. Still, she managed to wrench her gaze away from Kincaid and, after a moment’s pause, answered Joanna’s question. “I worked for Miss Bancroft for two years. Mostly in the kitchen, as I said. Hannah—that’s Hannah Adamson—was Miss Bancroft’s personal maid, but I…I did fill in on occasion when Hannah wasn’t feeling well. Miss Bancroft liked the way I curled her hair.” The maid’s voice thickened. “She said—she said I was good enough to work for a real lady, one day. She was even going to give me a recommendation, but…”
“She disappeared,” Joanna filled in gently when Abigail fell silent.
The maid began to cry. “I knew something was w—wrong that night. Miss Bancroft wasn’t herself.”
“How do you mean?” Joanna reached inside her reticule and procured a linen handkerchief. Handing it to Abigail, she glanced discreetly at Kincaid over her shoulder. He was fixated on the maid, his brows drawn sharply together over the bridge of his spectacles. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, like a lion about to spring.
So much for the scullery maid not having any helpful information,Joanna thought smugly.
Accepting the handkerchief, Abigail blew loudly into it, then dabbed at her wet cheeks. “Miss Bancroft was agitated. Pacing back and forth. She kept asking if he was here yet.”
“Who?” Kincaid demanded. “Who was she waiting for?”
Clutching the handkerchief, Abigail recoiled. “I…I…”
“It’s all right,” Joanna said soothingly even as she shot Kincaid a warning glare. “You’re safe here with me. We’re just trying to get to the truth and find out who might have harmed Miss Bancroft. Do you remember who she was expecting that night?”
“She was waiting for her—her benefactor. The Duke of Hanover. He arrived two hours late, and they went upstairs to…to Miss Bancroft’s bedchamber.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it? Why would she bring her benefactor up to her…oh,” Joanna squeaked when Abigail flushed and Kincaid cleared his throat. “He wasthattype of benefactor. I understand. Erm…what happened then?”
“Nothing out of the usual, until the next morning when I brought Miss Bancroft her breakfast tray and…and I saw all the blood. It waseverywhere,” Abigail wailed as big fat tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“Take a deep breath,” Joanna advised. Crossing over to the maid, she sat beside her and rested a hand on her knee.
As an older sibling, Joanna was accustomed to wiping tears and cleaning up scrapes. When Evie and Claire were children, they’d come to her countless times to heal their injuries, both the ones in their hearts and the ones on their persons. The night Father died, they’d climbed into Joanna’s bed to sleep beside her, and hadn’t left for the next month. Her sisters didn’t need her now as much as they had then. They’d all grown past the point of mending their bumps and bruises with a kiss. But she still knew how to give comfort when it was needed.
“That’s it,” she told Abigail as the maid’s sobs began to abate. “You’re doing a splendid job. I cannot imagine how difficult this must be for you. Especially since you were so well acquainted with Miss Bancroft.”
“She was a l—lovely woman,” Abigail sniffled. “But sometimes…”
“Sometimes?” Joanna prodded delicately.
“Have you ever felt as if someone is h—hiding something?”
