Page 48 of Secrets of the Heart

Her companion raised one eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of reserve about that statement? Were they not devoted?”

“I believe that Mrs. Birkshaw loved him, and apparently he was good to her. From what he said to me, I do not think he loved her. He characterized their marriage as an arranged one.”

“He does not mourn his wife?”

“Now don’t get that look in your eyes,” Rachel said firmly. “He was fond of her, and both he and the maid certainly indicated that he was a good husband. But I do not think he loved her.” She sighed. “It seems rather sad, such an inequity of feeling.”

“Perhaps it is always so—the feelings of one side stronger than those of the other.”

Rachel looked at him. His eyes were so intent upon her face that she could almost feel their touch. “That would be even sadder, wouldn’t it?”

“Love is often unkind,” he said abruptly, turning aside to set down his cup, then rising to his feet. He began to pace about the room. “I chatted up one of Birkshaw’s footmen today. He, too, had no suspicions about the woman’s death. But he did say one interesting thing. One of the footmen quit his job three months ago and moved to London. My bloke saw him not long ago in a tavern. The fellow gave him his address, which he was happy to sell me. I asked him why the other footman left, and he said the man didn’t like living in York, as he was from London originally. He’d worked for them for only six months—three months before Mrs. Birkshaw’s death.”

“And he left the Birkshaw residence about three months after her death?”

“Yes.” He turned and looked Rachel in the eyes. “Even more interesting, this footman carried Mrs. Birkshaw’s tray to her room after she grew ill.”

“Always?”

“Almost every single meal. It was not a task the others liked—climbing two flights of stairs carrying a heavy tray without spilling any of the soup in the bowl. And they had a fear of the sickroom. So this bloke was given the task. Once, when the butler gave the job to someone else, he offered to do it for them.”

“That is interesting. He would certainly have had the opportunity to poison Mrs. Birkshaw’s food, if in fact that is how she died.”

He nodded. “Yes, and he came and went rather conveniently.”

“But if this footman did in fact poison her, then surely it would mean that someone else paid him to do so.”

He nodded. “In all likelihood the poor woman’s husband.”

“It was not Anthony,” Rachel said flatly. “Why do you assume it was Anthony?”

“In murder, you look to who would benefit. In this case, the husband.”

“But why would he pay someone to do it when he could easily do it himself? He was right there in the same house.”

“Yes. But not the first week, when she became ill, if you will remember. It gave him something of an alibi. Of course, once he knew she was ill, he had to come home to play the part of the concerned husband.”

“I cannot believe it,” Rachel said, shaking her head.

“You just told me that he did not love her.”

“Yes, but there is a great deal of difference between not loving a spouse and putting her to death!”

“To begin with, we do not even know if the woman was done in and, if so, whether this chap had anything to do with it. That is why I intend to visit him.”

“Now?” Rachel asked, rising from her chair. “I want to go with you.”

“You? No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Rachel cried. “You said that we were going to work on it together. Surely it would be better if two people were there to judge whether this man is telling you the truth when you question him.”

“You are talking about a man who may have killed a woman. I am not putting you in the same room with him.”

Rachel shot him a disgusted look. “He poisoned her. I promise I will not eat or drink anything he offers me.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I! What is he going to do to me with you right there? Surely he is not going to pull out pistols and shoot us both because you ask him a few questions. And if he is dangerous, two people would be better than one.”