Page 72 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Simpson remained hovering about them as they took their seats, until Annabeth said, “Please, you must sit down, too.”

“I...well...it’s just so very odd,” he told her, and perched on the edge of a chair. “Sitting down in your presence, I mean.”

“But you’re not a servant anymore,” Annabeth pointed out.

“No, miss, I’m not. God bless your father for remembering me in his will.”

They spent the next few minutes inquiring about the valet’s health and that of everyone in Annabeth’s family and establishing that they all were living happily. Eventually the pleasantries dwindled, and Annabeth said, “We came here to talk to you about Papa.”

“Ah. Mr. Winfield.” Simpson smiled sadly. “Such a dear, good man. It was a pleasure, it was, working for him.” In his emotion, his voice slipped into more of an accent. “There’s no one else, miss, who would have taken on a sixteen-year-old boy from the village to be his valet. But he was so kind. He knew the straits we were in after the accident.”

“The accident?”

“My pa, you see, was hit in the road one night and died. And there we were, with no money and about to be turned out. Mr. Winfield heard about it and he came with his lady, and he gave my mam a bit of money to tide us over. What other quality folks would have done that? I ask you. I remember, he looked at me and asked if I’d like a job as his valet. You could have knocked me down with a feather. A valet, mind you. I hadn’t been in service at all, not even a pot boy.” Tears glittered in Simpson’s eyes. “He told me later that he could tell I was a lad that wanted to better himself. But I knew it was only his generosity.”

Annabeth felt tears welling in her own eyes at the man’s story. “Papa was kind. But I know that he valued you highly. He relied on you.”

“I only wish I had gone out there earlier with his tea. Maybe I could have kept him from falling.”

“You were the one who discovered him?” Sloane asked.

Simpson nodded. “I’ve never felt so sick in my life. I walked in with the hamper, and there he was, lying on the floor. I dropped the hamper and ran over there, but... I could see I couldn’t help him.”

“He fell from the stairs?” Sloane asked. “Did you go up to look at the railing?”

“No.” Simpson frowned. “It was clear what had happened. I ran back to the house as fast as I could to get help—to bring him home, you see. No one could have saved him by then.” He sighed. “I should have taken Mr. Winfield some luncheon, but he had a late breakfast. He said he didn’t want anything until tea.”

“Did you notice anything different about the place? Anything odd or disarranged?”

The valet stared at Sloane. “No, sir. I mean, I didn’t really pay attention to anything but Mr. Winfield. That was just the way his workshop looked.”

“Papa always had things all over the place,” Annabeth agreed.

“I tried to tidy it up some, once or twice, but he wouldn’t have it.” The valet smiled fondly.

“Did you see anyone around that day?” Sloane asked.

“Around the workshop?” The valet frowned. “No. Nobody ever went there except Mr. Winfield.”

“How did Mr. Winfield seem? Around that time, I mean. Was he different? Worried, perhaps? Or upset?”

“Why are you asking these questions?” Simpson stiffened. “If you’re trying to say that Mr. Winfield did himself in, I can tell you he did not!” Simpson turned to Annabeth. “Miss, don’t listen to anyone who tells you it was suicide. It’s not true. He would never have hurt you and his lady that much.”

“No, I’m sure not,” Annabeth said soothingly. “I know that Papa didn’t throw himself off those stairs.”

“Good.” He nodded sharply and shot a look of dislike at Sloane. “Because it’s not true.”

“We know,” Sloane said peaceably. “We’re just trying to answer a few questions that have arisen.”

Simpson looked again at Annabeth. “It’s you, miss, that wants to know?”

“Yes, I want to know. I wasn’t there, you remember, and I was so unhappy that I didn’t ask anyone about what happened that day. I am trying to get a clearer picture of that time.”

He nodded. “Very well, miss. Mr. Winfield had been in London, and he came home a week or so before the accident. He seemed...a bit worried, maybe. Or downcast. But it was probably just that he was tired from the trip.”

“Did anyone come to visit Papa after he returned from the city? Did he have an argument with anyone?”

“No. He rode over to see Mr. Feringham one day, of course, but no one came to call. As for an argument, your papa never had an argument with anyone.” He shot a glare at Sloane. “Except you, sir. I heard you yelling at him in his office once. You said—well, I didn’t hear any words, really, just a bit at the end. Something about if he kept on with it, you’d kill him.”