Anne Perry's Christmas Mysteries: Two Holiday Novels by Anne Perry Page A

cupboard door and sat down heavily on the bed. So far everything had gone quite marvelously. But there was a great deal to do. She must ascertain if Maude had indeed been murdered, if so by whom, precisely how—and it would hardly be complete if she did not also know why! How could she possibly do all that before they politely sent her home? Pitt had no challenge of mere hours in which to solve his cases! He went on for days! Sometimes even weeks! And he had the authority to ask questions and demand answers—not necessarily true ones, of course. She was going to have to be much cleverer than he was! It might not be quite so easy as she had assumed.
    Still, so far, so good. And she was much too angry to give up.

    H owever, later on, when in ordinary circumstances she would have been changing for dinner, she was overwhelmed by the strangeness of her surroundings and all the events that had occurred in the last few days. This time last week she had been in London with Emily and Jack, as usual. Then she had been upheaved and sent to St. Mary in the Marsh. She had barely settled to accepting that when Maude Barrington had arrived. That was almost accommodated, and Maude died, without the slightest warning of any sort!
    Grandmama had been the only one to perceive that it might well not be natural, but a crime, the most appalling of all crimes, and there was no one else but herself to find justice for it. And here she was sitting quite alone in a house full of strangers, at least one of whom she was now convinced was a murderer. Added to that she had not even fresh underclothes or a nightgown to sleep in. They had offered to lend her something, but all the women in the family were at least three or four inches taller than she was, and thinner as well, by more inches than that! She must have taken leave of her wits. Certainly she could never admit any of this to Caroline! Or anybody else. They’d have her locked up.
    There was a knock on the door and she started so violently she gulped and gave herself hiccups.
    “Come in!” she said, hiccuping again.
    It was the housekeeper, to judge from her black dress, lace cap, and the cluster of keys hanging from her waist. She was short and rather stout, exactly Grandmama’s own build.
    “Good evening, ma’am,” she said very agreeably. “I’m Mrs. Ward, the housekeeper. It was very good of you to come personally with the sad news. It must have inconvenienced you very much.”
    “Her death grieved me,” Grandmama answered frankly, relieved that it was a servant, not one of the family. “To come and tell you personally seemed no more than the obvious thing to do. She died among strangers, even if they were people who liked her immediately, and very much.”
    Mrs. Ward’s face colored as if with considerable emotion she felt obliged to hide. “I’m very glad you did,” she said with a tremble in her voice. She blinked rapidly.
    “You knew her,” Grandmama deduced. She made herself smile. “You must be grieving as well.”
    “Yes, ma’am. I was a maid here when I was a girl. Miss Maude would have been sixteen then.”
    “And Mrs. Harcourt?” Grandmama asked shamelessly. She must detect! Time would not wait upon niceties.
    “Oh, eighteen she was. And such a beauty as you’ve never seen.”
    Grandmama looked at the housekeeper’s face. There was no light in it. She might respect Bedelia Harcourt, even be loyal to her, but she did not like her as she had Maude. That was something to remember. Servants said little, good ones seldom said anything at all, but they saw just about everything.
    “And Mrs. Sullivan?”
    “Oh, she was only thirteen, just a schoolgirl, all ink and books and clumsiness, but full of enthusiasm, poor girl. The governess was always trying to get her to walk with the dictionary on her head, but she kept losing it.”
    “Dictionary?”
    “Only for the weight of it! Miss Agnes was perfectly accurate with her spelling. But that’s all in the past.