Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue by Victoria Thompson

told Maeve that they’d found an empty trunk in Una Pollock’s bedroom, so she hadn’t brought one with her. Sure enough, the small trunk sat in a corner of the bedroom that Una had apparently shared with her husband.
    â€œWe need to pack up all of Mrs. Pollock’s belongings,” Maeve told the maid. “We can put them in this trunk, and we’ll get the coachman to carry it downstairs for us.”
    â€œYes, miss. I guess Mrs. Pollock won’t be coming back, will she?”
    â€œI can’t imagine she’ll want to live here after what happened, can you?”
    â€œOh, I . . . I guess not. But I was thinking she’ll be in jail.”
    Maeve had pulled open one of the dresser drawers to begin gathering the clothes, but she stopped and turned to look at the girl. “Do you think Mrs. Pollock killed her husband?”
    The girl’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, I . . . I wouldn’t want to say, miss. I’m sure I don’t know anything about it.”
    And Maeve was sure she knew a lot about it. “I understand you heard an argument before Mr. Pollock was killed. Did the Pollocks argue a lot?”
    The girl glanced anxiously at the open bedroom door. Maeve hurried over and shut it. “It’s important to find out exactly what happened to Mr. Pollock,” she said. “It would be horrible if the wrong person were punished for killing him, wouldn’t it? Not to mention how awful it would be for a killer to get away.”
    â€œOh, I never thought of that, miss.”
    â€œThat’s why we need to find out the truth of what happened that day.”
    The maid frowned. “But how can you help, miss? You’re not with the police, are you?”
    Smart girl, Maeve thought. “No, but I work for a private investigator that Mrs. Pollock’s mother has hired to help her.”
    â€œA private investigator?”
    Plainly, this was a new concept to the girl. “Yes, we help the police in situations like this.” The girl didn’t look as if she really believed Maeve’s lie, but she also had no reason todoubt it either. Maeve decided that was good enough. “So, did the Pollocks argue a lot?”
    â€œNot what you’d call arguing, no,” she said with a frown.
    â€œThen what would you call it?”
    The girl’s frown deepened.
    â€œIt’s all right to tell me,” Maeve said. “I won’t tell anybody where I heard it.”
    â€œWell, Mr. Pollock, he was very particular about . . . about everything.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, particular?”
    â€œHe liked everything just a certain way, and if it wasn’t that way, he . . . Well, he got real mad.”
    Maeve carefully schooled her expression so her excitement didn’t show. “Did he get angry with the staff?”
    The girl wrung her hands and wouldn’t meet Maeve’s eyes.
    â€œDid he hit you?” Maeve asked.
    â€œOh no, miss, not me,” she said quickly.
    â€œDid he hit someone else?”
    She hesitated, chewing her bottom lip as if uncertain how to reply. “He never hit the staff. Not once.”
    Maeve saw it then, the whole ugly picture. “But he did hit Mrs. Pollock, didn’t he?”
    â€œOnly when she deserved it, miss,” she hastily explained. “I told you he was particular, and she tried, she really did, but she couldn’t always please him. She wasn’t brought up in a nice house, and she didn’t know how to conduct herself, you see.”
    Fury roiled in Maeve’s stomach, but she kept her voice level. “Is that what he said?”
    â€œYes, miss. We could hear him, you see. He’d tell her how . . .” She caught herself and stopped, dropping her gaze to the floor.
    â€œHow stupid she was?” Maeve guessed. “And worthless and ugly?” How often had she heard men shouting those words in the