Murders in, Volume 2 by Elizabeth Daly Page A

can.”
    â€œI never thought, Eliza. Of course, you must have extra help. Uncle has probably been too upset by all this to think of it.”
    â€œNor do we wish to remind him, at present. If you could—”
    â€œOf course I will. I don’t know what Uncle can have been thinking of. You don’t have to maid her, I hope?”
    â€œNot a thing has she asked me to do, Miss, not since she appeared, with no coat nor no ’at, and came to ’er senses in the drawing room. But she never steps out of the ‘ouse, and it’s not right that she should take care of ’erself, let alone that ’ead of ’air.”
    â€œI’ll speak to Uncle. No, I’ll leave him a note.”
    Miss Vauregard sat down at a little desk in the corner, and began to write. Gamadge said:
    â€œThe poor thing had no luggage, either, I think.”
    â€œNo, Sir; she did not.”
    â€œHow in the world did she lose her hat?”
    â€œIt was borrowed from a passenger on the boat, Sir.”
    â€œDreadful thing to happen to an English lady.”
    â€œSir, if she is an English lady she was brought up somewhere else.”
    â€œReally? Lost her native characteristics, has she?”
    â€œI couldn’t ’ardly say what she has lost, Sir, but John and I ‘ave the same impression.”
    â€œBurned her clothes, Mr. Vauregard says. That shows you what she’d been through.”
    â€œSir, when I brought up early tea, she said: ‘I ’ave ’ad these things on my back for weeks and weeks, and if your ’usband will light a fire in the furnace, I will burn them.’”
    â€œFurnace? She said furnace?”
    â€œThat,” replied Eliza, with a resigned look at him, “is what she said—or so I remember it.”
    Miss Vauregard looked up from her writing. Gamadge continued: “I should have thought she knew nothing about furnaces.”
    â€œDon’t they ’ave central ’eating on the Continent, Sir?”
    â€œNot where Miss Smith is supposed to have been. So she burned the things in the furnace, did she?”
    â€œSir, she did more than burn them. She waited in the cellar until they were ashes, and then she raked out the pan.”
    â€œRaked out the pan, did she? Dear me.”
    â€œAnd scraped it. I think,” said Eliza, in the hushed tone of shock, “she put the ’eap down the drain.”
    â€œVery thorough.”
    â€œJohn and I were greatly distressed, Sir; we thought ’er sufferings had sent the young lady off ’er ’ead.”
    â€œLooks like it.”
    â€œWe ’ardly like the Master being alone with ’er.”
    â€œBut she seems to be improving, doesn’t she?”
    â€œQuite the lady, Sir. But that beautiful thick silk the dress was made of! I ’aven’t seen such silk in years. It did seem cruel to put it on the fire.”
    â€œToo good to burn, was it?”
    â€œFresh as when it came out of the shop, it looked.”
    â€œHow was it you and your husband didn’t see her arrive?”
    â€œI was up ’aving my sleep, and John was ’aving a nap, as usual, on that sofa there. After ’e takes up the coffee at five o’clock, ’e ’as nothing to do until the sherry goes up at seven.”
    â€œUnless callers come.”
    â€œThe Master only sees ’is friends very rarely, nowadays; and ’e always tells us when ’e expects them.”
    â€œThese windows are screened off from the garden by bushes, aren’t they?”
    â€œWhat we can’t make out,” said Eliza uneasily, “is why that young lady should ’ave come by the garden door. The Master often takes a stroll after his coffee, and ’e says ’e saw her at the gates; why did she stand at the gates, we want to know? Miss, and Sir, I won’t say it’s none of our business, because we have took care of the Master for forty years; but