Page 65 of One Wicked Secret
“How long has Mrs Melville been the housekeeper at Edenberry?”
“At least ten years.”
“And you trust her?” Perhaps the woman wasn’t visiting her sister but running away.
“I have no reason to doubt her loyalty to my family. My mother adored her. They took tea together most afternoons.”
“And your father?”
The strained pause was telling.
“Elsa, you heard what Daventry said. A smudge of purple ink on a cushion helped him catch a notorious thief. Every small detail is important.”
“I know,” she said, tightening her grip on his arm. “It’s just a feeling I had. A thrum in the air when Mrs Melville entered the room. My father’s preoccupation with the household accounts.”
“What are you saying?” He had his suspicions but was reluctant to suggest an affair.
“That it wasn’t all dusting and decorum between them. When my mother became ill, she told Mrs Melville to look after my father. I’m unsure of the specifics, but I know he enjoyed her company.”
Mrs Melville’s reluctance to leave Edenberry made sense now. No doubt she had sworn to take care of Magnus and Elsa, too. Maybe she knew their lives were in danger. Maybe she held the clue to solving this damnable mess.
“Perhaps I should question Mrs Melville,” she said, dodging the stray dog that bolted past. “I fear she will see youas an outsider, and probably doesn’t know you’re the one who’s been paying her wages.”
“I was going to suggest the same.”
The investigation amounted to more than clearing her name—it was about saving her life, not just her reputation. Her happiness hinged on the outcome, and his admiration for her grew whenever she found the strength to fight.
As they neared The Castle Inn, Daniel checked the address on the note he retrieved from his pocket. “Mrs Melville’s sister lives at No. 8.” He pointed to the house with the blue paint-chipped door.
Elsa squared her shoulders before knocking twice.
She scanned the street as she waited, but he had already noted every beady-eyed figure lingering in shop doorways, his gaze sharp, anticipating an attack.
A young woman opened the door, wiping her hands on her pinny. “Can I help you?” Her accent carried the sharp, clipped tones of a Londoner raised in the workhouse. “Need something fixed?”
“Fixed?”
She nodded to Elsa’s green pillbox hat. “Do you want Martha to do a bit of titivating to your hat?”
“What’s wrong with my hat?”
The woman shrugged a bony shoulder. “There ain’t nothing wrong with it, but I thought the milliner on Milk Street sent you here.”
“No. I’m here to see Mrs Melville.” Elsa introduced herself and mentioned Edenberry. “I was told she’s visiting her sister. Is Mrs Melville at home?”
The woman beckoned them into the narrow hall, a cramped space where they were forced to stand closetogether. The comforting aroma of chicken broth wafted through the air, and Daniel’s stomach rumbled in response.
“Follow me and mind your step. I dropped a pot of pins this morning. The dratted things scattered like leaves in the wind. The cat stepped on one and howled as if the butcher’s boy had grabbed its tail.”
Mrs Melville was in the kitchen, stirring the contents of a cast-iron pot hanging over the hearth. A stout woman with silver-threaded hair and shrewd eyes, she looked delighted to see Elsa, but her smile died when she locked eyes with Daniel.
“Mr Dalton.” Mrs Melville set down her wooden spoon as if bracing herself for bad news. “I trust all is well at Edenberry.”
“Yes, but I’ve summoned the staff back to work. I received word you were in town and came to invite you to return when you can.”
The loyal housekeeper jumped as if eager to pack. “The stage leaves La Belle Savage tomorrow morning. Is the master home from his travels?”
“Not presently. Is there somewhere we might speak privately?”
