Page 35 of Evidence of Evil
“Oh, that only works on men of a certain type,” she said dismissively.
“Whatever,” he said. “We’re only guessing about Frances, since neither of us ever met her.”
“True. But I think it’s a reasonable guess. Furthermore, I think she exercised it on Sir Humphrey’s children, either to hurt Elizabeth or just to make them her little minions. It probablyworked on most of the village—except Mrs. Phelps—and her own household.”
Solomon began to deny any proof of that, but then said instead, “I suppose it would explain why the butler did not tell her father she had gone out in the evening.”
“It might. Or she might have used her alternative weapon—the kind of threats she made to Sir Humphrey and Elizabeth, the people she could not get around.”
Solomon shook his head. “Even if you’re right, we need proof for such a motive. And supposing we had it, we would still have no idea how or where she died. I think we need to talk to the Fairfield servants again, without the presence of the brother or father.”
“I didn’t get the impression John was under his sister’s thumb, did you? I caught a wry, almost cynical smile on his lips when she was being discussed. I think he is merely defending the respectability of the family. I would like to talk to him again.” Her eyes began to gleam as she glanced up at Solomon. “I would also like to have a good look around her private rooms. If they haven’t thrown out all her things.”
“I can’t see Colonel Niall—or even John—giving us permission for that.”
“Neither can I,” Constance said with a quite dazzling smile. “I’d be surprised if the police themselves had been allowed near. So let’s not ask them.”
*
Before dinner, Constancedragged Elizabeth into her bedchamber and showed her the drawings she had made of the outside of the Grange, and the plans of the inside.
“I’d forgotten how well you remember everything you see and hear,” Elizabeth said with a faint, admiring smile.
“Do you know which is the window to Frances’s rooms?”
Elizabeth pulled the drawings of the back of the house and the left gable out from under the others. “Those,” she said, touching the second-floor windows on the corner, one at the side of the house, and two at the back. Exactly where Constance had noticed the closed curtains as she walked around from the kitchen this morning. “She waved to us from that one when we were in the garden one afternoon.”
“Ah. Then you have never been in her bedroom?”
“Actually, I have been. The rooms were redecorated for her return. She has a bedroom, a dressing room, and a sitting room. More than either John or the colonel, apparently. She was eager to show them to me, as though they were a sign of her status. And I have to admit, they are lovely rooms and very tastefully furnished.”
“Excellent.” Constance reached for the internal plan she had begun. “Show me here.”
Elizabeth stared at her. “Constance, what are you up to?”
“Don’t ask.”
She did not look much comforted. “Pleasedon’t do anything that will reflect badly on Humph! He is a magistrate, remember.”
“Of course I won’t,” Constance said, crossing her fingers behind her back. “Now, where exactly is her bedroom door?”
*
Although it gotcold in the evenings, Sarah Phelps was saving her firewood for the winter. She let her fire die back once her supper was eaten and set about bottling the last of her fruit preserves. There had been a decent harvest of gooseberries, raspberries, and apples this summer. Along with the wheat and the beans and carrots she grew on her land, and the milk, butter,and cheese from her cow, it would ensure she lasted another winter.
It wasn’t much of a goal, but it was the only one she’d had since George’s death. God had granted them no children, and either George or the law—it didn’t much matter which—had given the smithy to his wastrel nephew. Sarah would rather have been a blacksmith than a farmer, but no one considered it right for a female. So, here she was, surviving by means of work she’d known nothing about five years ago.
It was well after dark, and she knew she should go to bed. She had to be up at dawn to milk the cow and get through all her other chores before the next night. It wasn’t much of a life, not on her own. The only thing that made it interesting was observing her neighbors, who discounted her because she was mad.
Fools,she thought as she wandered outside into the darkness of her yard. Would George have married her if she’d been mad? He’d had the pick of all the village maidens, for he’d been a good man, a fine-looking man, and possessed a thriving business. But he’d chosen Sarah. Admittedly, she’d been not bad looking in those days, in a statuesque kind of way. Most of the young men had been too frightened of her, but George wasn’t.
They’d had a good marriage. The villagers forgot that. And they’d have let her starve when she lost the smithy. She should be grateful to Sir Humphrey for renting this place to her for so little—and she was, underneath her grumpiness. He wasn’t a bad man, despite his temper and his ill luck with wives.
Sarah had quite liked the first Lady Maule. She wasn’t so sure of the second, who’d come to The Willows as the governess. Even then, she’d had the kind of eyes that had seen too much tragedy and wouldn’t let it stand in her way again. But at least she was kind enough.
Not like those stuck-up fools at the Grange. She almost laughed at Frances Niall’s airs of superiority. If her neighbors had known what Frances did, they would have turned their backs on her. Her family would have thrown her out.
Usually, Sarah quite liked people who were different. Not Frances. She was all spite.
