doubt, because how could she have taken so long to get upstairs? So she hurries to open the door and swings it wide.
There, on the doorstep, stands a large man in a hat and a black coat, an umbrella swinging from his arm. A thick beard hides the bottom half of his face. "Good God, girl," he grunts, "how long does it take to answer a door?"
"I'm very sorry, sir."
He makes to step forward but she doesn't move. She knows that much—she must take his name, then show him in and announce him if the family is home. "Who shall I say is calling, sir?"
"Mr. Bentley." He watches her as she blinks.
"Oh, sir, I am so sorry. I didn't—"
"If I could come in, if you please." All stiff formality now.
She steps back out of his way and bumps a small table behind her. He hands her his hat and umbrella, then tugs off his coat. "Where's Cartwright?"
"On an errand, sir."
"And Sarah?"
"I don't know, sir. I think she went to the shops."
"You think?"
"Yes, sir." Her voice is quavering now. She grips his hat, feels the heat from his head still on it.
He hands her his coat. "And my wife? Is she in this afternoon?"
"I don't know sir, I—"
But he walks away, announcing, apparently not just to her but to the household at large, "This is not good enough. There will be repercussions, mark my words."
Her arms tremble as she reaches up to hang the coat and hat on the stand, right behind what looks like an identical hat. There is a brass umbrella stand, and she drops his umbrella into it. Then she makes for the door behind the stairs that lead to the servants' stairway back down to the kitchen. There she hides in the darkness, out of sight of Mrs. Johnson and Elsie. Maybe they hear her sobs coming down the stairs. Probably they do. But they do not come and see what is wrong, and she is thankful for that.
Chapter 4
U proar.
Mr. Cartwright out sending a telegram to summon the master home, Mrs. Johnson banging her pots at the stove, and upstairs the police treading to and fro. All except one young constable who has been put on duty in the kitchen and who is sipping a cup of tea that Mrs. Johnson has made for him. Every now and again he looks up at Jane to make sure she is still there across the table and, she thinks, to impress on her that he is watching her. She looks back just to show him she can. Of course, it might be taken the wrong way. Maybe she doesn't look innocent and able to meet his eye, but saucy or even brazen. Aren't these the words that are used about women of her class who go bad?
She has been sitting this way for over half an hour now, her back too straight, her fingers twisting together in her lap. No tea for her and, though no one has said as much, she knows they believe her guilty. The policeman who questioned her certainly seemed to think so, though he tried to hide it by being both stern and encouraging at the same time.
"And how would you describe this man, this 'Mr. Bentley' you opened the door to?" So she told him.
"Didn't you find him suspicious?" he wanted to know.
For wanting to come into his own house? What gentleman carries
his keys with him when he knows there are servants to open the door? She said as much and he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "You realize the gravity of what has happened?" he said. "And that it looks bad for you? Very bad. Not even a full day in the position and you've let a burglar into the house. We'll have to make enquiries, you know."
Where will those enquiries lead? To Mrs. Saunders, and to the truth that she is the daughter of a murderer? Yet she did not feel panic at the thought of it as she watched him write in his notebook then slide it into his pocket. He stood, looming towards her over the table to say, "Think things over, or it will be all the worse for you." With that he jerked his head at the younger policeman so he'd know to stay and
There, on the doorstep, stands a large man in a hat and a black coat, an umbrella swinging from his arm. A thick beard hides the bottom half of his face. "Good God, girl," he grunts, "how long does it take to answer a door?"
"I'm very sorry, sir."
He makes to step forward but she doesn't move. She knows that much—she must take his name, then show him in and announce him if the family is home. "Who shall I say is calling, sir?"
"Mr. Bentley." He watches her as she blinks.
"Oh, sir, I am so sorry. I didn't—"
"If I could come in, if you please." All stiff formality now.
She steps back out of his way and bumps a small table behind her. He hands her his hat and umbrella, then tugs off his coat. "Where's Cartwright?"
"On an errand, sir."
"And Sarah?"
"I don't know, sir. I think she went to the shops."
"You think?"
"Yes, sir." Her voice is quavering now. She grips his hat, feels the heat from his head still on it.
He hands her his coat. "And my wife? Is she in this afternoon?"
"I don't know sir, I—"
But he walks away, announcing, apparently not just to her but to the household at large, "This is not good enough. There will be repercussions, mark my words."
Her arms tremble as she reaches up to hang the coat and hat on the stand, right behind what looks like an identical hat. There is a brass umbrella stand, and she drops his umbrella into it. Then she makes for the door behind the stairs that lead to the servants' stairway back down to the kitchen. There she hides in the darkness, out of sight of Mrs. Johnson and Elsie. Maybe they hear her sobs coming down the stairs. Probably they do. But they do not come and see what is wrong, and she is thankful for that.
Chapter 4
U proar.
Mr. Cartwright out sending a telegram to summon the master home, Mrs. Johnson banging her pots at the stove, and upstairs the police treading to and fro. All except one young constable who has been put on duty in the kitchen and who is sipping a cup of tea that Mrs. Johnson has made for him. Every now and again he looks up at Jane to make sure she is still there across the table and, she thinks, to impress on her that he is watching her. She looks back just to show him she can. Of course, it might be taken the wrong way. Maybe she doesn't look innocent and able to meet his eye, but saucy or even brazen. Aren't these the words that are used about women of her class who go bad?
She has been sitting this way for over half an hour now, her back too straight, her fingers twisting together in her lap. No tea for her and, though no one has said as much, she knows they believe her guilty. The policeman who questioned her certainly seemed to think so, though he tried to hide it by being both stern and encouraging at the same time.
"And how would you describe this man, this 'Mr. Bentley' you opened the door to?" So she told him.
"Didn't you find him suspicious?" he wanted to know.
For wanting to come into his own house? What gentleman carries
his keys with him when he knows there are servants to open the door? She said as much and he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "You realize the gravity of what has happened?" he said. "And that it looks bad for you? Very bad. Not even a full day in the position and you've let a burglar into the house. We'll have to make enquiries, you know."
Where will those enquiries lead? To Mrs. Saunders, and to the truth that she is the daughter of a murderer? Yet she did not feel panic at the thought of it as she watched him write in his notebook then slide it into his pocket. He stood, looming towards her over the table to say, "Think things over, or it will be all the worse for you." With that he jerked his head at the younger policeman so he'd know to stay and
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