Charlotte gaped.
“Not the murder part,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, shuffling papers around on the desk. “The husband part. He was not … dear to me. I suppose you think I should have divorced him. To my mind, divorce is vulgar, common, modern in the worst way. Besides, Pembrook Park was his family home. I used to be proprietress of three estates. Now, because of him, this is all I have.”
“If your husband had forced you into a divorce, he would have kept Pembrook Park and then sold it.”
“The bank took Bertram Hall and would have claimed Windy Nook as well, if we had not found a renter. Though this estate was my husband’s before our marriage, Miss Charlotte, my inheritance fixed it up, my savvy created a business with enough income to maintain it. He would have let wild animals roost in the sofas and damp rot the wood. He never cared for this place, but he insisted on playing a part in the cast, most likely so he could ogle the women. Well, some time ago he went too far, was aggressive with one of my guests, and I finally put my foot down. So he wanted to divorce, sell the Park, and split the profit. And I would lose the only thing I love.”
“And Mallery knew this.”
She nodded. “He has been a part of our repertory cast for years. True, he sometimes exhibited irritation with the clients, but only when they did not adopt proper respect for the house and their own characters. Nevertheless, he was visually pleasing to the ladies. Three years ago he suffered some personal loss—a dead mother or a sister or such. After that, he wanted to stay on as a permanent cast member, without breaks. During winter holidays he lives here as caretaker. He loves this house.”
She spoke with pride.
“You felt a kinship with Mallery,” said Charlotte.
“He was the one person who wanted to live in this bygone time as much as I.”
“And he was so determined to stay that he killed your husband.”
Finally the woman showed some emotion, her forehead agitating. But she reasserted her calm.
“Perhaps. Now, if you will excuse me.” She turned back to her papers.
“He was your husband for a long time,” Charlotte said. “It’s okay to grieve a little.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Even the jerks earn some of our affection. We can be glad they’re gone and yet still mourn the good parts. Were there good parts?”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook started to cry. She cried like someone who didn’t know how it was done. Her face contorted at the unfamiliar sensations, and she smeared the tears aggressively with the heel of her hand.
“Is that what you do?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook asked in a wet, strained voice. “You admit you are glad your husband is gone and yet still hold in your heart the few memories that are precious? Is that how you maintain your queenly poise?”
This caught Charlotte off guard, and her chin started quivering.
“No. I’m a wreck,” she said in the squeaky high voice of one who is determined not to cry.
“You do not seem like it,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook squeaked back.
“Thanks,” Charlotte chirped. “I do yoga. Ninety percent of confidence is posture.”
“I didn’t know that,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook cheeped. “How fascinating.”
And with gazes averted and voices strained and high as mice, they talked about yoga some more, as well as the pros and cons of corsets, the most comfortable sorts of chairs, and the weather, just for good measure.
Charlotte made certain that eddie accompanied Mrs. Wattlesbrook directly to the inn to phone the police, and the drawing room gabbers broke up for the night. There were only so many times anyone could exclaim, “I can’t believe Mr. Mallery killed Mr. Wattlesbrook, what-what!”
Charlotte was dead tired. Was this really the same day she dove into the pond and spied Mr. Wattlesbrook’s German-engineered coffin? That seemed weeks ago, but her corset still hung over the radiator, its dampness proof.
She considered knocking at Miss Charming’s door to ask for a sleepover, but she was too beat. Besides, Mallery was well tied and guarded by Justin, and the police would be there any moment.
She took off her dress, laid it on a chair, and went to the bathroom, flicking on the electric light.
“Mary!” she said.
Mary startled, dropping Charlotte’s toiletries bag onto the floor. Eye shadow and lipsticks rolled, and loose powder escaped in a puff. The runaway maid was still in her serving garb, though it looked dirty, as if she’d been crawling through unswept places.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Mary said guiltily.
“What are you doing here?”
“I …” Mary looked around, as if unsure. “I had something. I was going to do something.”
This girl was missing a few cards. Or a few dozen. Charlotte backed out of the bathroom.
“No one could find you earlier.”
“Yes, I was hiding.” Mary looked at the ground, fidgeting with her skirt. “I never should have left him alone with you. I should have protected him.”
“Mallery is not what he seems, Mary.”
Mary tilted her head, contemplating Charlotte as if she were an alien, and said matter-of-factly, “He’s the most perfect man who ever lived.”
“He killed Mr. Wattlesbrook.”
“Perhaps,” she said, her eyes unfocused. “I saw him take the old man into that room and come out alone, only I didn’t snoop because I’m a good girl. I fetched him some gloves from the kitchen when he asked. He trusted me to wash the pond mud out of his clothes. And I trust him. If he had to kill someone, then I’m sure he had a good reason.”
“He also tried to kill me.”
“Obviously because he couldn’t trust you. It’s your own fault.”
“That’s for the police to decide,” Charlotte said.
Mary’s crazy eyes burned a little crazier.
“I can’t stand it. I can’t stand to think of him locked up. He’ll be so unhappy. He’s like a dog that needs to get out and run.”
Charlotte was close to the bedroom door. She moved slowly so she wouldn’t alarm Mary, but she also felt no hurry. Mary was slight. If it came to a fight, Charlotte thought she could handle this girl.
“Locked up forever, no sunshine, no country air, no chance he will ever touch me again …” Mary touched her own neck, and a shudder ran visibly through her body.