Hush Now, Don't You Cry(63)

I didn’t see how she could have escaped us upstairs but I did wonder if she had a private little corner behind one of those locked doors where she could retreat and take a rest.

“Anyway, we’ve found you now,” I said. I felt a wave of relief that my vision of her lying on the rocks had merely been a product of my overactive imagination.

“What’s all the urgency, anyway?” she asked.

“Police Chief Prescott is here and wants all the servants outside, also the names and addresses of all the gardeners who aren’t here today.”

“All the gardeners?” She sniffed. “What’s all this about now, I’d like to know? Why don’t they just give the poor man a proper burial and let him rest in his grave?”

“I expect the police chief will make everything clear when we’re all assembled,” I said. “He’s waiting for us on the lawn with the family.”

We headed out of the front door. The servants had now added to the tableau, standing uncomfortably at attention behind those seated in the wicker chairs. The chef looked distinctly annoyed, the others worried. Chief Prescott looked up as we approached. “Ah, you’ve found her. Well done. Mrs. McCreedy, we need the names and addresses of all the gardeners. Then one of my men will go to their homes to fetch them.”

“I doubt you’ll find them at home on a fine Sunday afternoon,” Mrs. McCreedy said stiffly. “Newport men are mostly fishermen at heart. They’ll be out on a boat somewhere.”

“It will be dark before long. I expect we’ll find them,” he said. “My man here has a pad and pencil. So if you’d be so good…”

“I only know where you’d find Parsons, who is head gardener,” she said. “He’s in charge of the hiring and firing of the under gardeners. I can give you his address.”

“Very well.” Chief Prescott was looking decidedly vexed now, as if Mrs. McCreedy was deliberately holding things up—which maybe she was. Something had to explain her jumpy manner, her recent disappearance. I had thought before that she knew more than she was willing to tell us, but now I found myself wondering if maybe she had something to do with her master’s death. I looked at her—a big-boned, typical Irish woman of peasant stock. The kind I passed on the way to market every day at home. Surely such a woman would never concoct a plot to lure her employer outside and then poison him?

A young policeman scribbled down the address and then went over to the automobile. Chief Prescott waited until it had driven off, and then looked around the assembled group. “And while we’re waiting for the gardeners to arrive, we can maybe get some basic facts concerning the death of Brian Hannan. It is now confirmed that his death was no accident.” A gasp from one of the local girls. “Brian Hannan was poisoned, and the poisoner used prussic acid.” He paused. “I’m sure we’ve all come across it from time to time, dealing with wasps’ nests, for example. A fast-acting poison and a horrible death from suffocation. Somebody wishes that kind of death on a man who had apparently been a benefactor to all of you.”

A breeze from the ocean stirred ribbons in the maids’ caps and the womens’ skirts.

“So I think it behooves each and every one of you to help us find the cold-blooded killer and bring him to justice.”

“Or her,” I said.

Prescott looked sharply at me.

“Or her,” I repeated. “It is often said that poisoning is a woman’s crime.”

“Yes, but not in this case, surely.” He was clearly rattled by this. “A man does not drink a secret glass of whiskey with a woman. Simply not done, is it? And as for making sure he fell over the cliff—well, I think that might require a modicum of strength.”

Again my eyes went to Mrs. McCreedy, she who made up the beds in eight bedrooms and kept a house the size of a castle going year round. She’d have the modicum of strength all right.

Chief Prescott had clearly put me and my suggestion aside. He turned back to the group. “So I’m asking now, is there anything at all that you saw or heard that evening that would shed light on this horrible crime. Remember, a man who uses prussic acid to kill deserves no loyalty.”

There was silence apart from the sigh of the wind that was now gathering force again. I looked out to see a bank of storm clouds on the horizon. One of the maids put a hand up to hold on to her cap.

“And I ask you again—did not one of you see Brian Hannan arrive that evening?”

“I thought I saw him, sir,” one of the maids said hesitantly.

“And you are?”