The Midwife's Tale(49)

The sense of order that pervaded Stephen Cooper’s study bordered on the fanatical. His massive desk lay directly across from the door, so that anyone who entered would find the man hard at work. I surveyed the office. Behind the desk on a shelf were perhaps a dozen large, leather-bound books, presumably where he kept his accounts. The walls were lined with hundreds of books that appeared to have been organized by height; folios, quartos, and octavos all stood together with no intermixing at all. The spine of each one was flush with the edge of the shelf. Four quills sat on the desk, lying perfectly parallel with the front edge, and an ink pot with a fifth quill still in it sat next to them. I looked more closely and found that the pot still was nearly full of dried ink. The wasted ink seemed out of place with the prevailing order of the rest of the office, and I took it to mean that Stephen had mixed a batch of ink just before he died. But if that was the case, what had he planned to write? There were no papers or books on his desk.

Two cabinets flanked the door through which I’d entered. Presumably this was where Stephen had kept his business papers. They were secured with small locks, better for discouraging snooping servants than resisting determined thieves. My eyes fell upon the chest Esther had described. I crossed the room and knelt by the chest but immediately realized that the key Esther had given me was far too large for the flimsy lock that secured the strongbox. I considered the situation, for it raised a number of vexing questions, the most immediate of which was how I would open the chest. After a moment, I realized that I didn’t need a key.

“Martha,” I called down the stairs, “may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Yes, my lady,” she said as she climbed to the third floor. I closed the door behind her and explained the situation.

“The key and the lock don’t match?” she asked, no less confused than I.

“We’ll talk about that later. But right now I need you to open the lock.”

She brightened at my request and without hesitating removed a leather pouch from her apron. She selected two delicate tools from the pouch and began to probe the lock. After a few minutes, I heard the lock snap open. She turned and handed me the lock with a flourish. “My lady,” she said, and started for the door.

I put my hand on her arm to stop her. “That didn’t take long. Was it a simple lock to pick, or are you that expert?” I asked.

“Well, I am an expert,” she said with a modest smile, “but it was dead easy. That lock is better suited for protecting your linen than…” She stopped and gazed at the chest. “Why would someone put so weak a lock on that kind of chest?”

“Why indeed?” I asked. “We’ll worry about that anon. It’s open now, and you should get back to Ellen.” Martha slipped out of the room and started down the stairs. I closed the study door and briefly pondered the meaning of the lock I held in my hand. No answers presented themselves, so I turned my attention to the contents of the chest.

The lid of the chest opened as silently as the door, revealing several large bundles of letters, each tied carefully with a silk ribbon. I leafed through them and saw that Stephen had made copies of every letter he sent and matched it with the reply, then grouped them by the subject of the exchange. I carefully placed each bundle in my valise. To my surprise, there was a single loose letter lying at the bottom of the chest. I slipped it into my bag with the rest and looked in confusion at the empty chest. Esther had been very clear that Stephen kept his diary in the chest—but where was it? I searched the room, but everything seemed to be in its place. The desk drawers were all unlocked and contained a few account books along with a well-thumbed Bible, but no diary. I scanned the room one last time but could find nothing more of interest, so I took my bag and descended the stairs.

I followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, but when Ellen and Martha heard me coming, the conversation stopped. As I entered the room, Ellen began to scrub the table furiously, though it seemed clean enough to me. I considered her situation and felt the same sympathy for her that I had for Martha the day she came to my door. She seemed a hardworking and conscientious girl, but her life had been blown off course by winds far more powerful than she. With Martha now in my household, I could not take on another servant, but I thought I could find a place for her.

“Ellen,” I said, “have you thought about where you will go?”

“Go? I won’t go anywhere. I’ll wait here for Mrs. Cooper to return.”

“What if she doesn’t?” prodded Martha. “She has been convicted of petty treason.” Ellen seemed unsettled by the question but said nothing.