‘I thought he might have cut himself somehow – when I came down I found this dish towel by the sink, all bloodied.’ Sophie points to the stained cloth, in a pail of water by the door. ‘I put it in to soak straight away, and Cat can scrub it later, but I can’t promise all the stains will come out of it, madam. There was quite a lot of blood on it.’
‘Oh! How horrible … I do hope …’ Hester pauses. For some reason, her stomach is fluttering so much that her chest constricts, too tight to speak. She presses her fingers into her diaphragm, steadies herself. ‘Sophie,’ she says, in a voice that comes out odd and strained. ‘The shutters are all still closed upstairs. Where is Cat?’
‘Still closed? She’s not still in bed, surely – I turned the lock and banged on the door to be sure she was awake. Well over an hour ago.’ Sophie scowls.
‘But you haven’t seen her?’
‘No, but where else could she be? I locked the door when we went up, just as I’m supposed to …’
They are interrupted by a loud knock on the door. The two women pause, listen for the sound of footsteps going to answer it. There are none. They exchange a glance, and then Sophie begins to undo her kitchen apron.
‘No, no. I shall answer it, Mrs Bell. Please don’t trouble yourself,’ Hester says. She goes up to the hallway, and past the deafening wrongness of the dark front rooms, still shuttered to the bright morning outside. A man in smart uniform is at the door, young and fair, his moustache little more than a reddish blurring of his upper lip. Hester recognises him from church. His cheeks are flushed with excitement.
‘Constable Pearce, isn’t it?’ she says, and her effort to smile produces nothing more than a slight tremble of her mouth.
‘Good morning, Mrs Canning, I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m afraid I come with grave news, very grave news indeed. Is your husband at home? I would very much like to speak with him,’ the young policeman says, all in a rush.
‘I don’t … that is, he may be in his study, but he is often out at this hour … I would have to …’ She pauses, clasping her hands so tightly in front of her that the muscles begin to cramp. ‘What news is it? Please tell me.’ Constable Pearce shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, and his eyes fill with uncertainty.
‘I would much rather speak to your husband first, Mrs Canning. What I have to say is not suitable—’
‘Young man, if you have information regarding a member of my household, then please disclose it at once!’ Hester snaps, her heart racing so fast that it shakes her. The policeman flushes an even deeper colour, reluctance written all over him.
‘It’s your maid, Mrs Canning – Catherine Morley. I’m afraid she’s been found dead this morning. Murdered, I’m afraid,’ he says, not able to keep the thrill from his voice.
‘What?’ Hester whispers. For a second, everything is hung, everything pauses. Time seems to slow, and the halt between the tick and the tock of the clock stretches horribly long, and the air rushes out of Hester’s chest and will not return. She blinks and says: ‘No, you’re quite mistaken.’ But even as she speaks, she turns, goes back to the stairs and begins to climb them.
‘Mrs Canning?’ Constable Pearce calls, uncertainly, still hovering on the threshold, but Hester ignores him. Her walk becomes a run, and then a scramble, up the attic stairs and along the corridor to Cat’s door. She throws it open, and in her head she pictures the girl leaning her elbows on the window sill, staring out into the sunshine. So clearly can she see this – short dark hair growing in the shape of a V down the back of a fragile neck – that she manages to be shocked when Cat is not there. The bed is neatly made, and no trace of the girl’s possessions is left. Her gaze sweeps the room desperately, as fear pours into her, cold as ice, and her eyes light upon a small white envelope on the wash stand. Downstairs, she hears Sophie Bell begin to wail. Sophie, who never could help but to find things out from people.
An odd silence falls over Hester. The house itself is filled with noise – with footfalls as the policeman walks Sophie Bell back to the kitchens and tries to get a statement from her, and the woman’s loud and ugly sobbing all the while. And she barely seemed to tolerate Cat, Hester thinks, distantly. She picks up the envelope, which has her name on it, and carefully opens it. Cat’s handwriting, which she has never seen before, is elegant and sloping. Far more elegant than a maid’s should be. Far more elegant than her own. The words scroll with a gentle rhythm across the paper, and Hester casts her eyes over each of them before realising that she has not made sense of a single one. She slips the letter into her pocket and goes back downstairs on wooden legs, so stiff and unwieldy that she stumbles more than once.