The Secret of Pembrooke Park(33)

She shook her head emphatically. “I was in my bed. Mindin’ my own affairs. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. I was fast asleep all night.”

The line “The lady doth protest too much” crossed Abigail’s mind. But she said only, “I see. So you were in the house, but when you rose the next morning, they were gone? The whole family?”

Mrs. Hayes nodded. “I was sorry to see the missus go. Always decent to me she was.”

“Had she planned to leave for some time? Mac said you’d all been paid through the end of the quarter and let go.”

Again she nodded. “I think she feared what he would do to us if we were there when he discovered his family had left ’im. He was away hunting, you see. But he came home early and figured out what she was plannin’—that’s my guess. And tried to put a stop to it.” She shook her head. “Poor Master Harold.”

“Master Harold?” Abigail said. “What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. I saw nothing.”

“Mrs. Hayes, what do you think happened that night, if you were to guess?”

“I think he found her valise. Packed to leave. And her purse full of the money she’d been saving. Either that, or one of the boys gave it away. Not the girl. Not one for talkin’, she weren’t.”

“And what did Clive Pembrooke do when he found out they were planning to leave him?”

“Don’t know exactly. I may have heard a gunshot that night. Or maybe it was only a lightning strike. In the morning, after everyone had gone, I found blood on the hall floor.”

Abigail sucked in a breath. “Blood? Whose blood?”

“Can’t say for sure. I may have peeked, or I may have only dreamt it.”

“Are you saying Clive Pembrooke shot someone?” Abigail asked in horror. “Someone of his own family . . . ?”

“I never said that. You didn’t hear it from me. In the morning, everyone was gone. All gone! I saw the blood, see. But no body. So I must have dreamt it, hadn’t I?” Her voice rose. “Don’t tell a soul, miss! Not a soul! We don’t want Master Clive to come back and exact vengeance, do we?”

Abigail swallowed and shook her head. She glanced through the open door into the kitchen to gauge Eliza’s reaction. Eliza had gone to prepare tea, but at the moment she sat at the worktable writing something.

Abigail lowered her voice, trying not to rile Mrs. Hayes further. “Did they take the carriage? Were the horses gone?”

“Aye. The coach and carriage horses were gone. And Black Jack.”

“But they took none of their belongings?”

“Oh aye, the mistress and the children took one valise each. But not one thing was missing from Clive Pembrooke’s room. I even asked Tom to come in and look, to see if he agreed.”

“Tom? Tom who?”

“Tom Green. The footman. Everyone knows that.” The old woman frowned. “Now, what was your name again?”

Eliza came in with a tray, and Mrs. Hayes’s attention was soon fully focused on her tea and toasted muffin. Abigail decided not to press the matter any further for the time being, and the conversation turned to more general topics of weather and parish life. When Eliza offered her more tea, Abigail noticed she no longer wore the brooch.

“Your brooch is gone,” she said. “I hope you didn’t lose it.”

Eliza ducked her head. “No, I only took it off. Didn’t want it falling into the soup.”

“What? Who fell?” Mrs. Hayes asked. “He said Walter fell to his death, but I know better. He was pushed.”

Walter? Was that the name of the valet who died in Pembrooke Park, Abigail wondered, trying to remember what Polly had told her.

“Hush, Auntie. Miss Foster admired my brooch—that’s all.”

Mrs. Hayes nodded over her teacup. “Ah. E for Eliza. That’s right.”

Later, as she walked home, Abigail reviewed what she’d learned from the letters, along with the information she’d gleaned from Duncan, Polly, Mac, and now Mrs. Hayes. Abigail wondered where Clive’s family was now. The letter writer was apparently his daughter. The “Miss Pembrooke” Mrs. Hayes had mentioned. Abigail thought again of Eliza bent over quill and paper. She should have asked her what she was writing.

When she returned to Pembrooke Park, Abigail decided to do a little writing of her own. She went into the library, retrieved paper, quill, and ink, and wrote a letter to the solicitor.

Dear Mr. Arbeau,

I would like to ask the name of your client, the executor you mentioned of Pembrooke Park. I would also like an address so that I may write to this person. Or more accurately, so that I may write back in reply to her letters. You see, Mr. Arbeau, someone is writing to me here. Someone who has lived here before and is evidently female. I deduce the person must be Miss Pembrooke, though I suppose I may be wrong. In any case, would you please give me the name and direction of your client? Or if you prefer, ask your client if I may contact her?

Thank you for your assistance in this matter.

Sincerely,

Miss Abigail Foster

Molly knocked on the open library door and brought in the day’s post—a letter from Mamma.

“Thank you, Molly.” Abigail opened it and read.

Dear Abigail,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits, and settling well into Pembrooke Park. Your father gives a good account of your efforts, but says it is well Louisa and I were not there to see it in its initial, neglected state. I know you will endeavor long and admirably to put it to rights for us before we arrive at the end of the season.