Page 26 of The Shadow Key

Her voice is stiff, measured. As before, she will not meet his eyes.

Striving for politeness, Henry inclines his head.

‘Please tell her I shall be down directly.’

The housekeeper bobs, the scallops of her mobcap trembling, but as she begins to turn away Henry holds out his hand.

‘Mrs Evans?’

The woman stops, focuses her gaze on the door jamb.

‘Yessir?’

Henry searches for the appropriate words.

‘I do hope, madam, we can learn to get along together. I appreciate it will take all of us some time to adjust.’

At last, the old woman raises her eyes to his. For a long moment she watches him, seems to take him in piece by piece.

‘You’re very young for a doctor,’ she says quietly.

‘I’m more than qualified, I assure you.’

‘I’ve no doubt you are,’ Mrs Evans responds, her voice a little stronger than it had been moments before. ‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise. But you might find your age – amongst other things – will go against you.’

It is a loaded comment, delivered with a sharp eye that does not pretend to hide her disapproval.

Henry’s hackles rise.

‘I hope I will be given a chance to prove myself before I’m dismissed so readily.’

The housekeeper says nothing to this. Instead she says, voice clipped, ‘Miss Linette is expecting you. You’d best make haste.’

Mrs Evans pauses then, glances at his creased shirt, his sleep-mussed hair, and self-consciously Henry raises his hand to tidy it.

‘Forgive me, let me change. I’ll not be a moment.’

‘There’s no need,’ comes the reply. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here, not while his lordship’s away.’ A pause. ‘Follow me.’

The old woman turns, begins a brisk amble toward the stairs in a manner which belies her age. When Henry catches up with her he glances at her face, notes the way the woman’s lips pinch shut, as if determined to keep silent.

But he is not. He considers the vial and bullet left marooned on the coverlet in his room.

Henry appreciates that as the sister of the deceased, the housekeeper, at least, has sufficient cause to resent his presence here. Still, he thinks as they turn a corner and walk past a towering grandfather clock, she might be able to shed some more light on today’s discoveries, and when else will he have an opportunity to ask?

‘I understand,’ he begins, meaning to soften her before delivering the blow, ‘that my predecessor was your brother.’ The old woman pauses in her step, gives a short nod in assent. ‘Yet you go by Mrs Evans, not Miss? Forgive the impertinence, but I wondered why?’

They have reached the last flight of stairs. The housekeeper rests her age-spotted hand on the carved banister and Henry senses her bristle at the question.

‘It is customary for a housekeeper to be called “Mrs”. A formality, only. And if you forgive me the impertinence, Dr Talbot, you are clearly not familiar with country ways or the workings of a grand house. It makes me wonder if you’re quite suited to a position here.’

Mrs Evans has pinned him with such a hard look Henry feels compelled to defend himself.

‘I trained as an apprentice at Guy’s Hospital in London. I then attended university to train as a physician but found I preferred the study of anatomy and returned to Guy’s, where I later taught.’ Henry hesitates at the memory, feels again that now all-too-familiar twist of injustice. ‘I may have no knowledge of country ways or grand houses, madam, but I’m more than qualified in all aspects of medical practice. I’m no inexperienced boy fresh out of the schoolhouse.’

The housekeeper watches him. Henry chews his inner cheek. No matter what has happened since, he is proud of his background, of how far he has risen, and Mrs Evans seems to recognise it for her hard expression softens.

‘Very well.’

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