Page 16 of One Last Whisper

Theresa nods. “We have to purchase supplies from time to time, and his Lordship’s driver has to be at his Lordship’s beck and call. So he’s purchased a wagon for us to use when we need it. If you go to the garage, Willem will give you a key. Go to the market in Tarly. It’s the first village you come to driving south along this road. It’s a little farther than Clifton, but the shopkeeper there is more honest.”

She hands me the list, and I head to the garage for the car.

Willem hands me the key, frowning darkly. Not at me. I can see in his eyes that he is concerned for the missing maid.

“Willem,” I ask, “do you know anything about the young man Sarah was dating?”

Willem shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, Miss Mary. We try to keep our private lives to ourselves. Makes for less awkwardness at work.”

I purse my lips. I have worked in many different environments in my life. In not one of those environments have people refrained from sharing nearly every detail of their personal lives. “So you’ve heard nothing?”

Willem sighs. His dark frown fades to a look of dejection and remorse. "People here are taught to stay out of everyone's business. We're taught that it's better to focus on your own life and not worry about others. I've always thought life is better when people are concerned with themselves and not mixed up in things that don't concern them. Now…" His shoulders slump. "We all heard her say he was a kind and sweet young man. We just took her at her word. I suppose we should have looked deeper into it."

He straightens and takes a deep breath. “Anyway, the police have interrogated him. I overheard the inspector say that he has an alibi. It turns out she never met him at the theater.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“Just so. He waited for her for twenty minutes after the show started. The theater’s cameras have him standing in the lobby. Finally, he went home. He called her and texted her, and when she didn’t answer, he assumed she wasn’t interested in him anymore. So it looks like he’s not the killer. But someone is. Maybe if we weren’t so private, we might know who.”

His shoulders slump again. “Anyway, here’s the key. It’s in stall ten.” He tries for a smile but fails badly. “Have a good day, Miss Mary.”

He walks away, and I make my way to the car, my thoughts even more disturbed than previously. There must be someone I can speak to who will have a better idea of what happened to that poor girl.

The car is a late model of what an American would call a minivan. Hardly luxurious but more than adequate for the needs of a household servant.

It’s only when I’m on the road to Tarly that my idea formulates in my head. I don’t mention it to Theresa, but I actually know where Tarly is. I drove through it on my way to the manor. It’s nine miles south of Blackwood Castle. The people there will surely be familiar with the goings-on at the manor. If anyone can confirm the potential history of disappearances here, it will be the townsfolk.

I reach the market fifteen minutes later. It’s a charming little shop that is most accurately compared to an American general store. In the smaller towns of England and most of Europe, in fact, shopping is rarely completed at a single massive supermarket. Shoppers visit the dairy, the butcher, the grocer and the market. Perhaps this is because shopping is considered a social activity here as much as it is considered a chore or a task.

I find evidence of this in the little shop here in Tarly. The proprietor is a kindly, bespectacled man with a burly frame, wire rimmed sunglasses and a long white beard that reaches his chest. It would not be inaccurate to say he resembles Santa Claus in all of the best ways.

He talks with another English stereotype, a rough-looking, middle-aged fisherman with powerful arms underneath sleeves rolled to the elbows. He clenches a pipe between his teeth, and I’m quite sure it remains there whether he has tobacco to smoke or not.

It’s not so much the men who interest me as the conversation I overhear. It seems I won’t have much digging to do to hear what the town’s understanding of Sarah’s disappearance is.

“D’ye think they’ll ever find the girl?” the fisherman asks in a thick Northumberland accent.

“Doubt it,” the proprietor replies in an accent not quite as thick. “They never find the missing ones.”

“What d’ye think ‘e does with ‘em?”

The proprietor chuckles. “What d’yethink ‘e’ does with ‘em?”

The fisherman scoffs and flexes his hands. The muscles in his forearm ripple. “I’d like to have a go at ‘im, I would. Teach ‘im to treat people like they’re cattle.”

“Have a go,” the proprietor encouraged. “‘E’s a high lord, he is. What d’ye think’ll happen to ye? Won’t make it five steps through the front door before you’re taken. Then you’ll be one of the disappeared.”

The two men notice me and fall silent. The fisherman pushes off of the counter and tips his cap to the proprietor. “See you later, Gavin.”

“Aye.”

The fisherman tips his cap to me, then walks out. The proprietor smiles and rings up my cart. “Ye’re new here.”

“Yes. I’m the new governess for Master Oliver Blackwood.”

Gavin stops still. He meets my eyes, and the fear in his expression disturbs me. He plays it off and says, “Well, don’t be puttin’ too much stock in what ye hear around Tarly, love. It’s all ghost stories, anyway.”

I hesitate. The prudent thing to do would be to leave and not pry any further.

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