Page 11 of Speculations in Sin

What excuse she’d give for hurrying upstairs with me, I did not know, but I decided not to argue with her. This was Cynthia’s home, and she could do as she pleased here.

Cynthia was impatient to begin. I left with her, setting my cookery book on a table near the door so I could reach it easily later.

The main floor was quiet when we emerged to it from the back stairs. I heard Mrs. Redfern’s voice floating down from the upper floors as she ordered the maids about, but there was no sign of Mrs. Bywater. Either she had gone out on her morning errands or was still in her bedchamber. I guessed the errands, as Mrs. Bywater was of a robust constitution and disliked sitting about for too long.

Sometime in the past, this house had been two narrow town houses, before an enterprising owner had purchased both and knocked them into one. It made the house quite large and had also given it mismatched back staircases. The one to the kitchen ended at the ground floor, which meant the servants had to cross briefly through the downstairs hall to another concealed staircase that took one to the upper floors and attics.

Cynthia confidently opened the door of the second staircase and ushered me inside. When we reached the second floor, she pushed open the panel that led to the family side and stepped out. I was a bit breathless, but she’d moved briskly without breaking stride.

“You go on,” Cynthia said in a rather loud whisper. “Let me know what you discover.”

She saluted me, turning away with a merry greeting for Sara, the upstairs maid. Sara was clearly puzzled about why Cynthia was popping out of the back stairs, but I saw her shrugand decide there was no accounting for Cynthia’s eccentric ways.

I continued the climb to the attics, which were abysmally cold this morning. I was lucky to have a chimney rising through my chamber, which lent a modicum of warmth, but the maids and footmen were not so fortunate. They slept two to a bed, which at least helped, but we would all be glad when summer came.

The attics were divided into rooms for the male and the female servants, a door in the short hall separating the two. I cautiously peered into the men’s side, but no one was about. The footmen were busily working, fearing Mrs. Redfern’s sharp tongue even more than they did Mr. Davis’s.

Mr. Davis’s room shared the thick chimney with me—the brick wall dividing our rooms had once been the end wall of the separate houses. His chamber was a bit larger than mine or Mrs. Redfern’s, but he did hold the superior position of all the staff in the house.

His room was painfully neat, I noted as I stepped inside and closed the door. I opened the wardrobe to find his suits hung in an orderly line. Two pairs of boots, polished until they shone, stood in a perfect row beneath the suits.

The bed had not been slept in, the pillow and coverlets without a crease. I found no sign that Mr. Davis had hastened away in agitation, no evidence that he’d packed his things and fled the house for good. A valise rested on top of the wardrobe but by the wilted look of it, was empty.

Nothing lay on his bedside table, no book or Bible, no candle to light his way. I doubted he dressed and undressed in the dark, so he must have taken any candlestick downstairs with him yesterday morning. Mr. Davis sometimes rose earlier than I did.

The drawer in the bedside table was likewise empty, and the wardrobe held nothing but his suits, boots, and in a drawer at the bottom, his shirts and unmentionables. Nowhere did I find personal possessions of any kind, or any trace of ones he might have taken away. Absent knickknacks would leave a clear spot in the thin film of dust on the night table; a book’s cover might leave a smudge in a drawer.

Not even monks lived this austerely, I reflected as I scanned the chamber. Or perhaps Mr. Davis simply hid his things well. I did not leave my letters, my one photo of Grace, and my hoard of cash on top of my bureau for all to find.

I sank to my hands and knees and lifted the hanging coverlet to peer under the bed. Mr. Davis must sweep here—or had a footman do it—because no snarls of dust greeted me. I saw only smooth boards, nothing to indicate any were loose, providing a convenient hidden cavity.

I was about to give up, when a bit of paper sticking out from under a slat that supported the mattress caught my eye. My heart beating faster, I thrust my hand under the slat and closed it around a stack of what felt like letters. I pried them out, careful not to drop any, and seated myself on the floor to study them.

There were a dozen in all, each directed toMr. Emery Davis, either care of his agency or this house in Mount Street. I was loath to open and read Mr. Davis’s post unless it became absolutely necessary, but I did note the return addresses scratched on some of the envelopes.

Most came from Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk, the address written in a clear, slanting hand. No personal name accompanied the direction, but the house was called Medford Cottage.

The remaining letters either came from his agency or had no return address at all. I could speak with his agency, I supposed, and ask if they had heard from him, but I was reluctantto do so. They might scratch Mr. Davis from their books if they thought him unreliable.

I stacked the letters together in the same order I’d found them and returned them to their hiding place, leaving the tiny corner peeping out as before. I climbed to my feet and brushed off my frock, feeling defeated.

The chamber had no other papers, no photographs or souvenirs. I knew Mr. Davis did not like clutter, but the bareness of his chamber was depressing. Then again, he might tuck anything personal into a cupboard or drawer in the butler’s pantry, which was where he spent most of his days. That would be the next place I thoroughly searched.

Finished here, I turned for the door.

The handle was yanked out of my hand even as I touched it. The door wrenched open before I could puzzle out what was happening, and Mr. Davis himself paused on the threshold.

His usually affable face went slack with shock before he drew himself up into his butler’s icy hauteur.

“Mrs. Holloway,” he demanded in fury. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?”

4

Shame rolled over me, making my face hot and my mouth dry. I must have worn the same expression as the footman I’d caught the other day nicking a bite of pie out of the larder.

“Mr. Davis,” I managed to say.

“That is my name, not an explanation.”

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