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An interesting tidbit. Especially since Mrs. Baker mentioned yesterday how she’d left Hope’s Endafterthe murders. I take another bite of muffin, mostly to cover the fact that my head is spinning with more questions.
“You must like it here,” I say after swallowing. “Or Miss Hope likes you. I heard most of the staff was let go.”
“A lot, yeah. The rest quit immediately after...”
Archie lets the rest of the sentence remain unspoken. Not that it needs to be said. I get the gist. Most of the staff would rather quit than continue working for a murderer.
“I’m sorry to have brought it up,” I say. “I was just surprised you’ve known Miss Hope all this time.”
“Since we were kids.” Archie’s voice has returned to its usual warmth. A relief. The man preparing my meals is the last person I want to piss off. “Growing up, Miss Hope and I were quite close.”
“Are the two of you still close?”
“Not like we used to be,” Archie says as his broad back stiffens and the hand stirring the pot goes still. “Things changed.”
What he doesn’t say—but what I infer—is that one thing changed. Namely, the murders of the rest of the Hope family.
“You’re welcome to come up and see her,” I say. “I think she’s lonely.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Archie says, once again all coldness as he ladles oatmeal into a bowl placed atop a wooden serving tray. He sets the tray in front of me and says, “Miss Hope’s breakfast. You should bring it up to her before it gets cold.”
I get the hint, even before Archie turns back to the stove. There’ll be no more talk about Lenora today. Or maybe ever.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I say before placing my coffee and another muffin atop the tray and carrying it up the service stairs.
At the halfway point, I’m met by Mrs. Baker on her way down. She’s dressed the same as yesterday: black dress, pale skin, red lips, glasses she lifts to her face to inspect my appearance.
“Good morning, Kit. I hope your first night here was pleasant.”
“It was,” I lie. “Thank you for asking.”
My gaze flicks to the jagged crack in the wall, wondering if Mrs. Baker’s noticed it yet. Surely she has. It’sverynoticeable. Yet she acts as if nothing is wrong.
“And you’re finding your new quarters satisfactory?”
“Very. Although I do have a question about Mary’s things.”
“Things?” Mrs. Baker says with a schoolmarmish head cock. “You’ll need to be more specific, dear.”
“Her belongings. Everything’s still in my room.”
“Everything?”
“Her books, her clothes, even her medical bag,” I say. As I’m talking, a thought pops into my head. “Is it possible she plans on coming back?”
The notion should have occurred to me sooner. It makes more sense than anything else about why she left everything behind. It could be that Mary really was called away—by her family or some other pressing matter—and has every intention of returning.
“If Mary were to return, she wouldn’t be welcomed back,” Mrs. Baker says. “Not after leaving Miss Hope all alone like that.”
I let out a little huff of relief. At least I still have a job. “But she could come back for her stuff, right?”
“It’s been a week,” Mrs. Baker says. “If she wanted any of it, she would have done that by now.”
“So what shouldIdo with it?”
“Just hold on to everything, if you don’t mind,” Mrs. Baker says, though in fact I do mind. This is literally a mansion, with dozens of empty rooms. Surely there’s somewhere else to store it all. “I’ll decide what to do with it all later.”
She acts as if that settles the matter, when in fact it doesn’t. She resumes her descent, forcing me to call after her.