Page 66 of A Matter of Murder

“I certainly wasn’t privy to those decisions,” she said. “Perhaps the previous generations of Bingleys didn’t care for secret passageways leading into their bedchambers while they slept at night.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Lizzie muttered. But she could have sworn she saw Sally glance back with a wry half smile in the sliding shadows. “Do you explore the east wing often?”

Sally snorted. “No, miss.”

Something about the way Sally said “miss” felt mocking to Lizzie, but she chose to ignore it. “No? Not even to check to make sure that there are no trespassers?”

Sally was silent for so long, Lizzie was sure she’d offended her, which, given the dangerous situation Sally was leading her into, was probably not very wise.

“Not in several months,” she said finally. “Not since Mrs. Bingley died.”

It was not much, but it was a crack. Lizzie felt a surge of victory. She wanted to ask her about the other night but decided not to press too hard.

“What was the previous Mrs. Bingley like?”

“What do you mean?” Sally’s voice was cautious, but not entirely defensive.

“Well, I hardly know anything about her at all. Was she short, tall? Was she sickly, or was she hale? Did she enjoy walking, or was she confined to her chambers most of the day?”

Sally slowed, and Lizzie thought for a moment that she wouldn’t answer. But finally she said, “She was medium-height. She had silver hair she almost always wore in a braid, like a girl. She was kind, but she was sad. She was terribly lonely.”

This was not the first time Lizzie had heard of Honoria Bingley’s apparent loneliness. “If she was so lonely, then why—”

“Why was she a recluse?” Sally cut her off, as if she’d heard the question before. “Because this village wasn’t very nice to her when she arrived, and they were even more terrible to her when her husband died.”

Lizzie hadn’t always been mindful of such things, but she knew how awful people could be to those who were different from them—those with different physical characteristics, or those who came from beyond England’s shores. Charlotte had stories, and Lizzie had seen it in the Mullins case. “Did she ever think of going back?”

Sally scoffed. “Nothing for her to go back to. She lost her entire family before she was twenty-five.”

Now, that was a detail Lizzie hadn’t heard yet. “What happened?”

Sally stopped. Lizzie realized they’d reached the end of the service corridor and were standing before the entrance to the hall in the east wing overlooking the woods. Sally set the lamp on the floor and turned to face Lizzie. “She was the daughter of a Spaniard and an Englishwoman, as you might have heard. She was born in the colonies. Her entire family—father, mother, sisters—died of cholera not long after she came of age. She was left with a fortune in silver, but she had no one. Then, as she told it, a handsome Englishman and his brother came to her island, and she fell in love with him because of the stories he told about his family estate back home—how idyllic it was, the perfect place to grow up, how he dreamed of going home to the green fields of England and restoring his family home. And to a girl with no family and no attachment to her current home but an awful lot of money, well... you can’t be surprised about what happened next.”

Lizzie nodded. “She married him.”

“Exactly. And he brought her here, where she thought she’dfinally have a home and family. Only he didn’t want anything to do with her, not really. He wanted her silver to make the repairs and keep up the estate so his parents would stop writing and begging him to come home to do his duty, and then he wanted the rest for his adventuring while she stayed and kept a home. And when she put her foot down, well, he died. Then everyone else in the house got sick and died, exactly like her parents and sisters. She spent the rest of her life believingshewas cursed.”

Lizzie felt like wilting under Sally’s directness. She had nearly forgotten one of the trickiest things about any case—there were two sides to every story. And in this telling, Lizzie was starting to feel as though Honoria Bingley was less eccentric and more downtrodden than Lizzie had ever entertained.

“I’m sorry,” Lizzie said finally. “No one deserves to feel as though they’re at fault for all the misfortunes in their life.”

Sally huffed but said nothing more on the subject. She turned and stepped out into the main corridor of the east wing. “Come along.”

“Is it safe?”

“If you follow me, and step where I step. Now, call your dog.”

Lizzie gingerly stepped onto the moth-bitten, soot-stained carpet precisely where Sally had and shouted, “Guy? Guy, here boy!”

She paused to listen, and when she didn’t hear anything right away, she called again. This time, she heard a sad little yip, somewhere to her left and... above?”

“I know where he is,” Sally said darkly. “Come on.”

Lizzie followed the young woman, listening for ominouscreaking or the sound of boards splintering. Nothing happened, however, as Sally led them down the hall in the opposite direction from where she and Charlotte had gone the other day. When they reached the end of the hall, Sally slid open a concealed door, revealing service stairs that went up. Guy’s barking sounded much closer. “Guy!” Lizzie called out. “Guy, we’re coming, boy!”

“Careful—”

Sally’s warning came too late—Lizzie placed her weight on one step and heard a groan followed by a snap, then felt the board give way under her foot. She leapt to the next step, bracing her hands against the walls of the narrow stairs. The stairs were so steep she nearly lost her balance, but Sally grabbed her forearm, steadying her. There was strength in Sally’s calloused hands. “Are you all right?”