Page 59 of Murder at the Dinner Party

“This case is important.”

“It can wait.”

I jerked free. “Don’t worry about Uncle Ronald. I know how to manage him.”

“Do you?”

I stopped and rounded on him. “He went from forbidding me from investigating and seeing you, to allowing me to see you while I investigate, so yes, I think I do.” Some of the worry in his eyes faded, but vestiges still smoldered. Seeing it dampened my ire. I couldn’t stay angry when his demands were the result of genuine concern. I clasped his arm. “There’s no need to worry, Harry. I can manage him. Now come on. We’re getting very close to a confession.”

He gave in with a sigh.

* * *

The basement servicerooms of the Campbells’ household were busy, but Mrs. Turner was willing to spare a few minutes since she wasn’t required to assist with dinner or setting the dining room table.

“It smells delicious,” Harry said as we passed the kitchen.

The young assistant giggled, and the cook thanked him before gently scolding the girl and ordering her to continue stirring the pot on the stove.

We waited in the empty parlor while Mrs. Turner went to fetch the tiepin and watch. From there, we could hear the cook giving her assistant instructions. During a lull, the assistant poked her head through the doorway. She smiled shyly at Harry.

“Hello,” he said, smiling back. “What’s your name?”

“Birdy.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

She emerged from behind the doorframe, her hands buried in her apron pocket. “I know a secret.”

“Birdy!” Mrs. Cook marched over, waving a wooden spoon. “Stop bothering these nice folk and get back to work before the sauce goes lumpy.” She clicked her tongue as she watched the girl return to the stove. “Don’t mind her. She’s simple.”

Davey rushed in and stopped short upon seeing us. “You again, Miss Fox? Can’t stay away, eh?”

“I’m just collecting something,” I said. “You look flushed.”

“I’m looking for Betty. She hasn’t set the table. Have you seen her?”

Mrs. Turner bustled up, having heard him. “She’s not upstairs?”

Davey shook his head.

The housekeeper muttered something under her breath. “I’ll go look for her.” She handed me the tiepin and watch. “Keep them safe, Miss Fox. I still hope the next of kin will come out of the woodwork. Now.” She sighed. “I’ll check Betty’s room. That girl will be the death of me.”

As we headed into the corridor and made our way to the front door while Davey and Mrs. Turner went in the opposite direction, Betty came down the service stairs. She looked exhausted, her youthful vigor erased by dark smudges under red-rimmed eyes.

Mrs. Turner planted her hands on her hips. “And where have you been? The table needs setting. Go and do it, then come and see me in my office. It’s time for a chat about your attitude.”

Betty burst into tears.

Harry and I left before we heard Mrs. Turner’s reaction.

“I’m glad I never had to enter service,” I said as we walked back to the Whitchurches’ house. It was high summer, so the sun hadn’t yet set, but the shadows were long. It was growing late, and I worried Harry would once again urge me to abandon the mission and return to the hotel.

Fortunately, he seemed to have stopped beating that drum. “You would have been a terrible maid.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You don’t like being told what to do.” It would seem he hadn’t stopped beating it, after all.