A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [16]
I went to the minuscule table next to the window. A pile of papers occupied one corner— the typed reports of a dig, along with several pages of artefact sketches and section drawings— next to three books, two on archaeological techniques and a recent one on Bible theory, and a large square magnifying glass. She would have no worry now about her cataracts, I thought, and suddenly I felt a harsh, red anger wash over me as the fact of her murder became real. I reached down and jerked open a drawer, looking blankly at its emptiness. I sat down, feeling equally empty, and stared out the window. A good woman, whom I liked a great deal and knew almost nothing about, had been carefully, deliberately, brutally murdered. Why? I took the letter from my handbag and contemplated the crime of interfering with His Majesty's postal service.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a key in the door. I stood up quickly and shoved the purloined letter into a pocket, but it was not an irate desk clerk; it was the maid, a neat young woman with shiny brown hair, mop and cleaning rags in hand. She saw me and started to back out the door.
"I'm very sorry, miss ... madam. I thought the room was empty. I'll come back later."
"No, please, do come in. Please. Could you— do you have a minute? To answer a few questions? Would you mind closing the door? Thank you. I just was curious about my aunt, who is staying in this room. She didn't show up for a luncheon date, and I wondered if you had perhaps seen her today?"
"No, madam. I haven't seen anyone in this room for about a week. There was a nice young man here then, but no lady."
"This would have been in the last few days. Tell me, on Wednesday, was there much of a mess? Or Thursday? The reason I ask is that she sometimes gets very untidy, and I like to give a little extra to the help then."
She was an honest young woman, and she barely hesitated before answering.
"No, madam, not really a mess. On Tuesday, it was untidy, but nowhere near as bad as some. Wednesday, too, not as untidy. But yesterday, why, you'd barely know anyone had been in. To tell you the truth, I didn't even make up the bed yesterday, just straightened it a bit, 'cause I was in a touch of a hurry, as Nell didn't show up and we was shorthanded, like. I just straightened the bed and the papers and picked up some things from the floor."
I couldn't think of a way to make the next question anything other than what it was.
"Had she moved many things around between Wednesday and yesterday?"
She looked at me sharply then, and I could see that she was as quick as she was honest. She studied me for a minute, and her face changed as she put together the drift of my questions with the news that the desk clerk had lacked.
"Are you— why are you asking me this? Who are you?"
"I'm a friend, not a niece. And yes, she died Wednesday night."
The young woman sat down suddenly on the tightly made bed and stared at me.
"The old lady who was run over?" she whispered. "I didn't know ... I never thought ... They just said an old woman...." The standard response: not someone I know.
"Yes. I saw her earlier that day, and I want to know what she was doing the rest of the day. Her family wants to know." It was a small lie, and might even have been the truth. Fortunately, she believed me. I returned to my question. "She came back here on Wednesday evening, but I don't know for how long. Did the room look as though she had been here for long?"
This appeal to her professional expertise had its effect. She stood up and surveyed the room.
"On Wednesday, now, I made the bed, dusted, straightened the wardrobe. Put out fresh towels. There was a cup on the dressing table. I took that away. The papers were all over the table, so I tidied them, put the pencils in the drawer. That was about all. Then yesterday— let me think. Did the bed. It looked like