Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [76]
“Well, I knew Margie weren't ‘appy, same as everybody else. What with being far from ‘er ferrin’ parts, and ‘ating the cold, and being that shamed by ‘er ladyship's goings-on with the Viscount that was—”
A shocked murmur ran through the ranks, and Fitzroy Payne, seated to my right, put his head in his hands.
“Mrs. Scratch, I must insist,” Mr. Bott said, with a sharp eye for the Earl. “Confine yourself to the question.”
“We was friends good enough,” the laundress said sulkily.
“Although the maid was resident in these parts less than a month?”
“Margie ‘ad taking ways, and was fond of talk, and I saw no ‘arm in ‘er.”
“And when did you last see Marguerite Dumas?”
“She come to me the day after the old Earl passed on, she did, beggin’ for some food and a roof against the cold. Said she couldn't stay in no ‘ouse where murder was done, and she'd be off as soon as she'd got ‘er story to the Justice.”
The outcry in the room now verged on the clamourous, and Lizzy Scratch smiled broadly, bobbing her head to her neighbours and kinsfolk.
“That's the truth, by God, and the pore thing was killed for it,” she added.
“Mrs. Scratch,” Mr. Bott said menacingly, “if you cannot control your tongue, I shall dismiss you from this room.” He removed his spectacles, wiped them briefly with a pocket linen, and resumed his train of thought. “How long was Marguerite Dumas in your home?”
“Until the day they found ‘er pore mangled body in the ‘ay-shed at Scargrave,” the laundress avowed, and dabbed at her eyes with a fingerless mitt.
“Do you know when she might have left your house that day?”
“A'course I knows. Right after milking ‘twas, which I'd given ‘er the doing of. Margie come in and took a bit o’ bread from the fire and said she was off to see ‘er man, and I shouldn't look for ‘er before dinner.”
“Her man, Mrs. Scratch?”
“Some feller as she was sweet on.”
“Are you familiar with the identity of this person?”
“That I'm not. Margie could be close-mouthed enough, when she wanted.” This Mrs. Scratch said with satisfaction.
“Had this fellow communicated with her in any way that you were aware?”
Lizzy Scratch shrugged. “Met up with ‘er ‘ere in the Cock and Bull, more'n likely, when I weren't to see. ‘E must've done, else ‘ow'd she come by those scraps of paper she was forever tucking in ‘er bodice? Love letters, I called ‘em, right to ‘er face, and she'd just smile.”
At that, Mrs. Scratch was torn from her moment of glory and forced back among the common folk, but she sailed towards her place like Nelson's flagship, fully conscious of her majesty and the power of her guns. Beside me, Isobel had closed her eyes, and the blue veins on their lids throbbed with a feverish intensity. I placed my gloved hand over her own, and felt some small pressure in return. I looked then for the remainder of the Scargrave party; but the three gentlemen were locked in a stony silence, their features fixed and grim. The time for anger was past; what was required of them now was fortitude. Fitzroy Payne had ever been possessed of a remarkable command of countenance; but I was touched to observe that the Hearst brothers—one so commonly hot-blooded, and the other so commonly cold—were united in dignity.
It was my duty next to be called and sworn, and I related in as calm a manner as possible the finding of the handkerchief, the appearance of the footprints, and the discovery of the body. I stated that the time had been close to half-past ten in the morning, and that the blood was quite fresh. I was queried as to my reasons for probing the maid's bodice, which brought a conscious flush to my cheeks and an edge of severity to the voice of Mr. Bott; and then I was allowed to go.
Sir William took the chair; and affirmed that the maid was slain in the shed itself, to judge by appearances; that she was undoubtedly called there by the note found on her person; and that the note was determined to have been written by Fitzroy Payne. I should have thought the humble audience long since wearied by such