Calista, Laura Rahme [best ereader for comics txt] 📗

had originated from that part of the house. He peered into the commons kitchen. Finding no one, he walked across to the adjacent room, and nearly bumped into Mrs. Cleary who emerged at the same instant.

“Oh, Mr. Leroux, you frightened me!” Her voice, far from startled, was accusative and hard. Her face was flushed red. Strands of hair had escaped from her high bun. She seemed in a hurry to leave the room.

“Mrs. Cleary. What is wrong with Mary?” asked Maurice, barring her way. He knew all too well she would not admit to beating the maid, but he wished her to know he had noticed the noise. He wasn’t ready to abide in silence while she struck a child so cruelly.

“Mary? What do you mean?” Her tone was dry and cutting.

“I heard her crying, madame. Is everything alright?”

A flicker of deceit shone in Mrs. Cleary’s black eyes. She brought her hand to her temple and broke into a smile. “Oh, yes. I heard it too. Mary fell over. She’s perfectly fine, now. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Leroux.”

“That didn’t sound to me like…”

“I assure you, she’s fine,” insisted the housekeeper, a flash of impatience in her voice. “Besides, she’ll never finish her chores if we interrupt her,” she added, insinuating that Maurice ought to leave the commons area.

“I see. Of course, madame.” He followed the housekeeper out into the corridor. Internally, Maurice fought to not challenge her and force her to admit her cruelty.

Having reached the entrance hall, he walked outside and lit a cigarette, relieved to be out of the house. Madeleine was sweeping the veranda but she watched him from the corner of her eye.

A look of pain had darkened his face. He was reliving Mary’s cries and they tormented him.

He sighed. In France as in England, it was the same. Unless one committed infanticide or aborted an unborn, one could get away with terrible crimes against a child, thought Maurice. Abandonment, malnourishment and beatings, everyone turned a blind eye. To Maurice, the thought of a child being mistreated was gut-wrenching. Hearing their pain awoke his memories. It made him feel like someone had ripped out his insides.

He turned to Madeleine as though she’d been privy to his thoughts. “Did you hear anything, mademoiselle? I’d be surprised if you didn’t. Those shrieks could scarcely be ignored.”

Madeleine clutched at her broom, barely meeting Maurice’s gaze. There was a quiet look of guilt in her expression. “I was hoping this would not happen with you here,” was all she said. Maurice gratefully noted that the playful manner she had sported last night had vanished.

“Mrs. Cleary beats her, doesn’t she?” he asked.

Madeleine nodded, self-conscious. “She has formerly adopted Mary. She is her guardian.”

Maurice shook his head, more outraged than ever. “How often does this happen?” His voice vibrated in anger.

“Once a week…maybe. Sometimes more. On my first week here, she beat her frightfully with a leather thong. I tried to comfort Mary afterwards. I offered to take her with me to London when I leave. But she was unwilling to speak of it. I think she lives in her own world half the time.”

“And so no one does anything about it...” Maurice was barely audible. He took another puff and stared out onto the road.

Madeleine examined him thoughtfully until a knowing light shone in her eyes.

The case of Vera Nightingale’s body

IN the late afternoon, Maurice received a visit from Dr Hart. Under the supervision of the local coroner, Dr Hart had performed both autopsies and inspected the bodies of Sophie Murphy and Vera Nightingale. He was a man in his mid-sixties. His broad beard and long white hair gave him the appearance of a bespectacled lion. He’d heard from Mr. Wilson that Maurice was French and seemed more enthusiastic about meeting him than discussing the case.

He smiled, a twinkle in his eye, as he greeted Maurice. “Monsieur Leroux, jay swee enchantay,” he said with the joyful mirth of someone who enjoyed practicing his French.

Maurice shook his hand. “Thank you for coming, Dr Hart.”

“My pleasure. That’s the extent of what I remember, I’m afraid,” replied the doctor in self-derision. He laughed.

“You used to speak French?”

“Peninsular War,” said Hart, proudly. “I was in Portugal and then Spain when Wellington led the British against your countrymen. I picked up a few phrases. Oh, it’s a long time ago, now. Back then I was only a young lad and the sight of blood scared me. But I befriended the French prisoners. All good men.”

“I might have been seven at most at the time. I’ve since heard we didn’t treat the Spaniards very well.”

“Wars are always so messy. You French had a hard time, Monsieur Leroux. Still, there’s nothing like peaceful times, ay?”

“Indeed.”

“And your English is marvellous. Marvellous. You put me to shame.”

They moved inside the parlour where Ellen brought in some tea. She placed the platter on a low table before leaving the two men alone.

“Now, doctor,” said Maurice, “I’ve only been given a brief report of the manner in which these two unfortunate women died. I would appreciate it if you could supplement with what you know.”

Dr Hart retrieved papers from a leather case.

“Yes. Where shall we start? You’re absolutely right. The first victim was only twenty. Such a shame. Let’s see.” He studied his notes and recollected the details. “Sophie Murphy bore a severe wound to her head, a wound caused by a blunt object,” he began. “If we are to assume her death was an accident, which, I am told is the official story Mr. Wilson gave her parents, then she must have hit her head upon the balustrade as she fell. She seemed otherwise to be a perfectly healthy young woman. I found no signs of trauma on her body.”

“No bruises