“Yer police, the law?” the cook asked him, offering a second piece of cake.
He accepted, as it was excellent. “Yes,” he agreed with his mouth full, an upwards lift in his voice to encourage her to continue.
“Can yer tell us what’s goin’ to ’appen ter us, Mr. Monk? Mr. Argyll’s too upset o’er the death of ’is brother ter take up any business matters, an’ Mrs. Argyll must be broke to pieces about poor Miss Mary. It’s just that we don’t know our position, like. Me and Mr. Cardman’ll stay as long as we’re needed. But we ’ave ter tell some o’ the maids an’ the footmen. It in’t always that easy ter find a good place, an’ comin’ from a tragedy like this don’t ’elp.”
He looked at her plump, anxious face. Her fair hair was graying, pulled back into a loose knot. She was trying hard not to sound callous, but one suicide in the house was damaging enough; two could make domestic reemployment far harder than held any justice. The fear was in her eyes.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Plimpton, but I will find out, and see that you are informed as soon as possible. We are not sure yet how Miss Havilland came to fall into the river.” He stopped, seeing the wordless emotion in her face. It would take great delicacy to draw from her what she really believed. She might not even have put it into words herself. “Or Mr. Toby Argyll,” he added, watching her.
He saw the flicker of anger—a flash—and then she hid it again. She was a woman whose position in life had never allowed her to leave her feelings uncontrolled. He read the dislike of Toby that she dared not tell him.
“Thank yer, sir,” she replied.
He needed more. “I imagine you knew Miss Havilland a long time?”
“Since she was born,” Mrs. Plimpton replied, her voice thick with grief.
Monk tried a different approach. “Was she extremely fond of Mr. Argyll?”
“No,” she said abruptly, then realized she had been too forthright. “I mean…I mean o’ course she liked ’im, but it were she as broke it orff, not ’im.” She gulped. “Mr. Monk, she would never ’ave taken ’er own life! If yer’d ’ave known ’er, yer wouldn’t even think on it. She were that determined to prove as poor Mr. ’Avilland were killed, not took ’isself, an’ she were on the edge o’ doin’ it! ’At excited, she were….” She stopped, sniffing and turning away.
“If she didn’t take her own life, Mrs. Plimpton, what do you think happened?” he asked. He said it gently, letting her know he took her opinion seriously.
She looked back. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her nose pink.
“I think she found out ’oo sent that letter to ’er father lurin’ ’im inter the stable ter be shot,” she said defiantly. “The master’d never ’ave shot ’isself, any more’n she’d go jumpin’ off bridges.” She took a deep breath. “An’ don’t yer go sittin’ there eatin’ my cake an’ tellin’ me as they would.”
He was startled. No one else had spoken of a letter.
“What letter, Mrs. Plimpton?” he said quietly, controlling the urgency in his voice with an effort.
“Letter as come ter ’im the night ’e died,” she answered.
“Mr. Cardman didn’t mention it.”
“ ’Cos ’e didn’t know,” she replied reasonably, automatically refilling his cup from the big brown teapot. “It came ter the back door an’ Lettie took it to ’im. We didn’t find it after, so I s’pose ’e didn’t keep it. But it was right after that that ’e told Mr. Cardman as ’e’d decided ter sit up, an’ no one was ter bother waitin’ fer ’im. ’E’d lock up ’isself. It were somebody as was goin’ ter meet ’im, I’d set me life on it!” She drew in her breath in a little gasp, as if realizing suddenly that she was right: Havilland had done just that, and lost his life.
“You are quite sure?”
“Course I am!” She was shaking now, but her eyes did not waver.
“May I speak to Lettie?” Monk asked.
“Yer think I’m makin’ it up!” she accused him, her face pinched, her breathing heavy.
“No, I don’t,” he assured her. “If I did, there would be no point in my speaking to Lettie, would there? I want to see what she remembers of it: paper, ink, handwriting. I’d like to know if she saw Mr. Havilland open it, and how he reacted. Was he surprised, afraid, alarmed, or excited, even pleased? Was he expecting it or not?”
“Oh…yes. Well!” She could not bring herself to apologize, but she pushed the cake plate across the table to him. “Well, I’ll send for Lettie.” She walked to the door and called the kitchen maid to fetch the house-maid.
Lettie appeared and answered his questions. She was about fifteen and stood in front of him twisting her fingers in her apron. She could not read, and had no idea about the paper or the writing, but she remembered quite clearly that Mr. Havilland was both surprised and disturbed by the letter. After reading it he had put it straight into the fire and then told her to send Cardman to him. He had written no reply.
“Have you any idea whom the letter was from?” he asked.
“No, sir, I ain’t.”
“What did he say, as clearly as you can remember?”
“Ter send Mr. Cardman straightaway, sir.”