He agreed. “We must search the study, the master bedchamber, and Laurent’s quarters.”
“You can produce the letter if the housekeeper refuses.”
No one answered the door when they knocked.
They waited a few minutes. Nicholas banged the wooden panel with his fist and checked to confirm the door was locked. They peered through the tiny windowpanes into various rooms and found no sign of a footman or maid.
Forced to enter the house via the servants’ door at the rear of the property, they found several people eating toast and drinking tea at a long oak table in a basement room.
Nicholas cleared his throat to get their attention, the sudden clatter of china confirming he’d startled them. “Forgive the intrusion. We knocked on the front door, but no one came.”
The thin, white-haired woman sitting at the head of the table stood. She surveyed his clothing, which wasn’t as pristine as he liked. “We weren’t expecting visitors, and—”
“Yes, I can see that.” With the master away, they were most definitely slacking. “We’ve travelled from London and must speak to the housekeeper as a matter of urgency.”
With some hostility, the woman said, “I’m Mrs Packard, the housekeeper at Oakmere. Please state your business.”
Helen spoke up. “We have important news to impart. Is there somewhere we might speak privately?”
The servants stared at Helen, then at the housekeeper.
“I suppose we can use my sitting room.” Mrs Packard brushed creases from her brown dress and gestured to the narrow corridor. “It’s the third room on the left. Wait there. I shall be along once I’ve organised the morning duties.”
Nicholas laughed to himself. He was desperate to inform this woman he was the heir to Oakmere. Not that he planned to keep his legacy. He could not own the house that belonged to his mother’s seducer. “You will join us in five minutes, Mrs Packard, else you will explain your role in the blackmail plot to the local magistrate.”
The servants gasped.
Mrs Packard’s mouth opened and closed, but she managed to suppress her indignation and agree to the terms.
They entered the housekeeper’s private room, and Helen kept watch at the door while he searched the drawers in her desk and bureau, pulled books from the low bookcase and flicked through the pages. He found nothing of interest.
Hearing the rattle of her chatelaine and the clip of footsteps on the tiled floor, they sat in opposite chairs near the hearth and waited.
She marched into the room, her suspicious gaze moving from them to the desk and bureau. “Before we begin, might you introduce yourselves?”
“I’m Nicholas St Clair, and Miss Smith is an enquiry agent from London.” He vacated the chair. “Please sit down, Mrs Packard.”
Determined not to appear flattered by his consideration, she held her lips in a thin, disgruntled line and obeyed his instruction.
“Is my name at all familiar to you?” he said.
She swallowed. “I am not good with names, sir.”
“Then let me refresh your memory. My mother was Esther Howard, and she was your master’s mistress for a time.” It pained him to think his mother had fallen for the wicked rogue.
“I’m not paid to listen to gossip, sir.”
Maybe it was better to shock the woman, lower her defences. “We have some sad news to impart.” He paused for dramatic effect, and because he felt a pang of regret and had to catch his breath. “Charles Holland is dead. He died at Grayswood Folly some days ago.”
A heavy silence descended.
The housekeeper’s eyes widened in horror.
Yet it wasn’t news of her master’s death that left her white with terror. She shrank back in the chair, her shoulders shaking. “What did you do to him?”
“Me? Why would you think I had anything to do with his death?” Because she knew they were half-brothers, knew about the blackmail demand and the legacy. “I have an alibi, and Miss Smith has been hired by Lady Brompton to investigate the crime, although I can confirm Charles was murdered.”
The woman mumbled, bemoaning her horrid luck.