The Shadow in the Glass JJA Harwood (book recommendations for young adults txt) 📖

pleased to report that she shows no signs of consumption. However I judge it unlikely that the child will ever speak again. It is possible that her parents’ deaths, in particular that of her mother, have addled her wits. Should you decide to offer her a permanent home I would recommend engaging the services of a nurse …

Eleanor stared at the letter. It had been written by Dr Macready, the Pembrokes’ family physician. She couldn’t remember not being able to speak. Eleanor felt a stab of indignation. Addled her wits? The man was clearly a quack.

She shoved the papers back into their drawer and went upstairs, picking her way around the squeaky floorboards. Some of the people in Mrs Pembroke’s address book must remember her. If Eleanor wrote to them, they might help. She could remember some of Mrs Pembroke’s friends – a few severe spinsters, a friendly Irish couple, a handful of distracted-looking mothers – and they’d all been kind. Surely they would help.

She tucked the address book underneath her mattress, the beginnings of a plan taking shape. ‘Addled her wits,’ she muttered, as she got into bed.

Granborough House had soaked up the rain like a sponge. It trickled through the floors of the maids’ rooms and pooled in the ceilings below, blotching the walls like measles. The smell of damp crawled through the house, and Eleanor fretted about the library.

Mrs Fielding begged the money for repairs from Mr Pembroke, but until the workmen arrived the maids had to pin up sacking over the leaks in the attic rooms and hope that they would hold. It was unpleasant work. A chill rose off the damp walls and floor, the hem of Eleanor’s skirts trailed through the puddles, and every so often a corner of wet sacking would drop, slapping her in the face or dragging itself wetly over Aoife’s shoulder.

‘I hate this,’ Aoife grumbled.

‘Well, think of something else,’ Eleanor snapped, as water dripped onto her hair. ‘Tell me a story. It’ll take your mind off it.’

Aoife sulked for a moment, and then began telling a story about a dog whose master had been lost at sea. She had got to the part where the news of the shipwreck was about to be delivered when there was a knock at the door. Eleanor shrieked and dropped the sacking; Aoife laughed at her.

It was Mrs Fielding. ‘Ella, the Inspector’s here. He wants to see you.’

Eleanor rushed downstairs. The Inspector was waiting in the drawing room, clearly trying not to look at the cobwebs gathering in the corners the maids could not reach. Eleanor closed the door behind her.

‘Good morning, Miss Hartley,’ he said, flipping open his notebook, ‘I wonder if I might trouble you for another account of the day of Miss Bartram’s murder.’

Eleanor frowned. ‘But why? I thought you had everything you needed from me. The butcher’s boy—’

The Inspector held up a hand. ‘I’m afraid that is no longer our main line of inquiry. He has proven he was nowhere near Granborough House on the night of the murder – he was with another young lady who has vouched for him. Is there anything else you can tell me about Miss Bartram’s death?’

Eleanor sagged into a chair.

How could this be possible? The butcher’s boy had to have killed Lizzie. Eleanor may have spoken Lizzie’s death into being and the black-eyed woman may have granted her wish, but he had been the one to strike the killing blow. Lizzie’s death could not be the result of pure magic – that would be a terrible and vicious thing, and Eleanor pushed the thought of that awful spectacle aside. But Lizzie had been stunned and drowned, cheaply and messily in the kitchen garden. What was magical about that?

The Inspector was watching her carefully. ‘You advised me to find the other maids, Miss Hartley. My search has proven most interesting. I have discovered that Miss Leah Wallace was dismissed from Granborough House a few days before Miss Bartram’s death. I believe you two were close.’

Eleanor couldn’t grip the arms of her chair. She couldn’t curl her hands into fists. She could only sit perfectly still, staring right into the Inspector’s eyes, and force down every flicker of fear and anger that crackled under her skin. Surely he couldn’t suspect Leah.

‘Perhaps you could tell me a little more about her,’ the Inspector said. ‘Can you describe her relationship with Miss Bartram? Could you tell me more about the circumstances of her dismissal?’

Eleanor flattened her tone into shape. ‘Leah was five months pregnant,’ she said, and relished the sight of him flinching. ‘She couldn’t fasten her own corsets on the day she left. She would not be capable of something like that.’

A dull flush was creeping up the Inspector’s neck. Good, Eleanor thought.

‘I would advise you to discuss this with Miss Wallace, Inspector,’ Eleanor said. ‘I have not seen her since she left Granborough House. If you find her, I would be most grateful if you could give me her address. As you say, we were close.’

She got to her feet. The Inspector scrambled upright, still scribbling as he snatched up his hat. Vicious triumph lit Eleanor from within. It was so satisfying to put a dent in a man’s composure.

‘Allow me to show you out,’ she said, leading him into the corridor.

‘Ella!’

Mr Pembroke’s voice cracked like a whip. Eleanor froze halfway down the passage. The Inspector turned, his eyes flickering between her and Mr Pembroke. A calm voice wormed its way through Eleanor’s fear: use this.

She whimpered. It sounded a little forced to her ears, but the Inspector heard. He looked down at her and saw her eyes flash to Mr Pembroke.

Mr Pembroke’s hand clamped around her upper arm. He stank of brandy. ‘A word,’ he hissed, hauling her back into the drawing room. ‘Inspector!’ he called. ‘You’re dismissed!’

The moment the door was closed he rounded on her. ‘What did you say to him?’

Eleanor drew her shoulders back, refusing to be cowed. ‘I was assisting