“That’s what’s odd. Helen told me she has doubts about Miss Lilly’s involvement. Or Angelica’s. Whatever you call her. She doesn’t think the woman did it. Said that there wasn’t enough time between when she told her to fetch the water and when she came after her to get it herself.” Mr. Childs let out a long, audible breath. “It’s also strange that she didn’t confess when offered her freedom.”
“Maybe she didn’t believe we’d be true to our word.”
“She’d be right about that.”
So it had been a setup after all. Lillian doubted that Miss Helen knew about that part of the deal. Yet the way Mr. Childs and Mrs. Dixie were talking, it certainly didn’t appear as if they had planted the draft or stolen the cameo. The conversation ruled them out as suspects, unless Mr. Childs hadn’t included his wife in his plans.
Lillian’s head hurt from all the second thoughts and double crosses.
“Who else had access?” asked Mrs. Dixie, after a moment. “Your mother’s room is connected to Helen’s, which is connected to your father’s.”
“You think my mother killed my father?”
“She’d put up with enough nonsense from him over the years, after all.”
“Enough, Dixie. Stop with this. My entire family was seduced by this stranger with a nefarious background, and our children’s reputations are on the line. Someone needs to be held accountable.”
“Fine.”
“By the time the police have arrived, we’ll be gone, and they can take her away and do whatever they like with her . . .”
Mr. Childs’s voice trailed off as they moved indoors, but Lillian kept thinking about what Mrs. Dixie had said. If the pair of them were innocent, as well as Helen—her grief had been deep and real, and Lillian just couldn’t imagine she had instigated her father’s demise—could it have been Mrs. Frick? She was the only one left. Along with any of the servants, supposedly.
She thought back to both incidents, when Mr. Frick had died and when the cameo had been stolen. Something connected both events.
Someone.
Next door, she heard Bertha return to her room, humming under her breath.
Bertha.
Bertha was awake and in the hallway when Miss Winnie rushed to fetch Lillian that fateful early morning of Mr. Frick’s death.
Bertha had been coming out of the art gallery when Miss Helen and Lillian went in to place the cameo in Mr. Frick’s hand.
Lillian remembered the hateful look Bertha had given Miss Helen earlier today, as Miss Helen ransacked her own bedroom searching for Sir Robert Witt’s correspondence file. It had flashed across the maid’s face quickly, but Lillian hadn’t missed it.
Early on in their friendship, Bertha had mentioned where she was from.
Pennsylvania. Where Mr. Frick had garnered many enemies, and possibly been responsible for the death of thousands.
She could hear Bertha in the room next door, opening and closing a drawer. She was so close. How to reach her?
The window was dotted with ice; it had begun sleeting. Lillian lifted it open. Below her, a very narrow ledge and balustrade ran along the exterior of the house. She carefully stepped out, holding tight to the windowsill, and then executed a sideways shuffle step to work her way over to Bertha’s window. A couple of times her foot slipped, but she clung to the side of the house as if it were a lifeboat and waited until her heart stopped pounding to continue.
She finally made it. Bertha was lying on her bed, reading a magazine, but jumped up fast when she heard Lillian’s tap on the glass.
“Let me in!” Lillian mouthed.
Bertha didn’t hesitate, opening the window and holding out a hand so that Lillian could ease her way into the room.
“You’re crazy! You could have fallen to your death, what were you thinking?”
“I have to ask you something, Bertha.” Lillian brushed the sleet off her hair and dress.
“Do you want me to help you escape?” Bertha answered. “I would if I could, it’s terrible what’s happening. But they have someone stationed at every door.”
“Bertha, where are you from in Pennsylvania?”
She looked away. “Let me make sure the window is secure. It can get drafty in here otherwise.”
“You’re from the same town as where the flood was, aren’t you?”
Bertha gave her a blank look. “What flood?”
“A dam burst and wiped out an entire town. Mr. Frick was considered negligent but never accused, never brought to trial. You’re from Pennsylvania, aren’t you? You were there.” She waited, watching as the flatness in Bertha’s eyes was replaced by fear. “It must have been terrifying.”
Bertha’s normally rosy cheeks were white, and her lower lip trembled.
“You can tell me,” urged Lillian.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Lillian waited a beat. “You were in the gallery as well, right before Miss Helen placed the diamond in Mr. Frick’s hand. You could have been listening in at the door, returned, and stolen it.”
“What? No!”
“If you don’t talk to me, I will share my suspicions with Miss Helen in the morning.”
Bertha winced, as if protecting her body from a physical blow. She sat on the bed, her hands twisting. Finally, something in her surrendered. “They say the wave was seventy-five feet high, as tall as the treetops. I’d been with my aunt in the hills, hunting mushrooms. We watched as it wiped out a wire factory, where the furnaces exploded and rolls of barbed wire became caught up in the wave. I could see my parents and two sisters emerge from our house, drawn by the sound of explosions. It was Memorial Day, everyone was at home. I screamed at the top of my lungs, but we were too far away and the sound of the destruction was deafening. I always wonder, did they die from drowning, unable to breathe? Or did they bleed to death, after being strafed by barbed wire? Or some dreadful combination of the two?”
The effort of the confession left Bertha trembling. “So yes, it’s no coincidence that I ended up working for the Fricks. I wanted to make them pay somehow. But once I got here, my courage flagged. They were real people, not monsters. I hated myself for my weakness, but I kept on, figuring one day I’d find the strength to act.”
Lillian folded her arms. “So you finally found your courage.”
“No. I didn’t kill him. I almost did, but I couldn’t.”
“What do you mean? You were awake that night, the night of his death. I saw you.”
“I had been asked to stay up in case Mr. Frick or Miss Helen needed anything. I went into his bathroom and I saw the bottle of Veronal sitting there. My father used to take it for his insomnia and I took that as a sign that this was my chance, finally. For four years, I had bided my time.”
Bertha’s mouth contorted, as if she were about to cry. “I filled a glass with water, and then I picked up the Veronal and opened the stopper. But my hands were shaking so; I simply couldn’t go through with it. I thought of Roddy, and how we plan to be married in the spring, of our promise to each other. I realized that killing Mr. Frick wouldn’t bring my family back, but it could destroy the chance I have at making my own. So I placed the bottle back down on the side of the sink, put back the stopper, and fled. I didn’t go through with it, I swear.”
Lillian studied her. “But the bottle wasn’t next to the glass when I went into the bathroom.” She could picture it perfectly, the lone glass sitting there on the side of the sink, no Veronal in sight.
“That was how I left it.”
Which meant someone else had come in and finished off the job before spiriting away the evidence.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” cried Bertha. “For what I almost did. I’ll confess, tell them everything.”
Bertha’s story broke Lillian’s heart. She couldn’t blame her, even if Lillian had gotten swept up in the aftermath. And she hadn’t done anything wrong. “No. You have Roddy. Go get married and get away from here, all right? Promise me that.”