“And I didn’t ask, did I?” Cobb said kindly.“So tell me now.”
Tillie took a deep breath and said, “Just asI was takin’ the tea in to Mrs. Blodgett, I heard Austin and Prissycome down from their duties upstairs. They turned into thehall.”
“To their rooms?”
“Yes.” She began to blush. “An’ they werehavin’ a fearsome quarrel.”
Cobb set his pencil down. “A lover’s spat,was it?”
The blush deepened. “They’re plannin’ to getmarried. I never heard them say a sharp word to one another — never. But they were both shoutin’. Austin was accusin’ her of..”
“Flirtin’ with the butler?” Cobbprompted.
Tillie’s fingers were splayed out at thetable’s edge, the knuckles white. “Kissin’ him, he said. In theother pantry, off the hall by the upstairs door.”
The episode Marc must have been alluding to,Cobb thought. And if this quarrel were so boisterous, why wasn’t itheard by Hetty, nearby with her bedroom door ajar?
“Did ya hear anythin’ that Prissysaid?”
“She was angry, but her cryin’ made it hardto hear what she was yellin’ back at him.”
“How did it all end?”
“I heard Prissy stomp off down the hall an’slam her door. Austin shouted a bad word after her. I waited. Butthere wasn’t any more. I heard another door close, real quiet. Iwanted to go to Prissy — she’s real pretty an’ awful kind to me — but I had to take the tea into Mrs. Blodgett, didn’t I?”
“You did indeed,” Cobb said, reaching acrossand patting the back of her nearest hand. “An’ you were right tocome an’ tell me this.”
“C’n I go now?”
“Yup. Mrs. Blodgett’ll be expectin’ you.”
Prissy left quickly. Cobb picked up hispencil. Well now, he thought, Mr. Bragg was certainly riled up atthe thought of Graves Chilton grappling with his fiancée. Angryenough to plot the fellow’s death? It would have been easy for himto dig out a pilfered bottle of sherry he’d stashed somewhere, slipup to the dark rotunda, enter the bathroom, remove the container oflaudanum, go into the dining-room where the wide windows wouldprovide lots of moonlight for him to see well enough to doctor thesherry and pocket the empty drug-bottle. Then down the hall to thebutler’s office. A friendly chat. Amontillado as a peace offeringbetween two veteran servants, men of the world who’d gotten off onthe wrong foot, et cetera. Then pad your way back to your room,knowing that Chilton, already half-cut with whiskey from his flask,would drink enough of the sherry to kill him or, in the least,render him senseless and expose his drinking habit to a master whowould not approve of it one bit, who might well sack himoutright.
Cobb was certain he was on the right trail.Prissy Finch, the foolish girl, had lied to him in order to giveher momentarily estranged lover an alibi, a lie the blackguard hadgood reason to urge upon her.
Cobb heard Hetty Janes come back into thekitchen from the shed where she had been working. He stepped outand confronted her. She took one look at his face and burst intotears.
“I was gonna tell ya about the quarrel,” shewailed. “Honest I was. But I couldn’t see how it would help ya findMr. Chilton’s killer. An’ you never asked.”
“There, there, miss, no need to go weepin’ onme. I just need you to back up the story I already heard. Now sitdown an’ try to stymie yer sobbin’. It hurts my ears.”
Between sobs, Hetty confirmed her sister’saccount of the quarrel.
“Your room is across from Prissy’s, isn’t it?Did you hear Prissy go into her room an’ slam the door?”
“Uh huh. It shook the whole place.”
“An’ Bragg didn’t follow her in?”
Hetty stared at the floor. “No. He called hera — a bad name. He was hoppin’ mad.”
Cobb thanked her, told her not to worry, andheaded back into the pantry to work on his notes. As he did so, outof the corner of his eye, he noticed Tillie Janes standing in Mrs.Blodgett’s doorway. She had been eavesdropping on her sister’sinterrogation. The two young women looked at each other, and inthat instant something significant was silently communicated. ButCobb’s head was abuzz with more exciting matters. Prissy Finchwas lying! Austin Bragg had motive, means and opportunity!
He began to write, as rapidly as his thickfingers would permit.
NINE
It was just before one when Cobb came upstairs andwalked past the dead butler’s quarters to the dining-room. Acrossthe hall in the billiard-room he could see, through the open door,four of the gentlemen at the card-table, playing whist by the lookof it. He recognized Macaulay, Hincks and Robert Baldwin. Thefourth player was one of the Frenchmen, a cheerful-looking fellow,though none of them seemed overly enthusiastic about the game. Itwas a lot harder to sit and wait anxiously, as they no doubt were,Cobb concluded, than to be actively engaged in finding a killer.Moreover, said killer was likely loose somewhere amongst them.
Marc was not yet in the dining-room. ButPrissy Finch was, fussing with the food on the sideboard. When sheturned and saw who had just come in, she started. Her eyes wentdown to her shoes and, head-down, she tried to scoot past him.
“Not so fast, miss. I got another question toput to you. An’ this time I want the truth.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, herdefiance belied by a trembling lip.
“I know all about the spat you an’ Bragg haddownstairs at quarter to ten last night.”
“Who told you somethin’ like that?”
“Never you mind. Two people heard it, an’they heard you slam yer door an’ they heard Bragg call yousomethin’ that’d make a nun blush.”
Prissy was no nun, but she slowly turnedscarlet. She said nothing.
“So, young lady, you don’t really expect meto believe you an’ Mr. Bragg cuddled together fer a whole nightafter a ragin’ quarrel an’ slammin’ doors an’ foulname-callin’?”
Prissy thrust her trembling lower lip as farforward as she could. “A few minutes later he come down to my rooman’ slipped in real quiet. We — we kissed an’ made up.”
Cobb released a long, sceptical sigh. “Soyou’re stickin’ to yer story, come Hell or high water, are ya?”
“We kissed an’ made up,” she quavered.
“I hope the blackguard is worth lyin’ for,”Cobb said sternly.
Prissy whirled and fled the room.
Cobb’s anger at Bragg and his kind rose upbiliously, and threatened to spoil his appetite. An alibi had beenconcocted and adhered to, but it could — and would — be broken. Hehelped himself to three sweet pastries and sat down at the fancytable to wait for his partner.
After a brief lunch, Marc and Cobb made their way upthe hall to the library. The early-afternoon sun was pouringthrough the big windows. Outside, the air was clear and cold. Ithad not snowed since the squall last night. Following theircustomary practice, they began describing, in turn, theirinterviews, impressions and conclusions. (Afterwards, they wouldread each other’s notes line by line, scanning for small pointsthat might have been overlooked in the give-and-take ofconversation.)
“You first, Major,” Cobb said generously,suspecting he had the best lead and hoping to save it for thefinale.
Marc started in on a detailed account of hisinterviews, in the sequence in which he had conducted them. When hegot to Maurice Tremblay, Cobb arched an eyebrow, but it wasLaFontaine’s story that riveted his attention and elicited a seriesof approving grunts.
“So you see,” Marc finished up, “we now knowa fair amount about what transpired in Chilton’s office. The sherrywas there, unopened, when LaFontaine arrived at midnight. It wasalmost certainly doctored already, some time between nine-thirtyand then, which is the time-span the killer would have had to stealMrs. Macaulay’s laudanum and prepare the sherry for delivery toChilton.”
“Which means it could’ve been anybody in thehouse, providin’ they were sneaky enough,” Cobb pointed out. “An’that medicine bottle could be lyin’ in the snow out there an’ notbe found till spring.”