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They took the body away very early the next morning. None of the guests were awake yet.

But Jane was. She stood at an upstairs window in one of the empty rooms in the servants' quarters and watched as the pine box that carried so much of her life in it was loaded into a carriage. She didn't regret what she had done, not for a moment … but it did feel odd that he was gone.

The police inspector arrived not long after. He seemed rather a bumbler to Jane, but that was just as well. No need for anyone too clever about. No. He expressed a wish to keep all the guests another day, but it appeared in his mind to be little more than a formality. Jane imagined they would all leave tomorrow and be glad of it.

One more day to have her son under the same roof. One more day before he vanished out of her life again.

As she came down the stairs, she saw Elizabeth in the hall. Her sister was standing there watching her approach, and something in her eyes—

"Has that inspector spoken to you, Mrs. Wilson?"

"No, Mrs. Croft, not yet. Has he spoken to you?"

"Yes, and right in the middle of the breakfast, too. Apparently—" Elizabeth's keen eyes were steady on Jane's face—"it seems that Sir William didn't die from being stabbed with the silver knife. He was poisoned."

Jane kept her face very still, but she was certain Elizabeth knew. Possibly everything. Likely everything. "Is that what he said? How extraordinary. Imagine someone needing to be murdered twice in one night."

She swept past her sister, but she was troubled. If they knew there had been a poisoning, they would stop looking for an outside thief, and they may take a closer look at the household. She imagined she was likely safe—few still remembered her early attachment to Sir William—but it would be inconvenient to keep the guests longer.

Later, as the kitchen staff were beginning on the lunch, Jane came from her room to find Robert in front of her. He had somehow managed to be burdened with Sir William's dog, and had just been kicked out of the kitchen with it.

"Mrs. Wilson, where should I take him?"

Anywhere, she wanted to say. No one much liked the dog. "Perhaps Elsie might like to look after him. That would keep him out of the way."

"I'll go find her. Thank you."

"Of course … Mr. Stockbridge." She wanted to call him by his name, the name she'd given him, but that would never do.

She saw him again later in the afternoon. Mr. Jennings had brought the menservants together to discuss the problem of what to do with Mr. Weisman's valet, who turned out to be nothing more than an actor playing a part, and now expected to be treated like a guest. Things did change as time went by, Jane thought. No one would ever have thought of impersonating a servant ten years ago; they wouldn't have wanted to.

Robert volunteered to take care of Mr. Novello for the next night or so, and Jane wondered—did he have designs on going to Hollywood, being in the movies? He was quite handsome enough, if she said so herself. But she'd hate to see him turn his life that way. No, better a good solid job, something—respectable.

The day had gone more quickly than Jane had imagined it might, and although she had looked up every time someone walked past her door, the inspector never called for her. She felt an odd sense of outrage—she was the housekeeper, after all, second only to Mr. Jennings in the hierarchy. Although Elizabeth might have argued with that.

Still, the fewer questions she needed to answer, the better. And the more quickly the day went, the sooner they would all be gone. Not that she knew what would happen after that. Lady Sylvia didn't like the country house, not the way Sir William had. Next thing you knew, she might sell it up, and then where would they all be?

It was a consequence Jane hadn't foreseen … but it wouldn't have changed anything about what she'd done. No. Robert was more important than her job, or Elizabeth's, or that of any of the others. His life was what mattered, and she had saved it.

They were through the dinner and into the after-dinner coffee, with Mr. Novello playing again. They would miss his music, Jane thought. It occurred to her that she had not been given word as to whether all the guests would be expected to stay on tomorrow, or beyond.

She was relieved to see the constable in the servants' room, because then she could ask him. He was having tea with Lady Stockbridge's maid, and he didn't rise when Mrs. Wilson came into the room.

"Constable? I'm glad I caught you. I assume the inspector won't keep everyone beyond tomorrow, but I thought I'd better check with you."

He frowned, thinking it through. Apparently it had not yet been discussed. "Well, we haven't spoken to all the servants yet, so—"

The inspector himself came in through the hall door before the constable could finish his thought. "Ah, there you are, Dexter. Come on. We're going home." He stuck his pipe in his mouth.

Jane addressed her question to him. "I was just asking the constable how long our guests will be staying. Mrs. Croft has all the meals to arrange, and I know one of the housemaids is anxious to get away—"

"I don't think there's any need to worry about that," the inspector told her, lighting his pipe and waving the match nearly in her face. "I'm not interested in the servants. Only people with a real connection with the dead man."

Jane happened to be looking past the inspector at the constable as he said that, and there passed between herself and the constable an understanding of a sort—that the inspector was a bumbling fool who knew nothing about the way life worked in a house with servants, and that the constable might have his suspicions but he would never be able to do anything about them.

Still—how callous to assume that no one who worked for a person could have a real connection to that person. Never mind her own connection, or that of Elizabeth, in the doorway across the hall, or Robert, sitting by the door. There was poor Probert at the head of the table, fixing his lordship's collar because it was the last service he could perform for him. Because for as much of a boor as Sir William had been … a bond developed when you cared for someone, when they trusted you. And that bond could sometimes be as real a connection as anything that happened abovestairs.

She said none of that. She merely thanked the inspector and turned to leave. She heard him announcing that all the guests could go, that it was enough to have their addresses, and that he wouldn't stop until he had got his man, or some such grandiose pronouncement. Remembering the look on the constable's face, Jane was certain that nothing would ever come of it. She had gotten away with it, then. Somehow the thought wearied her, when she would have expected to be relieved.

She was glad that they were all going … all of them but Robert, who looked up as she passed. He thought he knew what she was thinking, but he had no idea. Now he never would.

Late in the night, she heard Mr. Jennings singing. As she might have anticipated, if she hadn't been so distracted by Robert—and by murdering Robert's father—it had all been too much for him, and he'd been at his bottle again.

She found him in the servants' room, lying flat on the table, the bottle in front of him. He flailed at her, his words incoherent, when she attempted to rouse him. Tying the belt of her robe, she went down the hall and, as she had expected, found Dorothy still awake and working. The only one in the house who was, as always. And naturally Dorothy was quick to come and help. The only one on the staff who didn't know how Dorothy felt about Mr. Jennings was Mr. Jennings.

Between them, they got him to his feet and down the hall to his room and into his bed. They had less luck keeping him quiet along the way, but thankfully the only other person still down here was Elizabeth, and she knew his failings as well as they did. Dorothy balked at helping him get undressed, but eventually was prevailed upon, and they left him snoring.

Outside his door they looked at one another, and Jane was too tired and it had been too long a few days to conceal her impatience. "Dorothy. Get some sleep for once. The house won't fall down if you get a decent night's rest."

Something in her face must have told Dorothy that she meant it, because she bobbed her head and said "Yes, Mrs. Wilson" and was off up the stairs almost immediately.

Jane returned to her own room more slowly, certain that there would be little sleep for her tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, when they were all gone. When he was gone. Then she could sleep. Perhaps.