Chương 4
“If anything happens, the center tree matters.”
“What center tree?”
He pressed the case into her hands.
The study door opened.
Malcolm entered without knocking.
He wore a gray sweater over his shirt, and his glasses were in one hand. He looked first at Arthur, then at the case in Nora’s arms.
“There you are,” he said.
The words were ordinary. His face was not.
Arthur took the case back.
“Nora was bringing water.”
Malcolm’s attention remained on her. “At this hour?”
“She has a reckless commitment to hospitality.”
Nora stood beside the tray, uncertain whether she had been dismissed.
Malcolm crossed the room and rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You should be upstairs.”
“I was enjoying my own house.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“I’m surrounded by people who keep telling me how I feel.”
Malcolm’s fingers tightened slightly.
Nora had seen it. She had also seen Arthur notice her seeing it.
Then Celeste appeared in the doorway wearing a cream-colored robe, her silver hair covered with a silk scarf. She took in the room in one glance.
“You promised you would stay in bed.”
Arthur looked away.
Celeste’s anger softened into concern so smoothly that Nora distrusted herself for having noticed the anger.
“You frightened me,” she said.
“I’ve always had hidden talents.”
Celeste approached him. “Come upstairs.”
Arthur’s eyes found Nora again.
The center tree matters.
Nora carried the untouched water away.
By morning, Arthur Vale was said to be dead.
Detective Singh listened without interrupting.
When Nora finished, the laundry machines in the next room had entered their final spin. A low vibration moved through the wall and up the chair legs.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone this before the memorial?” the detective asked.
“I told Mr. Vane that Mr. Vale had been awake during the night.”
“What did he say?”
“That grief confuses time.”
“And Mrs. Vale?”
“She wouldn’t see me.”
“Julian?”
“He arrived this morning.”
“You could have called the police.”
“And said what? That an old man asked for hot water before he died?”
“He said not to call his physician.”
“I thought he was frightened because he was confused.”
“Did he often become confused?”
“Sometimes. Names. Days. He forgot where he left things. But he knew the crest.”
The detective studied the photograph again.
“Did you put the document case in the casket?”
“No.”
“Could Mr. Vale have done it himself?”
“He could barely manage stairs.”
“Who knew about the compartment?”
“I didn’t.”
“Mr. Vane?”
“He knows everything about the estate.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It’s practical.”
Detective Singh slid the photograph into a larger evidence envelope. “Mrs. Vale says a silver signet disappeared from her husband’s desk sometime this week.”
Nora felt the back of her neck tighten.
“What signet?”
“The original family seal. She believes her husband may have given it to someone.”
“He didn’t give it to me.”
“I didn’t say he did.”
The detective’s tone was mild, but the room had changed.
Nora folded her hands beneath the desk so the woman would not see them tremble.
“Am I allowed to go home?”
“Your apartment is on the property?”
“Yes.”
“For now, I’d prefer you remain available.”
“Is that a request?”
“It is.”
Nora stood.
Detective Singh did not stop her. “One more thing. Who benefits if Arthur Vale dies?”
Nora looked through the laundry office window toward the main house. Vale House rose above the clipped hedges in gray stone tiers, its windows reflecting the late afternoon sky. Arthur had once called it a mausoleum with plumbing.
“Almost everyone who lives here,” she said.
By evening, news vans had gathered beyond the estate gates.
The family released a statement saying Arthur had suffered an unexplained medical emergency and was receiving treatment at a private hospital. The statement did not mention the casket. It did not need to. A guest had recorded the chapel after all, and a twelve-second video of paramedics lifting Arthur from the open coffin spread online before sunset.
Nora saw herself in the background of the clip.
Her face looked pale and stupid. Her apron was crooked. She was staring toward the casket while Celeste stood behind her like a figure carved for a tomb.
The first headline called Nora a heroic maid.
The second asked whether she had staged the discovery.
By nine, strangers had found her social media account, though she had not posted publicly in two years. Someone copied a photograph of her at twenty-three, holding a beer beside her cousin’s swimming pool, and placed it next to the words CASKET GIRL.
She turned off her phone.
A knock came at her apartment door.
She froze before reminding herself that the sound had come from wood at shoulder height, not from beneath white satin.
“Nora?” Julian called.
She opened the door but kept the chain fastened.
He had removed his memorial flower. A damp mark remained on his lapel where the stem had been pinned.
“How is he?”
“Alive.”
The word exhausted him.
Nora unfastened the chain.
Julian entered and looked around the apartment. It consisted of a narrow sitting room, a kitchen wall, one bedroom, and windows overlooking the carriage yard. He had probably passed beneath those windows hundreds of times without wondering who lived behind them.
“You have his photograph?” he asked.
“The police do.”
“What about the case?”
“I don’t have it.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Everyone says things they claim not to be saying.”
He rubbed his face. His cuff was stained with hospital disinfectant. “Can I sit?”
Nora moved a stack of folded towels from the only armchair. Julian sat, then immediately stood again.
“The doctors found sedatives in his blood,” he said. “More than he was prescribed. They don’t know how much yet. His breathing was dangerously slow. They think he may have been without enough oxygen.”
Nora gripped the edge of the table.
“Will he wake up?”
“He opened his eyes in the ambulance. He hasn’t since.”
May you like
“What does your mother say?”
“That Baird adjusted the dose because Dad had become agitated.”
