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“Quite. Oh, and she spoke very well. A genteel lady, much reduced in her circumstances, given her attire.”
When I must look uncertain, she adds, “I have done seamstress work, and her widow’s weeds were not new and hadn’t been well made even when they were. Not quite as ill-fitting as this dress.” She lifts her skirt with a twist of a smile. “But not well fitted either.”
“Her accent and her words suggested a high birth and good education, but her dress was not out of place in your neighborhood.”
“Yes.”
Because she needed to fit in. The widow’s weeds gave her an excuse for a veil, but a fine dress would have still stood out. She didn’t hide her upper-crust speech—she didn’t expect to be speaking at all—but she could hide the rest.
I ask again about the woman’s size, and Mrs. Young is certain she was shorter than me and very slight of stature. Which means it was definitely not tall and full-figured Annis. And I think I know who it was.
I try not to hurry off, distracted, and I take my proper leave of Mrs. Young. As the constable leads me to Isla and Annis, my brain works furiously. Little pieces that had been nudging at me—not quite fitting the Annis theory—now fall into place. This was not what I expected. Not what anyone expected. But that’s the idea, isn’t it?
We walk into another area of the prison, one that looks much cleaner, almost administrative. A door opens, and Isla walks out, looking distraught. McCreadie reaches for her elbow and she brusquely brushes him off, only to stop herself and turn. I don’t catch what she says, but he goes to squeeze her shoulders in reassurance, and she falls into his arms, clearly catching him off guard.
I slow as McCreadie hugs Isla. I want to give them that moment, for her grief and his support, but of course the constable barrels right along, making Isla jump back when she hears his boot steps. She straightens and wipes away a tear with a gloved hand. Then she sees me.
“Annis will not speak to us,” she says.
“She won’t meet with you?” I say.
An angry shake of Isla’s head. “No, they made her come. She is in there. She just will not speak. Will not respond. I want to shake her. Iwouldshake her. But…” She crosses her arms, the defensive gesture not quite hiding a shiver. “She is not being her usual imperious self. She is not being obstinate and high-handed, acting as if this is all a mistake easily resolved. That I could understand. This is…” Another shiver as she grips her arms and McCreadie lays a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it.
“Annis is not herself,” McCreadie says. “I think she is in shock.”
“May I speak to her?” I ask.
“We can try,” McCreadie says. “But I do not think it will help.”
“Just me. Alone.” I meet his gaze and then Isla’s. “Please. I have something I need to say to her, and I think it would be better coming from a stranger.”
“I understand, but I fear it will not work. It is like talking to a stone maiden.”
“That’s fine. She might not answer me, but I need her to hear me.”
McCreadie opens the door. “We shall be out here.”
FORTY-SIX
Earlier, I’d expected to meet with Mrs. Young in a visitors’ room. Not quite the sort where I might meet a prisoner in the modern world, but certainly not “standing outside her cell.” Now I am indeed stepping into such a room—and it’s the luxury-hotel version of it.
Somehow, Annis has earned the privilege of not only speaking to her visitors in private, but doing so in what I can only guess is the office of some high-level prison employee.
It’s a small room with a fireplace, a table, and two comfortable chairs before the fire. Annis sits in one of them. She’s also been granted the privilege of wearing her own clothing, though her widow’s weeds look a little worse for wear. There’s a carpetbag beside her. Things Isla brought. It hasn’t been touched. Nor has the teacup by her elbow.
Annis sits and stares into the fire, and she does not even glance over when I enter.
I don’t take the other chair. I stand in the middle of the room, letting her continue to ignore me. I count to three. Then I speak.
“Sarah killed your husband,” I say. “But I think you already figured that out.”
A flinch. Oh, she tries to hide it. Overdoes the effort, which turns it into almost a convulsion as she finds her composure. She keeps her gaze on the fire, and she says nothing.
“Sarah killed Lord Leslie,” I say. “She may have also killed the others. And she’s framing you.”
No response there. No response because this is not news to her. None of it is news—she’d only reacted the first time because she hadn’t expected anyone else to figure it out.
I continue, “I just spoke to Mrs. Young. She saw who dropped off the poisoned gin that killed her husband. She hadn’t realized that’s what killed him, of course, so she didn’t mention it before. She saw a woman in widow’s weeds and a veil over her face. Tiny and soft-spoken. Not you.”
