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“Oh, it wasn’t all awful,” I say. “I’ve just been running through it in my mind. It was actually mostly pleasant, until approximately three o’clock.”
The detective looks at Mr. Snow again.
“Shock,” he says. “She’s in shock.”
Perhaps Mr. Snow is correct. The next thought I have suddenly seems most urgent to articulate out loud. “Mr. Snow, thank you so much for the cup of tea and the lovely shortbread biscuit. Did you bring them? Or did someone else? I truly enjoyed both. May I ask, what brand is the shortbread?”
Mr. Snow clears his throat. Then he says, “Those are made in our own kitchens, Molly. I would be happy to bring you more another time. But right now, it’s important to discuss something else. Right now, Detective Stark has a few questions for you, seeing as how you were first on the scene of Mr. Black’s…of his…”
“Death bed,” I say, helpfully.
Mr. Snow looks down at his well-polished shoes.
The detective crosses her arms. I do believe her eyes are drilling into mine in a meaningful way, yet I’m not sure what that meaning is exactly. If Gran were here, I would ask her. But she is not here. She will never be here again.
“Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “You’re not in trouble in any way. But the detective would like to talk to you as a witness. Perhaps there are details you noticed about the scene or about the day that would be helpful to the investigation.”
“The investigation,” I say. “Do you presume to know how Mr. Black died?” I ask.
Detective Stark clears her throat. “I presume nothing at this point.”
“How very sensible,” I say. “So you don’t think that Mr. Black was murdered?”
Detective Stark’s eyes open wide. “Well, it’s more likely he died of a heart attack,” she says. “There’s petechial hemorrhaging around his eyes consistent with cardiac arrest.”
“Petechial hemorrhaging?” Mr. Snow asks.
“Tiny bruises around the eyes. Happens during a heart attack, but it can also mean…other things. At this point, we don’t know anything for sure. We’ll be doing a thorough investigation to rule out foul play.”
This puts me in mind of a very funny joke that Gran used to tell: What do you call a poor rendition ofHamletperformed by chickens? Fowl play.
I smile at the recollection.
“Molly,” says Mr. Snow. “Do you realize the gravity of this situation?” His eyebrows knit together, and then I realize what I’ve done, how my smile has been misinterpreted.
“My apologies, sir,” I explain. “I was thinking of a joke.”
The detective uncrosses her arms and places both hands squarely on her hips. Again, she stares at me in that way of hers. “I’d like to bring you to the station, Molly,” she says. “To take your witness statement.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I say. “I haven’t completed my shift and Mr. Snow counts on me to do my fair share as a maid.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right, Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “This is anexceptional circumstance, and I do insist that you help Detective Stark. We will remunerate you for your full shift, so don’t worry about that.”
It’s a relief to hear this. Given the current state of my finances, I simply can’t afford to lose wages.
“That’s very good of you, Mr. Snow,” I say. Then another thought occurs to me. “So I’m not in any trouble, is that correct?”
“No,” says Mr. Snow. “Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“No, not at all. We just need to know what you saw today, what you noticed, especially at the scene.”
“You mean in Mr. Black’s suite?”
“Yes.”
“When I found him dead.”
“Uh, yes.”
