Murkmere by Patricia Elliott Page A

of its truth. “Mistress Crumplin
     asked me to go after Aggie, to walk with her. Then I saw her was headin’ for the tower and I knew it was forbidden. I was
     goin’ to warn her, honest, but Mr. Silas and a keeper came out of the trees at the top of the tower rise. Mr. Silas questioned
     me. He said we’d go and find Aggie together. He took my arm so firm I couldn’t do nothin’ but go with him, Miss.”
    There was a long silence only broken by the occasional aggrieved sniff from Dog, while her little beady eyes dartedappraisingly from one to the other of us. But I couldn’t speak. I knew what Leah was thinking, for I was thinking it too.
    Silas and the keeper together — had they both been responsible for Matt’s murder? How long had they been in that part of the
     grounds? Had Silas given orders, or done the deed himself?
    I couldn’t believe it and I didn’t want to, for a piece of my heart held to him still. I remembered the way he had stared
     at his hands in the tower, those beautiful white hands, so very clean. There had been no bloodstain on them then.
    But a fatal knife-thrust can go so deep that the wound bleeds little externally, especially in cold weather.
    As the evening deepened, the snow stopped, and it seemed to become a little warmer. I didn’t attend Devotion: I couldn’t face
     Silas before I’d recovered myself, nor could I bear listening to him lead the servants’ prayers. But tomorrow was pay-day,
     and I’d have to face him then.
    With evening, Leah’s mood changed again and she became withdrawn and restless. She said nothing more to me about Matt’s murder;
     she scarcely spoke.
    At supper, the dining room, with the two of us sitting at opposite ends of the long table, seemed full of her fidgets. She
     scowled at the elderly footman as he crept with painful slowness from door to table, the plates in his trembling hands clattering
     together like two gossips in the marketplace.
    “Where’s Jukes?”
    The old man jumped as she snapped the question, andthe plates of boiled mutton jumped with him. “He’s sick, Miss Leah.”
    “Sick?” Leah said the word as if no one at Murkmere should have the temerity to be in such a state.
    “He has the feverish ague. Many of the servants are afflicted, Miss.”
    “Is that why the onion sauce is gray?” she demanded, staring at the sauceboat in disgust. “The cook’s sauce-maker is sick
     too, I suppose. Take it away!”
    The footman took the offending sauceboat and shuffled off. Leah pushed the mutton away angrily and pecked at her vegetables,
     while I couldn’t help brooding. My throat closed on my food and my eyes watered. If Leah noticed she gave no sign.
    She didn’t speak to me until we were in her parlor.
    “Shall I get the cards out, Miss?” I asked, making an effort to carry out my duties.
    She was slumped down among the cushions on the tapestry daybed. She didn’t answer but jumped up, went over to the window,
     and drew back the heavy silk curtains. “That’s better,” she said with a great sigh, and stared out into the dark.
    In the evenings Leah’s parlor was cozy, with its crackling fire beneath a pretty, painted mantel, its wall coverings of faded
     blue silk and curtains embroidered with forget-me-nots. It was only in the cold, gray daylight that you noticed the walls
     were speckled with damp. But now, with the curtains drawn back, the night outside seemed to threaten the little room.

    “Come away to the fire, Miss,” I said uneasily. “It’s drafty by the window.”
    Leah touched her neck in the restless movement I was beginning to know. “To be out there, free,” she whispered to herself.
     The moon had sailed clear of the clouds and was silvering the soft plains of snow beneath it.
    “They’ll break the ice on the mere tomorrow,” she said, turning to me. “It’s made me anxious all evening. There’s a thaw in
     the air. Those clouds will bring rain, not snow. They’ll want to break the ice while