“I’m not forgetting ’em, Captain Arkwright. Not for a moment,” conceded Baddeley. “I’ve formed some very definite conclusions. Come down again to the library, Sir Charles, and you two gentlemen, also,” he addressed Anthony Bathurst and me—“you may as well see the thing through with me.” We retraced our steps downstairs to the library.
“Your servants, Sir Charles—tell me about them—I’m curious.”
“There’s Fitch, the butler, been with me over twenty years, Mrs. Dawson, the cook over fifteen years. The four maids are Coombes, the one you saw—she looks after Lady Considine and my daughter, Mary, if she happens to require her—Marshall, Hudson and Dennis. I suppose you would call them housemaids. They see to the rooms and wait at table if we want them. Coombes has been with us over seven years, Marshall and Hudson are comparative newcomers to my establishment. Been with me about three years and eighteen months respectively. Dennis we have only had nine weeks. I’ve no complaints against any one of them.”
For a brief space Baddeley conferred with Roper.
I observed that Anthony watched this consultation with some interest.
“Very well, then, Roper—I quite agree,” I heard the Inspector say—and then, “ask her to come in.” He turned in the direction of Sir Charles. “This maid, Marshall, that discovered Mr. Prescott’s body this morning—you say she has been with you for about three years?”
“About that time, Inspector.”
“Well, I’m going to have a few words with her. I’m not——”
The door opened to admit Marshall.
She was a dark, rather pretty girl, of medium height—I should have said of Welsh type. When she entered, I was struck by the extreme pallor of her face. The shock of the finding of Prescott’s body had evidently affected her considerably. Had I not known that, I should have thought that she was a victim of fear.