The two ladies’ investigations had bewildering results—quite of a piece with the bedroom key being taken away, and the keys left in the trunk. The tiny store of household silver was safe, and Lucy, running her eye over other household gods, missed nothing. The domestic arrangements had apparently been in good order until very near the end. But such movements as Clementina must have made during the previous day were most unaccountable. She had put butter among the loaf sugar, and had placed the saucepans on the dresser shelves! There was not a single potato in the house, though the day before she had asked for money to buy a week’s supply. The nice clean damask tablecloth and napkins which had been used at supper the night before were found crumpled up and thrust away with the blacking brushes. The bellows was in the bread-basket!
“One would think she had gone out of her mind!” ejaculated Miss Latimer. And then a thought flashed upon her. She paused. She would not at once give it utterance.
Tom got back, breathless, by noon. The principals of the firm were shocked to hear of the uncertainty of their young partner’s fate, and deeply sympathetic with the poor wife, who might so well be “widow.” They bade Tom give her all the help he could, and come to them for any service they might be able to render. On his way back Tom had looked in at Mr. Somerset’s lodgings to bid him not fail them, for they were in new trouble. He could only get a word or two with Mr. Somerset then, for there was fresh affliction there too, though it was but simple affliction. Mr. Somerset’s old landlord had passed quietly away in the night.
Tom found Lucy and Miss Latimer wrapped in big aprons, with dresses tucked up, busily getting things into their accustomed routine. His appearance reminded them of the expediency of dinner—a necessity which women are too apt to forget for themselves. Mrs. Challoner commissioned him to go and “order” some steak, but Tom said he should bring it, to make sure of it, and armed himself with a black leather bag.
The butcher greeted him cheerily.
“Fine morning, sir. There, that’s a capital cut, just what Mrs. Challoner will like. Take it yourself, did you say, sir? Well, as you please.” And then the butcher gave his head a knowing wag, and said, “Guess there’s trouble with that servant of yours? I reckoned there would be. She was a queer one, that. A little off her chump, I should say.”
“She’s run away,” said Tom, “but what did you ever see queer about her?”
The butcher laughed.
“I thought at first that she was a real old sort. Prime cut, as one might say. And when she used to be a little faddy, I thought it was just her particular goodness. She was always ready enough to pass the time of day, and her and me were good friends—though I do remember she did once ask me why I came knocking at her kitchen door and running away, but I was busy that day, and let it pass as, maybe, her sort of joke. But about a week ago, she asked me why I made faces at her; and my missus spoke quite sharp to her, telling her not to put such stories about. But last night, sir, I thought it was turning serious. For she came into the shop and said I was a-putting poison on the meat—she believed I had rubbed lucifer matches on it. I wasn’t here at the time, and my missus was glad to say anything to pacify her, thinking she’d been drinking—though she doesn’t look one of that sort.”
Tom stood aghast! Here, then, when and where nobody had thought of looking for it, the whole mystery stood explained. Clementina was the demented person who had sent the blank letter and the black-edged letter. She had imagined the runaway knocks, and what else? Might not the smashed china and the escaped gas be traced to the doings of the same wild hand?