The Art of Betrayal

hand holding the lid of a ceramic cookie jar. Her hair had been bleached the color and texture of straw. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, her lips a carmine gash.
“May I help you?” I stepped into the room, pretty sure I could overpower her if necessary.
“Lordy,” she gasped, clapping her free hand on her flat chest. “Nearly gave me a ’eart attack, you did.” She replaced the lid on the cookie jar.
“Stealing cookies?” I thought it was funny, but she gave me an injured look.
“I’m not stealing anything. I saw the police drive off. Thought I’d sort out my wages, long as I were in the neighborhood.”
“How did you get in?”
“Got a key, ’aven’t I?”
Light dawned. “You’re the housekeeper, Mrs. Wright. You’d better give me that key.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you, then—police?”
“No, but I’m working with them.”
Grudgingly, she handed me the key. “Owes me a week’s wages, she does, Mrs. Villiers. I’m sorry she’s dead ’n’ all, but what’s mine is mine.”
“Did you tell the police about your wages?”
“Course I did. They gave me a number to call in Bury—solicitor. Took down my details and said they’d be in touch in due time, all sniffy-like. Won’t ’elp me pay my bills now, will it?”
“What were you looking for in the cookie jar?”
“It’s where the missus left cash, in case she wanted something from the stores. ‘Just take what you need,’ she’d say. Figured I were owed, after all I’ve been through these past few days. Only there’s nothing ’ere.” She looked close to tears.
I noticed with relief my handbag was still on the counter. “Stealing will only make them suspect you of something more serious.”
“I told you—I weren’t stealing.” She stared at me defiantly. “Them’s my wages. I have my rights.”
“The police may not see it that way.”
“I suppose you’ll tell them.” Her eyes filled.
She looked so pitiful, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
“Look, why don’t I say you came for your wages and left, all right?” Opening my handbag, I pulled out my wallet and handed her a twenty-pound note. “It’s all I have at the moment, but it should help tide you over until the solicitor contacts you.”
“Don’t sit well, taking charity,” she grumbled. “Always worked for my keep, I ’ave.”
“Think of it as an advance on wages due. You can pay me back later.”
She sniffed.
“Why don’t we have a nice cup of tea,” I said, suspecting she was on the brink of tears. “I could use a break, and I’m sure you know your way around this kitchen.”
That brightened her up. She got busy filling an electric kettle.
We sat, drinking our tea at the table overlooking the back garden. “Tell me about Mrs. Villiers.”
“Oh, she were an odd one. Spent most of ’er time in ’er room upstairs—or in the garden. Fond of the river, she was. In fine weather, she’d sit out there all afternoon.”
I thought of the bench along the bank and the photo of the cottage by a river.
“Did you ever hear Mrs. Villiers say anything about a wagon bell?”
I expected her to laugh. Instead she pursed her lips. “Not ‘wagon bell,’ exactly, but something like it. She were always quoting.”
“Quoting?”
“In the old tongue. Couldn’t make ’eads nor tails of it.”
“Do you know anything about the framed photograph over her bed?”
“Wouldn’t know about that. She did for ’erself up there.”
“Did you ever ask her why she never left the grounds?”
“That were ’er business. Long as I got paid, she could please ’erself.”
“Were you here last Saturday?”
“Police asked that. Only for an ’our or so in the morning to delivery groceries.”
“Did she mention driving into Long Barston?”
“No, but then she wouldn’t. We weren’t friends, like.”
“How would she have gotten there?”
“Police asked that too. There’s a car in the garage, but I never saw ’er drive.”
“Had she seemed different lately? Worried, upset, short-tempered?”
Mrs. Wright wrinkled her forehead in thought. “I ’ardly knew her, did I? Never ’ad a chat—not a proper one like we’re ’avin’ now. Mostly she’d leave notes on the table, tellin’ me what she wanted. Never gave me no trouble.”
The ideal employer. “How did she pay you?”
“Cash. In an envelope in the cookie jar.”
“Did she ever talk about her family? The tragedy of her husband’s death?”
“Never. I ’eard about it, o’ course, but I never dared ask.”
“And you didn’t know about Lucy—her daughter?”
Mrs. Wright shifted in her seat. “I may ’ave heard a whisper in the village, but never from ’er. Not a word from ’er.”
That wasn’t exactly what she’d told the police, but I let it go. “Did Mrs. Villiers receive any mail?”
“Mostly adverts. Every month or so she’d get a letter, official like, from a firm in Bury.”
“How did she get cash if she never went out?”
Mrs. Wright blinked. “Must ’ave been that young man who came round in the evenings—the one in the black van. I got the impression ’e did errands for ’er.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Never asked—’e weren’t local.”
“Did the van have a logo on the side?”
“Never paid attention.”
“Did Mrs. Villiers ever mention her husband’s art and antiques collection?”
“To me?” She hooted. “Not likely. Those rooms were always closed off—although now you mention it, last winter she did ask me to give them a ’ooverin’ and a once-over with a feather duster. Right careful I was too. Anything broken, I’d ’ave to pay for it.”
“She said that?”
“Stands to reason, don’t it? Housekeeper’s always to blame.” Mrs. Wright drained her cup and set it down on the saucer with a clatter.
I was running out of questions. “Was there ever anything that made you stop and think—especially in the last few weeks? Take your time.”
Mrs. Wright sucked in the side of her lower lip. “There was something, now I think on it. It were Friday, the day before she … well, you know. I was gathering my things to leave, and there she was, in the kitchen. ‘What will you do this weekend?’ she asked me. Nearly bowled me over, I was that surprised. ‘Fair’s on