“I did?” Mrs. Bentley wrinkled her brow in thought. “I don’t remember that. I just remember waking up to cold hearths and the bowls of dough running over and making a mess on the floor. No one came to serve my morning tea.”
Tiffany began to laugh. It has something of a hysterical edge to it, but it struck her as funny that the bowls of yeast dough would overflow and that Mrs. Bentley’s biggest concern was that no one came to serve tea.
“Come,” she said gently, “I have brought your tea now. It is not the best tea we have ever had. But perhaps one day we shall have better together.” She put an arm around Mrs. Bentley and guided her back to her seat by the makeshift table.
“That’s my good girl,” Mrs. Bentley said, taking up the crude cup. “It is cold, and it has a funny taste, but it is tea.”
“Have some bread and cheese,” Tiffany directed, placing some on a plate. “You must keep up your strength if you are to get better.”
“I don’t know if I want to get better,” Mrs. Bentley began to sob. “Life is so hard without Henry.”
Tiffany looked at her for just a minute. “I miss him, too,” she said. “But we must go on.” She sat down beside Mrs. Bentley and gently put an arm around the frail shoulders.
Mrs. Bentley leaned into Tiffany’s embrace. “Mama? When is Henry coming to visit? It has been so long since he was here.”
Tiffany felt a chill run down her spine.
Is this delirium? Or has she truly gone mad? What do I say? What is the kindest thing I can say?
Mrs. Bentley gave a sob. “I miss my Henry. That ungrateful girl he got to help out has run away. But I want to go home. I want to go back to our little house, and smell the bread and sweet rolls baking in the oven. What is in this tea?”
With that, she slumped against Tiffany.
Tiffany held the frail body in her arms, keeping Mrs. Bentley from falling off the seat. “What did you do?” she demanded of no one in particular. “What was in that tea?”
“Only chamomile and a little valerian root,” Old Elizabet said. “It will make her sleep a while. That was the best I’ve seen her since she’s been here. Perhaps when she wakes this time, she will be more herself.”
“I’ll take her inside to her bed,” Davy said. “Will you come tuck her in, Tiffany?”
Tiffany followed him, bemused by this strange turn of events.
Emily held open a battered, charred door. On the other side there was a short hall, and then a winding stair that led down into what had probably once been a fine kitchen. A small fire had been kindled on the great hearth, and a rude cot placed beside it.
“What is this place?” Tiffany asked.
“It was once part of the estate that went with the old manor house,” Old Elizabet said. “This was a hunting lodge for a time, then it was an inn. I think this might have been the inn that burned with your parents inside.”
Tiffany’s breath caught in her throat. “Are you sure?”
Old Elizabet shook her head. “I cannot say, but it did burn at about the right time. My father was stableman to the inn when it caught fire. They worked all night to put it out and well into the next day. This part was made of stone, so it survived.”
Tiffany smoothed the rag coverlet over Mrs. Bentley. “This is all so very strange. I could be arrested for an attempted murder at any time. Mrs. Bentley might be losing her mind. And this could be the inn where my parents were killed. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, or perhaps a little of both.”
“How about neither?” Old Elizabet suggested. “Instead, why don’t you come up and have some tea that isn’t dosed with a sleeping draught, and let’s hear what Constable Brooks has learned.”
Chapter 43
Percival set off for the local inn, feeling quite jaunty. He was flanked on either side by his friends. Lucas paced along behind them, accompanied by Michaels.
Michaels trundled a large wheelbarrow that contained a woven hamper, for he intended to pick up the items ordered from the inn.
“Are you sure you should not re-hire Jones? Your uncle does favor him,” Quinten remarked.
Kenault gave Quinten a sharp look. “Really, what kind of question is that? Surely you do not expect Percy to seriously consider that.”
“No, not really,” Quinten agreed. “But it does seem a great deal of bother for the cook to come fetch more than half of dinner.”
Percival sighed. “Michaels, as you both well know, does precisely two dishes well: roast and beans. Miss Bentley attempted to teach him how to make cookies. They served very well as clay pigeons for target practice.”
