Free Murder Most Malicious by Alyssa Maxwell

often showed a decided lack of sympathy. If there were sides to be taken, Mrs. Sanders’s opinion unwaveringly favored the family above stairs.
    Douglas apparently couldn’t help himself. He jerked his chin at Vernon. “You’re awful quiet about this. Don’t you have anything to say?”
    â€œI, er . . .” Vernon glanced first at Mrs. Sanders, then Mr. Giles, and remained silent. Newly made head footman, George Vernon straddled a fence between the upper and lower servants, desiring the acceptance of the former without alienating the latter. It wasn’t an easy position to be in, as Eva knew from experience.
    Douglas flashed him a look of disgust. Murmurs of discontent broke out around the table.
    â€œThat will be quite enough. If I hear one more complaint out of any of you—” Mrs. Sanders didn’t finish. She didn’t need to for everyone to understand her meaning.
    â€œEveryone calm down, please.” Mr. Giles stood up at the head of the table, prompting Eva and the others to jump to their feet in one swift motion. It had been ingrained in them: When the butler stands, everyone stands. He held up his hands and made patting motions at the air. “Sit back down, all of you. I only wish to make a point. And that is that no one here has any reason to fear, as long as none of you has broken any rules . . . or worse.”
    By worse the butler referred to Lord Allerton. The faces around Eva registered every emotion from apprehension to suspicion, frustration, and out and out fear. By that last sentiment, Connie seemed most affected, sitting stiffly and staring down at her lap as if afraid if she looked up some terrible fate might befall her. Had she something to hide? What about Douglas? Or Vernon, who seemed to be avoiding meeting everyone’s gaze.
    Any of them might harbor a secret they dreaded revealing, a happenstance that could send them out into the street this very day. Never mind what happened to Lord Allerton. Any broken rule, from a liquor flask or forbidden reading material hidden under a pillow to some evidence that a member of the staff had sneaked out after curfew . . . offenses other people never gave a second thought could threaten a servant’s livelihood.
    She began to worry, not for herself, but for her fellow domestics. She’d grown fond of them all in these last few years. She didn’t wish to see any of them cast out without a reference.
    Sitting next to Eva, Mrs. Ellison kept clasping and unclasping her plump hands. Eva reached over and stilled them. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Ellison. Your cleaver might turn up innocently enough.”
    â€œI do hope so. How I loathe to think a blade from my kitchen could have been used in so fiendish a way. It’s almost blasphemous! Lord knows, if it was used to . . . to . . . Well, I should never be able to chop chickens with it again, shall I? The very thought . . .” She shivered.
    â€œIf that is indeed the case, you’ll have a new cleaver, to be sure, Mrs. Ellison,” Mrs. Sanders said.
    â€œWhat’s taking them so long?” Dora spoke with a groan, yet not one of distress or worry, Eva deduced, but, judging by the light in her eyes and the vivid color in her cheeks, anticipation. The girl found something exciting in all of this, the kind of vicarious adventure one gleaned from reading sordid details in mystery novels.
    Mrs. Ellison must have noticed this, too, for presently she compressed her lips and then said, “Dora, I think you might return to the scullery and start polishing the copper pots used for last night’s dinner. If the inspector needs to speak with you, I’ll let you know.”
    â€œBut Lord Wroxly said—”
    Mrs. Sanders cleared her throat. “It is irregular for you to be in the dining hall at all, Dora. I’m quite certain Lord Wroxly would have no objection to you restoring the shine on the sauce pots.”
    She had a point. As