Free Black Gold by Charles O'Brien Page A

of the corner of her eye, she noticed a flicker of interest flit across Jeffery’s face.
    â€œI wrote them a message of condolence,” Lady Margaret said wearily. “If you need more, you must speak to the steward. I have placed this regrettable affair in his hands.” She nodded a dismissal to Anne and gestured to Jeffery to remove the breakfast tray. The visit was over.
    Anne found Mr. Cope, the steward, in his office in Combe Park’s east wing, a large two-story structure joined to the main house by a low open arcade. The office walls were lined with shelves of files and account books. The steward sat behind his desk, quill in hand, busy with a sheet of paper.
    Anne stood at the open door and cleared her throat. Mr. Cope looked up. A frown creased his brow.
    â€œYes? Do I know you, Miss?”
    â€œAnne Cartier. Charlie Rogers’ new tutor. Please excuse the interruption. If it’s convenient, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    He studied her for a brief moment, then smiled hurriedly. “Allow me a minute to bring this letter to a close.” With his quill he pointed to a chair.
    She sat opposite him and took in his appearance. A once-handsome, elderly man, he had a tired look about him, a heaviness of spirit. His hair was thin and gray, his cheeks were pallid, his lips had a tint of blue. After a long minute, he laid down his pen, blotted the paper, and looked up at Anne. “What can I do for you, Miss Cartier?”
    By his speech, she judged him to be intelligent and well-educated. Encouraged, she began to lay Mr. Braidwood’s desire before him.
    The steward repeated the common understanding of how the body had been found. As far as he was concerned, her death was clearly accidental. The doctor had found no evidence of violence, and a magistrate had concurred.
    â€œAnd her body? What was done with it?” Anne asked.
    â€œPlaced on board a ship bound for Scotland the next day,” he replied.
    This seemed remarkably abrupt, Anne thought with dismay.
    Her face must have betrayed her feeling. The steward leaned forward, hand clasped before him, and met Anne’s eye. “Lady Margaret wanted the incident closed as neatly and quickly as possible.”
    â€œMiss Campbell was a decent, upright woman,” Anne persisted. “Were not prayers said for her? A parson called?” She wondered, was any mark of respect shown to her?
    â€œThis is not a religious house, Miss Cartier. Sir Harry has converted the chapel into a ball room. No one living or dead should expect prayers here.” He paused. His face darkened. A tinge of asperity crept into his voice. “I might add, Miss Campbell was a brash young woman who often forgot her place. I gather that many here had felt the lash of her tongue. Though no one wished her ill, or was glad of her accident, they are pleased she is gone.”
    Anne sensed that the steward might have been one of the targets of Miss Campbell’s blunt speech. There was something furtive and insincere about him. Anne concluded nothing more could be gained from further questioning. She thanked him and left. On the way back to the house, she regretted that a sharp-eyed investigator like her friend Georges Charpentier had not examined Mary’s body.
    As Anne approached the servant’s entrance to the house, she suddenly became aware of Jeffery at her side.
    â€œHave you learned what you set out for, Miss Cartier?” There was a note of doubt in his voice.
    â€œOnly enough to make me want more.” She stopped at the door and turned to him. “Did you know Mary Campbell?”
    â€œOnly a little. She was kind and helpful to little Charlie. Spoke her mind. Fought for her rights. But, at Combe Park, one should be cautious.” A warning look in his eye seemed intended for her.
    â€œOh! What do you mean?”
    He shook his head, unwilling to be drawn out. “I think you should speak to Mrs. Powell, our