By the time Hannah returned downstairs a couple of hours had passed. Returning the young mistress’ luncheon tray to the kitchen, she was about to retire to her room for a while when she heard someone weeping. The sound was coming from a small room at the back of the kitchen that was kept for the sole use of Mrs. Hudson. Hannah hovered outside the doorway, wondering what to do. The housekeeper was prickly at the best of times, but she sounded so upset. Knocking gently, Hannah opened the door slightly and peered inside.
Mrs. Hudson was sat at her desk, the one where she usually sat every evening with a tot of brandy, pouring over the household accounts. Now she sat, miserably hunched over the dark wood, a letter crumpled on the surface and an old sepia photograph in her hand. On seeing Hannah, she sat up quickly in an attempt to pull herself together, quickly pushing the letter and photograph inside one of the desk drawers.
Despite her obvious discomfort she scowled fiercely at Hannah; annoyed that someone had witnessed her moment of weakness. "Yes Miss Simpson, is there something I can help you with?"
Hannah sighed. Why did the woman always have to be so cold towards her? They should be comrades in arms rather than enemies. "I just thought I heard something Mrs. Hudson and I wanted to check, to see if you were all right?"
The woman blew her nose on a delicate lace handkerchief that didn't look very practical and looked at Hannah through cold blue eyes. "Of course I'm all right. I'm perfectly all right. Why shouldn't I be?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you Mrs. Hudson." Hannah felt suitably chastised and closing the door behind her, stepped back upstairs. Something was definitely wrong and she had to find out what it was. Mrs. Hudson was not easily upset and it all seemed to be too much of a coincidence. Could there possibly be a connection with Lord Montgomery’s death? She would have to bide her time.
Later that afternoon, when the kitchen was quiet, Hannah ventured back downstairs. Both of the kitchen girls had gone off into town, having been given their half day leave early; there was not much work to be done with only the mistress at home now. Mrs. Hudson was at the market, sorting out the menu for the week, while Stephens was in the master’s room, organizing the clothing to be stored, donated, or thrown away.
Crossing over the empty kitchen, Hannah hesitated outside the door of the housekeeper’s room. Her throat was dry and she could feel her heart racing in her chest. Normally, she would not dream of prying into someone else's business, but it was something she had to do for the sake of her poor mistress.
Placing her head near to the door she listened carefully; all was quiet within. Glancing around to make certain she was alone, Hannah pushed slowly on the door.
There were no windows in the room and at first it was difficult to see. Opening the door wider to let in more light, she crossed over to the desk. What if it were locked? She would have risked being caught for nothing.
Moving her fingers below the surface of the desk she felt around for the small brass handle to open the drawer. Tugging lightly, the drawer opened with ease. She had half expected it to be empty, but Hannah's heart skipped a beat, for there lay the crumpled letter and beneath it a faded photograph.
The letter was short.
I need to see you urgently. I am staying nearby but it is a slum of a place. I need money and fast. Don't let me down like before. I haven't forgotten. I will call again tomorrow at ten in the evening.
A.
The words were threatening and there was an undertone of malice in the letter. Who on earth could be writing to Mrs. Hudson in such a hateful way? The words had obviously caused the woman much distress.
Hannah turned her attention to the small photograph and was surprised to see the portrait of a woman with a small boy sat upon her knee. The woman looked young but rather severe, with her hair scraped up into a formidable bun, the dark eyes looking directly into the camera lens. There was no doubt that the woman in the photograph was a younger Mrs. Hudson; but what about the boy?
He looked angelic in his sailor suit; a stray light curl dangling from his jaunty cap. There could be no don't that this must be Mrs. Hudson’s son; the same deep eyes with a touch of willfulness in the young man’s gaze.
Could this be the young Mr. Andrew Crawley, and the author of the letter?
It was hard to put an age on the picture. Mrs. Hudson could have been any age from twenty to thirty-five. But that could mean that the child would now be in his twenties, just like Mr. Crawley. There was no doubt in her mind that the author of the letter must be the same young boy in the old photograph.
Hannah started with fright at the sound of footsteps in the kitchen just outside, and in a panic stuffed the letter and photograph back into the drawer, just as Stephens walked past the open doorway.
"Miss Simpson, can I help you?"
She could feel her face flush, the guilt immediately obvious as her voice shaking slightly with fear. "Mr. Stephens. I was just looking for a sheet of writing paper. I have a letter to write and seem to have run out of my own paper. I didn't think Mrs. Hudson would mind.” The words came out in a garbled rush as she thought quickly on her feet. Mr. Stephens eyed her suspiciously, but displayed little emotion.
"I believe there are some sheets on top of the desk Miss Simpson. It's a cheap paper she uses for writing out the shopping lists, but no doubt it will be more than adequate and serve your purpose.”
Hannah had not seen the paper and her hand trembled as she picked up a few sheets under his watchful gaze.
"Now, if you have quite finished Miss Simpson?"
Stepping quickly out of the room Hannah could feel her whole body start to shake as Stephens closed the door behind her. Taking a large bunch of keys from his belt, he proceeded to lock it. She wondered how long he had been in the kitchen and what he had seen. He would be sure to tell Mrs. Hudson that she had been snooping around in her room, but had he seen her with the letter and photograph?
As she headed for the stairs the old man called her back. "Oh Miss Simpson?"
Halting on the bottom stair she glanced around, the butler standing, watching her carefully. "If you need anything in future, then please ask. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson or I will be more than happy to assist you.”
With his rebuke ringing hotly in her ears, she set off to tell Christabel all about her findings.
***
That evening as Hannah walked into the kitchen in readiness for her evening meal, she could sense a tension in the room. She could tell that Stephens had already spoken with Mrs. Hudson; her stare was icier than usual. Ruth and Daisy were still out and supper would be difficult.
"I'm not feeling too well. I think I'll take a tray to my room. The mistress is still asleep and I can take her something up to her room when she wakes.” Fetching a plate, she spooned some of the vegetables and meat onto it before covering it over with a cloth, and placing it on a tray.
As she was about to carry it out to the stairs Mrs. Hudson caught her by the arm. "Did you manage to write your letter Miss Simpson?" The cold stare in her eyes sent a chill right to Hannah's heart.