The Shadow in the Glass by JJA Harwood (any book recommendations txt) 📕

door and cleared her throat. It sounded phlegmy. ‘Inspector Hatchett, miss.’

Eleanor almost dropped the undertaker’s bill. The Inspector? What could he want? She glanced at Charles and to her surprise, saw that he had gone pale. Something prickled on the back of Eleanor’s neck. What had Charles said about an inquest?

Inspector Hatchett ducked through the door. Shoulders hunched, he looked like a bird of prey. Eleanor stood up and smiled, every inch the perfect hostess.

‘Inspector! What an unexpected pleasure. As you can see, I have company, so perhaps we could conduct our interview in the dining room? It’s down the hall.’

‘Thank you, Miss Hartley, but this is not a social call. I need to speak with you both as a matter of urgency.’

Eleanor’s smile slipped. The word ‘inquest’ rattled around her head. ‘Is everything all right?’

The Inspector pulled out his notebook. ‘I should prefer to speak to you both separately. If you could give us the room, Miss Hartley—’

Charles’s foot started jittering against the floor. ‘Is it really necessary to bring her into this?’

The Inspector fixed Eleanor with a long, hard look. ‘I believe it is.’

Eleanor could feel her own pulse fluttering in her throat. Could the Inspector see it twitching beneath the high collar of her dress? Even when she looked away she could feel his eyes on her face. They taught policemen how to look for all the signs of guilt. Had she already given herself away, and not known it yet?

Charles took her hand and spoke to the Inspector. ‘I want to be present for Miss Hartley’s interview. I won’t have you frightening her.’

Eleanor stared at Charles’s pale face, heart rattling against her ribs. ‘Is there a reason for me to be frightened, Charles?’

‘I – well—’

‘Mr Pembroke,’ said the Inspector, and Eleanor flinched to hear him address Charles that way, ‘this is ridiculous. I would have thought you would take the investigation into your father’s murder a little more seriously.’

The words dropped into Eleanor’s mind like leaden weights. It couldn’t be murder. Mr Pembroke was old, he drank, he took morphine. The Inspector must have been mistaken. His heart had given out, or he’d put the needle in the wrong place, or he’d—

‘Murder?’ she whispered.

Panic flashed across Charles’s face. The Inspector was scribbling furiously.

‘Charles, your father … your father was—’

‘I thought you knew!’ Charles cried. ‘It’s been in the papers!’

Eleanor flushed. She wasn’t used to having a fortune; she could walk past a hundred paperboys and not think to spend the money. She frowned. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Do you mean to say, Miss Hartley,’ said the Inspector, disbelief laced through every syllable, ‘that you did not know that Mr Frederick Pembroke had been murdered?’

Eleanor put a hand over her eyes and sank into a chair. Murder. Another act of spite from the black-eyed woman. She ought to have realized, Eleanor thought bitterly. The black-eyed woman was perfectly capable of stopping Mr Pembroke’s heart, or allowing one of his needles to slip. Instead, she had made someone murder him – please God, Eleanor thought, not Aoife – because that death would snap and claw at Eleanor’s heels, dragging her closer to the Inspector and the final, forbidden wish.

Charles dropped to his knees beside her. ‘Eleanor, I’m sorry, I should have—’

She got up, knees shaking. ‘Please forgive the delay, Inspector,’ she rasped, ‘but would you postpone my interview? I find myself somewhat indisposed.’

The Inspector was watching her, his brow furrowed. His eyes moved from her pale face to her black dress. He closed his notebook, still watching her.

‘Of course, Miss Hartley,’ he said. ‘I will call again when you have recovered.’

When Charles and the Inspector had gone, Eleanor resolved to find out the truth. She picked through the household waste until she found an old newspaper, crumpled and stained by raw mutton.

Mr Pembroke had been stabbed in the night. The papers suspected he’d been drugged: there were no signs of a struggle. Someone had simply crept in, killed him, and slipped away. Two maids had gone missing, along with a large amount of money. Eleanor remembered Daisy watching Aoife’s hair spill across her shoulders, and hoped they were safe, and together.

Perhaps it had been Daisy or Aoife who wielded the knife. Perhaps it had been someone else – Leah, maybe, or some other poor girl just like her. Eleanor could think of a long list of girls who would’ve been happy to see him die, and Eleanor would be lying if she didn’t add her own name to the list.

She had done what they’d all been dreaming of. She had sent the black-eyed woman after him like an avenging angel, and the world was a better place because she’d done it.

But now, she had the Inspector to contend with.

Eleanor prepared for his visit carefully. Everything he saw would end up in his little notebook; therefore, perfection was the only thing she could let him see. She had Bessie scrub the house from top to bottom and then sent her out for the day; Bessie had done enough damage with Mrs Cleary. Eleanor brushed her black dress to a shine and covered her only mirror with a scrap of dark cloth. The May sunshine streamed through the drawing-room window, baking the air inside; Eleanor angled her chair carefully so that the light would catch her hair, but keep her from sweating in the sun.

When he arrived, Eleanor showed him in herself, like a girl greeting her father at the door instead of an heiress who could buy him ten times over. She went to the carefully placed chair, leaving the Inspector squinting into the sunlight, and started sewing a black border on a handkerchief. Better to keep her hands busy, in case they gave her away.

He sat down. With his long limbs bunched beneath him, he looked as if he’d been badly folded in half.

‘Miss Hartley, before we attend to the matter at hand I must apologize. I had assumed that you were aware of the nature of Mr