The House Of Silk

busy even though there was very little activity in evidence. There were three people in the room. One of them I recognised. The manservant, Kirby, who had first admitted us to Ridgeway Hall was sitting at the table, buttering some bread for his lunch. A small, ginger-haired pudding of a woman was standing at the stove, stirring a soup, the aroma of which – beef and vegetables – filled the air. The third person was a sly-looking young man, sitting in the corner, idly polishing the cutlery. Although Kirby had risen to his feet the moment we entered, I noticed that the young man remained where he was, glancing over his shoulder as if we were intruders who had no right to disturb him. He had long, yellow hair, a slightly feminine face, and must have been about eighteen or nineteen years old. I remembered Carstairs telling Holmes and I that Kirby’s wife had a nephew, Patrick, who worked below stairs and supposed this must be him.
    Carstairs introduced me. ‘This is Dr Watson, who is trying to determine the cause of my sister’s illness. He may have some questions for you and I would be glad if you would answer them as candidly as you can.’
    Although I had insinuated myself into the kitchen, I was actually unsure what to say but began with the cook who seemed the most approachable of the three. ‘You are Mrs Kirby?’ I asked.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘And you prepare all the food?’
    ‘Everything is prepared in this kitchen, sir, by me and by my husband. Patrick scrubs the potatoes and helps with the washing, when he can be so minded, but all the food passes through my hands and if there is anything poisoned in this house, Dr Watson, you won’t be finding it here. My kitchen is spotless, sir. We scrub it with carbolate of lime once a month. You can enter the pantry if you wish. Everything is in its place and there’s plenty of fresh air. We buy the food locally and nothing that’s not fresh comes through the door.’
    ‘It’s not the food that’s the cause of Miss Carstairs’s illness, begging your pardon, sir,’ muttered Kirby with a glance at the master of the house. ‘You and Mrs Carstairs have had nothing different to her and you’re both well.’
    ‘If you ask me, there’s something strange what’s come into this house,’ Mrs Kirby said.
    ‘What do you mean by that, Margaret?’ Mrs Carstairs demanded.
    ‘I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t mean anything by it. But we’re all worried to death on account of poor Miss Carstairs and it’s just as if somehow there’s something wrong about this place but whatever it is, my conscience is clear and I would pack my bags tomorrow and leave if anyone suggested otherwise.’
    ‘Nobody is blaming you, Mrs Kirby.’
    ‘But she’s right though. There is something wrong in this house.’ It was the kitchen boy, speaking for the first time and his accent reminded me that Carstairs had told us that he came from Ireland.
    ‘Your name is Patrick, is it not?’ I asked.
    ‘That’s right, sir.’
    ‘And where are you from?’
    ‘From Belfast, sir.’
    It was surely a coincidence and nothing more but Rourke and Keelan O’Donaghue had also come from Belfast. ‘How long have you been here, Patrick?’ I asked.
    ‘Two years. I came here just before Mrs Carstairs.’ And the boy smirked as if at some private joke.
    It was none of my business, but everything about his behaviour – the way he slouched on his stool and even the manner of his speech – struck me as purposefully disrespectful and I was surprised that Carstairs allowed him to get away with it. His wife was less tolerant.
    ‘How dare you speak to us like that, Patrick,’ she said. ‘If you’re insinuating something, you should say it. And if you’re unhappy here, you should leave.’
    ‘I like it well enough, Mrs Carstairs, and I wouldn’t say there was anywhere else I would want to go.’
    ‘Such insolence! Edmund, will you not speak to him?’
    Carstairs hesitated, and in that brief pause there was a jangle and Kirby looked round at the row of servants’ bells on the far wall. ‘That’s Miss Carstairs, sir,’ he said.
    ‘She must have finished her bath,’ Carstairs said. ‘We can go up to her. Unless you have any more questions, Dr Watson?’
    ‘Not at all,’ I replied. The few questions I had asked had been futile and I was suddenly dispirited, for it had occurred to me that had Holmes been present, he would have probably have solved the entire mystery by now. What would he