Read Chapter 22: The Conspiracy

Mrs. Hutchins did not flinch when Evelyn closed the door behind her. The housekeeper stood at the ironing table in the linen room, her back straight, her hands folded before her as though she had been expecting this reckoning for some time. The air smelled of hot metal and lavender water, and the single window let in the grey light of a dying afternoon.

“You have been in Miss Reeves’s room again,” Mrs. Hutchins said, without turning around.

“I have,” Evelyn said. She kept her voice low. The corridor beyond was empty, but the walls of Blackwood had ears, and most of them belonged to Lady Beatrice. “And I have found things that do not sit easily with the story you told me of that night.”

Mrs. Hutchins turned. Her face was pale, the lines around her mouth deeper than Evelyn remembered. She looked older now, tired in a way that had nothing to do with the hour.

“What do you think you have found?” she asked.

Evelyn reached into the pocket of her skirt and drew out the oilcloth. She did not open it. She did not need to. The weight of it against her palm was enough.

“Letters from Lady Beatrice,” she said. “Ordering Miss Reeves to kill Annabel. Threatening her niece. And a debt note, written in your hand, acknowledging payment of fifty pounds for services concerning Miss Reeves’s departure.”

Mrs. Hutchins’s gaze dropped to the oilcloth, and something passed across her face—not surprise, but resignation. She had known this moment would come. She had simply hoped it would not.

“Sit down,” the housekeeper said, and gestured to a wooden chair beside the ironing table. “You will want to be seated for what I have to tell you.”

Evelyn did not sit. She remained standing, the oilcloth clutched to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Tell me what happened,” she said. “Tell me the truth.”

Mrs. Hutchins let out a long, slow breath. She moved to the window, her hands gripping the sill, her back to Evelyn.

“I helped her,” she said. “Miss Reeves. I helped her leave.”

The words landed like stones in still water. Evelyn felt the ripple pass through her, disbelief first, then understanding.

“You were paid,” Evelyn said. “The debt note. Fifty pounds.”

“I did not take the money for myself,” Mrs. Hutchins said sharply, turning to face her. “I took it to ensure I could keep my position. Beatrice made it clear that if I did not cooperate, I would be dismissed without reference. And I have a daughter in service in London from whom I have been estranged for six years. I write to her every month. If I lost my position, I would have nothing to offer her.” Her voice cracked. “I am not proud of what I did. But I did not know what Beatrice intended. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

“What did you think she intended?” Evelyn asked.

“I thought Miss Reeves was leaving voluntarily,” Mrs. Hutchins said. “That is what I was told. Beatrice came to me the night before Miss Reeves vanished. She said the governess had become unstable, that she had made accusations against the family, and that she had agreed to leave quietly in exchange for a sum of money. My task was simple: I was to unlock the garden gate at midnight and leave it open. Nothing more. I was not to speak to Miss Reeves. I was not to tell anyone.”

Evelyn’s grip on the oilcloth tightened. “And what happened? Did Miss Reeves go through the gate?”

Mrs. Hutchins shook her head. A tremor ran through her hands, and she clasped them together to still them.

“I waited in the kitchen, as I was told. At half past twelve, I heard the gate creak. I thought it was her, leaving as planned. But then I heard voices. Two voices, raised in argument. I crept to the kitchen window and looked out.”

She paused. Her eyes were distant, fixed on something Evelyn could not see.

“It was Lady Beatrice. She was at the gate with two men, strangers, rough men in dark coats. And Miss Reeves was there too, dragged between them. She was fighting, struggling, trying to pull away. And Beatrice was speaking to her in a voice I had never heard from her before—cold, calm, utterly without feeling.”

“What did she say?” Evelyn asked, her own voice barely a whisper.

Mrs. Hutchins looked at her directly. “She said, ‘You should have stayed where you were told. You should have kept your mouth shut about my daughter. Now you will leave, and you will never return. If you do, I will have the girl killed, and I will make sure you know it was your doing.’”

Evelyn felt the words settle into her like frost. “They took her?”

“They took her,” Mrs. Hutchins said. “They dragged her through the gate and into a carriage waiting on the road beyond. I watched them go. I did nothing. I could do nothing.” Her voice broke again. “I have hated myself every day since.”

Evelyn stared at her, trying to find purchase in the story, some detail that did not fit. But it fit all too well. It explained the ledger’s final entry, dated the day Miss Reeves disappeared—that she had found Annabel and planned to depart with her. Miss Reeves had thought she was leaving voluntarily, perhaps, or had been tricked into thinking her escape would be aided. And Beatrice had intercepted her before she could reach the crypt.

“If Beatrice intercepted Miss Reeves,” Evelyn said slowly, “then she knew where Annabel was hidden. She knew the crypt was being used.”

Mrs. Hutchins shook her head. “I do not think she did. If she knew Annabel was in the crypt, she would have had her removed violently, no matter the scandal. She must have acted only when she learned Miss Reeves meant to leave with the child.”

“Then why did she not search for Annabel?” Evelyn pressed. “Why let her remain hidden?”

“Because she believed Annabel was dead,” Mrs. Hutchins said. “That was the story that was told, and Lady Beatrice had every reason to believe it. Miss Thorne’s supposed death—it was Annabel’s escape arranged to look that way. Lady Beatrice thought the cliff took her. She believed the threat was gone.”

Evelyn felt the pieces shift, forming a new picture. “But if Beatrice believed Annabel was dead, why did she order the letters? Why did she threaten Miss Reeves’s niece?”

Mrs. Hutchins’s expression grew grim. “Because Miss Reeves wrote to Beatrice,” she said. “After Annabel’s escape. She wrote to tell Beatrice that the girl was alive, that she had helped her, and that she would expose everything unless Beatrice allowed her to leave with the child and never trouble them again.”

Evelyn blinked. “She wrote to her? She threatened her?”

“She was desperate,” Mrs. Hutchins said. “Beatrice had been threatening her niece for months. Miss Reeves believed she could use the knowledge of Annabel’s survival as leverage—that she could force Beatrice to let them both go in exchange for silence. But she underestimated Beatrice’s cruelty.”

The room fell silent. Evelyn could hear the distant sound of wind against the windows, the creak of the old house settling around them.

“Where is she now?” Evelyn asked. “Where did they take her?”

Mrs. Hutchins shook her head. “I do not know. I have asked myself that question every night for a year. The men were not from the estate. They were not servants. I have never seen them since, and I have no way to find them.”

“You served as a witness to her abduction,” Evelyn said, her voice hardening. “You did nothing. You said nothing. You took money for your silence.”

Mrs. Hutchins’s face crumpled. “I know,” she said. “I know what I did. But you must understand—Beatrice threatened my daughter as well. She made it clear that if I spoke, my daughter would suffer. I have spent a year looking over my shoulder, waiting for word that my girl has been harmed because of my cowardice.”

Evelyn looked at the housekeeper, and for a moment, she felt something other than anger. Fear was a prison of its own, and Mrs. Hutchins had been its inmate for over a year.

“What will you do with what you have found?” Mrs. Hutchins asked quietly.

Evelyn tucked the oilcloth back into her skirt. “I am going to Lord Blackwood,” she said. “He is the master of this house. He deserves to know what his mother has done.”

Mrs. Hutchins’s eyes widened. “He will not believe you,” she said quickly. “He has spent his life refusing to see what his mother is. If you go to him with accusations, he will defend her. He will turn it on you.”

“Then I will make him believe,” Evelyn said. She moved toward the door, her hand on the handle. “Or I will die trying.”

“Miss Hartley.” Mrs. Hutchins’s voice stopped her. The housekeeper’s face was pale, her eyes wet. “If you do this, Beatrice will know you have the letters. She will come for you. She will not stop until you are silenced, just as she silenced Miss Reeves.”

Evelyn met her gaze. “Then I had better move quickly.”

She opened the door and stepped into the corridor, the weight of the oilcloth pressing against her hip, the truth of what Miss Reeves had faced now pressing against her heart.