It was empty. “Did Mrs. Parker typically use this?” P. C. Applegate asked. Drew narrowed his eyes, studying the expression on the face of the girl standing at his mother’s bedside. Beryl had been Constance’s personal maid for nearly five years and knew her mistress’s habits well. “She did. If she couldn’t sleep or her head was bothering her, she’d take it and go right out.” Beryl crumpled her apron in both hands and used it to blot the tears from her round face. “She’d go right out. I didn’t think anything of it when she didn’t wake at first, but then I saw she was stone dead.” Applegate nodded. “And you helped her dress for bed?” “Yes, sir. I always did. But she was in a terrible state tonight. I couldn’t hardly get her to sit still long enough to let me brush her hair and take off her makeup.” The constable made note of that.
