‘It was very late when I retired to bed that night. The vicar and his wife had come to dinner. You would never think it to look at them, but they keep very late hours. I was tired as anything, but Mrs Kitchen never showed any signs of fatigue. They’ve never stayed that late before. She’s sixty if a day, but she’s as sprightly as a lamb.’ Two red spots lit up Millicent’s cheeks. It took Lavinia a while to realise that her companion was in fact blushing. ‘I was dreadfully tired when at last I retired to my room. I have trouble sleeping in this house, you see. Cooper wasn’t a bit pleased at having had to stay up. It’s not as if it had been a grand dinner party or anything like that. She was quite sulky helping me to undress. I suppose she was quite tired herself. She managed to catch my hair in my dress clip.’
‘She sounds frightful,’ said Lavinia, thinking fondly of her own lady’s maid, Eliza.
‘Yes, she is. I wondered if she had done it on purpose; caught my hair, I mean. I said she could leave and I would finish undressing and undoing my hair myself.’
‘And the necklace?’
‘I didn’t realise the jewel box was unlocked. I took off the necklace and laid it out on the top of the box.’
‘I see,’ said Lavinia.
It occurred to her that both Millicent and her maid were very careless and lackadaisical in their approach to fine jewellery and it was therefore hardly surprising that a precious piece had gone missing. If an extensive search had not already been undertaken of the house, she would not have been surprised to have discovered that the necklace had fallen off the jewellery box of its own accord and become buried in the carpet.
Rose returned the pressed skirt and satin slippers to Lavinia’s room. Finding the room empty, she had restored the garment and shoes to a wardrobe faced with mirror-glass and lined with cedar wood. She had then proceeded to the servants’ hall, where she was informed that Mrs Grayson-Smith and her guest were taking a turn in the gardens and were not expected to return for a while. This provided her with a few precious minutes to do with as she liked before the servants’ supper was served at six o’clock. As yet she was unaware of the arrangements for the meal. It was possible that the upper servants dined alone in the housekeeper’s sitting room and were waited upon by the footman. It was equally likely that all the servants ate together, with the butler presiding over the proceedings. Whatever the custom, Rose was resolved to make best use of her time while the hall buzzed with activity as servants returned from their allotted tasks and immersed themselves in their leisure activities.
She had expected the servants to busy themselves sitting in little clusters exchanging gossip, but the room was unexpectedly absent of any chatter. Instead, one or two sat in easy chairs around the room reading newspapers or books and a young maid of lowly status was sitting drawn up to the huge scrubbed table engrossed in doing what appeared to be sums. At the other end of the table a maid was sewing furiously with a Singer machine. On closer inspection, it was revealed she was making herself an outfit for her Sunday best.
Rose hovered on the threshold of the room. It was evident that everyone was making best use of their few snatched minutes. While one or two of the staff had looked up and eyed her with curiosity, a new face among the old, she considered it unlikely that they would welcome any interruption. Even if her company had been sought out by one or two of the more inquisitive maids, the lack of conversation meant that any words uttered, or conversation entered into, would be overhead by everyone in the room. She had envisaged taking one or two of the servants aside and making discreet enquiries into the theft. In practice, however, such an approach did not appear possible.
As if reading her thoughts regarding the industrious pursuits of the staff and the subsequent lack of conversation, Mrs Field appeared at her shoulder eager to inform.
‘Mr Mason encourages the staff to use their idle time wisely,’ the housekeeper explained. ‘He is an advocate of everyone trying to better themselves.’ She gave an admiring smile, as if the man were there before her and could note her approval. ‘He considers the pursuit of knowledge to be above all else,’ she continued. Bending slightly, the housekeeper whispered in Rose’s ear in a conspiratorial manner. ‘He is quite a forward-thinking man, is our Mr Mason. He realises times are changing and he encourages learning as much for the girls as for the boys. He still wants things to be done proper, mind. Look at Hettie there, poring over her sums. The girl could hardly read or write when she first came to us. Mr Mason set himself the task of teaching her. Taught her the alphabet, he has, and sets her sums himself, he does, and marks them too.’
‘Does he indeed?’ said Rose with approval, trying to reconcile this image of Mr Mason’s enlightened character with that of the rather stern and intimidating man who had greeted her on her arrival. ‘How very modern of him.’
‘Oh, don’t let him hear you say that, Miss Denning,’ said the housekeeper, clasping her hand to her mouth in horror. ‘He wouldn’t like to be considered modern, not one little bit. He associates it with a fall in values. He says, and of course he’s right, that we must keep up standards. He doesn’t like the way things have slipped since the war.’
Mrs Field was proving surprisingly talkative. Rose doubted whether the housekeeper would have spoken so candidly to a servant in the house for whom she had responsibility. She had seized the chance to talk openly to a stranger, presumably being of the view that there was little harm in confiding in an upper servant who would be staying only very briefly in the house. It was obvious that the woman was in awe of the butler. Rose hoped that the man in question held Mrs Field in similar high esteem.
Rose looked up and saw that the other servants, intent on their leisure occupations, were seemingly oblivious to their conversation. She was aware, however, that should Mrs Field become excited or agitated, her voice would carry in this vast, quiet room. She could not, however, waste the opportunity given to her of the housekeeper being in a verbose mood. Now was her chance to broach the subject of the thefts, if she could only think of an excuse why they might retire to the housekeeper’s sitting room to ensure privacy …
She had taken too long. The housekeeper had gone as quickly as she had appeared and Rose was left hovering, awkward and undecided, at the door. She knew she could not stay there indefinitely in the position of casual observer of a life which was foreign to her. Nor could she squander her time which was all too precious. She turned tail and retreated down the passage, not towards the wooden staircase or the green baize door, but in the opposite direction, retracing her steps along the passage that led to the outside. The door at the end was ajar. With one swift movement she opened it and emerged into the courtyard. The sunlight and fresh air hit her immediately and lifted her spirits. She felt a sense of liberation, certainly of warmth and light. She had been trapped in passages and rooms that were dark and drab in colour, dull greens and greys, but predominantly browns. In comparison with the gardens, the courtyard might be considered dull and uninviting, leading off from the basement as it was, but judged against the servants’ quarters, it was a pleasant environment indeed.
A couple of clothes lines had been strung up in the courtyard and on these were pegged a number of bedsheets and table linens that billowed in the wind like sails. The effect of this was to separate off odd stretches of the yard, the washing becoming fragile walls obscuring the small areas from sight. It gave the misleading illusion of privacy for, while those standing behind the sheets and linens were for the most part hidden, their words still carried, particularly as was the case now when she suddenly heard voices, risen above whispers.
Rose edged forward. Under normal circumstances, she would never have considered trying to eavesdrop on what was very obviously a private conversation. However, reminding herself of her purpose for masquerading as a servant, the sleuth in her took precedence and she approached cautiously. Two people, a man and a woman by the sound of them, were having what appeared to be an agitated conversation behind the veil of laundry. Unless s
he was mistaken there was also the muffled sound of sobbing as if the woman was attempting to stem her tears.
‘Martha, why won’t you listen to me?’ said the voice of a young man. It did not sound particularly educated and the words were delivered in a brusque manner. ‘I haven’t got it,’ the voice continued. ‘Listen to me, I’m telling you the truth.’
There was a murmur from his companion. Rose could not distinguish the words themselves, if indeed such were uttered. It might have been that the girl merely sighed or there was a fresh outpouring of tears.
‘Why won’t you believe me?’ There was a pleading note in the man’s voice now, coupled with something of an irritating whine. Rose imagined that the young man was clutching the housemaid’s hands in his own, staring at her imploringly, or else holding her by her shoulders at arm’s length, begging with every gesture of his being for her to see reason.
‘Of course you have it,’ sobbed the maid. ‘Why must you keep on lying to me, Albert? If you would only tell me the truth –’
‘I am telling you the truth.’ The words were almost spat out. There was a dangerous edge to the voice now, as if the speaker verged on anger, all his pleading having been to no avail. ‘But if you won’t believe me –’
‘How can I believe you?’ cried Martha. ‘Oh, don’t you think I want to?’
‘I don’t know, do you? If you loved me, you’d believe me.’ The voice was clearly annoyed now. ‘And what’s with all this crying? Do you want everyone to suspect me? Do you want me to be hauled up before the magistrate?’ The man gave a laugh that was far from pleasant. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to be kept under lock and key where you can keep an eye on me.’
‘Albert, no. Of course not …’
Rose quickly made her way back to the door. Any moment now, she imagined the man would lose patience and storm back to the servants’ hall, the maid following miserably in his wake. To be caught in the act of listening to such a damning conversation when the man’s mood already appeared so agitated and volatile, did not bear contemplating.
She hurried back down the passage and into the servants’ hall. The sewing machine and books and newspapers had been cleared away; the table freshly washed and laid. All the chairs had been drawn up neatly to the table and a considerable number of servants had congregated, among them Mrs Field and Velda Cooper. Rose breathed a sigh of relief. It appeared that they were all to dine together in the hour before the gong was sounded for Mrs Grayson-Smith and her guest to go up to dress for dinner.
The servants began to take their seats, leaving the chair at the head of the table vacant for the butler. The housekeeper went and sat right of the empty chair and the lady’s maid looked as if she were about to sit opposite her, on the other side of the butler, until she was arrested by a glare from Mrs Field. Whether there would have been an exchange of words between the two women, Rose was never to discover, for Mason chose to arrive at that very moment. On his entrance, the servants rose from their seats in one collective show of deference. He nodded and went to his seat.
‘No, no,’ he said, glancing down the left hand side of the table. ‘You will all need to move down one seat to accommodate Miss Denning. You too, Miss Cooper. In this house visiting servants are seated according to the rank of their masters and mistresses. Miss Denning, if you please.’ The butler indicated the chair to his left and Rose found herself seated between Mason and the lady’s maid, acutely aware that Miss Cooper was scowling at her in a most unfriendly fashion. If she thought for a moment that the situation could not become more awkward, she was wrong. The kitchen staff were bringing in the dishes and when she lifted her head she found herself looking into a familiar face. The kitchen maid staring back at her, with a look of amazement, was none other than little Edna, former scullery maid at Ashgrove House.
Chapter Eight
For a moment, Rose did not know what to do. It was quite possible that she was mistaken and the girl was not Edna at all. However, she certainly looked like her. She appeared to be about fifteen years of age and had filled out a bit since Rose had last seen her. Strands of black hair had escaped untidily from her mop cap, reminding Rose of when she had first encountered Edna, sobbing bitterly in the kitchen garden at Ashgrove House. If she was in two minds as to the girl’s identity, then the girl’s reaction was enough to confirm that her suspicions were correct. For the kitchen maid’s attention was arrested and then transfixed by the sight of Rose, sitting there so unexpectedly between the butler and the lady’s maid. She stood poised beside the table, a dish of potatoes in her hands, and a look of confusion on her face.
‘Edna, are you going to serve those potatoes or just stand there letting them get cold?’ Mrs Field admonished. ‘What’s wrong with you, girl? We’ve had visiting servants here before.’
‘Hello. I’m Miss Denning,’ said Rose quickly. ‘I’m lady’s maid to Lady Lavinia.’
‘Oh,’ said Edna, recovering a little. ‘Are you really? If you don’t mind my saying, you look awfully like –’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Rose rather sharply, holding her breath and all the while praying that the girl would not persist.
Their eyes met and she gave the girl an imploring look. Whether by luck or by design, it happened that when Edna stood beside her to serve her potatoes, a few moments later, the other servants were sufficiently engaged in conversation to provide Rose with an opportunity to whisper: ‘Please don’t give me away.’
She had spoken so softly that for a moment she was afraid the girl had not heard what she had said. Edna progressed around the table, serving the potatoes as was her custom. Was it Rose’s imagination or did her hand seem to tremble as she deposited the vegetables on each plate? Rose sat there feeling wretched and on edge. If she was discovered to be Rose Simpson instead of Daisy Denning, how would the servants react? She would have to leave, her investigation barely started, her reputation in ruins. It did not bear thinking about.
The kitchen maid made her way to the door, presumably to return to the kitchen to have her own supper with the rest of the kitchen staff. Rose willed the girl to turn around, catch her eye, give some sort of sign that she was going to comply with her wishes. On the threshold, the kitchen maid hesitated. She turned around and looked up and down the table, as if to make sure she was not being observed. Only then did she focus her gaze on Rose. She gave her the briefest of nods, turned tail and disappeared.
Mason picked up his knife and fork and on his signal the other servants followed suit, Rose among them. The conversation faltered and all attention was focused on eating the food laid before them as soon as possible. Rose was very aware that it would not be long before the gong was sounded for Mrs Grayson-Smith and her guest to dress for dinner. She would be required to leave the servants’ hall and help Lavinia dress, whether or not she had finished her own supper. Eliza had warned her that in some households, when the butler laid down his knife and fork, the other servants had to do the same. She glanced nervously at Mason out of the corner of her eye. To her relief, she noticed that he was eating slowly. She ate her own food hungrily.
‘Well, Miss Denning, how are you finding Crossing?’ enquired the butler. ‘You see we have our food before the family eat theirs and not last thing at night when all the work is done. The staff prefer it that way and I agree with them. Going to bed on a heavy stomach does nothing for the digestion. It discourages sleep.’
‘We follow the same practice at Sedgwick Court, Mr Mason,’ said Rose.
‘Do you indeed? Well, well.’ He smiled and bent towards her, so only she could hear what he was saying. ‘I do not know why the practice is not adopted by all households. Asking servants to serve a five course meal when their own stomachs are empty will only ever lead to trouble.’ He straightened and spoke a little louder. ‘The pilfering of food is something I will not abide.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Mason, you should tell that to the kitchen staff,’ said a voice Rose recognised at once. ‘They keep the best cuts of meat for them
selves, so I’ve been told, and heap their plates. Eat better than the family, they do. Mrs Field, you should keep a better eye on the cook and on the household accounts.’
‘Albert, that will do.’
The butler’s face was quite red. The other servants had been arrested in the act of eating by Albert’s outburst, their forks frozen halfway to their lips, their mouths open in astonishment. One or two had even put down their cutlery to give their full attention to the spectacle. Rose glanced down the table at Martha, whom she recognised by her parlour maid’s dress. The girl looked as pale as anything save for her red swollen eyes, evidence of her recent sobbing.
‘You will not speak in that insolent way.’ The butler spoke quietly, but there was a dangerous edge to his voice. ‘You will apologise to Mrs Field immediately.’
‘I’m sorry, Uncle,’ Albert said in a sulky manner. ‘I apologise unreservedly to you too, Mrs Field.’
There was so little sincerity behind the young man’s words that the room was silent, a few of the servants blinking in disbelief at Albert’s rudeness. Mrs Field snorted and looked fit to burst, bristling with indignation. Rose shot a quick glance at Martha. The girl was staring fixedly at her plate and looked to be on the verge of shedding fresh tears. She had discarded her knife and fork and her hands were clutched together trembling visibly.
‘Albert, you will see me in my pantry as soon as supper’s over,’ said the butler. His face had a grey hue to it, which was almost sickly in appearance. ‘In the meantime, you will not utter another word.’
‘If there is a pilferer among us, I doubt it’s the cook,’ said Velda Cooper quietly.
The lady’s maid alone seemed to find the spectacle amusing. Her lips had curled up into that unpleasant smile of hers. That the woman was intent on exacerbating the situation, and took great delight in doing so, was obvious. What surprised Rose the most, having already received an indication of the woman’s character, was that she should be so blatant about her purpose. The other servants looked equally taken aback by her antics. If they expected Mason to admonish her, then they were disappointed, for it was the housekeeper who leapt into the affray.
Murder in the Servants' Hall Page 7
