‘I agree we must do our best,’ she said more gently. ‘However, I am afraid that the orderly running of this house will not be their first priority.’
‘Not for the police, perhaps, but it will be for us,’ Mrs Field said firmly. ‘If this business is not handled properly we’ll be having staff handing in their notice willy-nilly. And good servants are hard to come by. Girls these days want to work in shops and offices. They don’t want the long hours and poor pay. They want the evenings to themselves, they do, so they can go out dancing –’
‘Thank you, Mrs Field,’ said the butler quickly, before the housekeeper could stray any further on to what was evidently one of her favourite hobby-horses. ‘Quite so.’
‘Is that why you didn’t tell them Miss Cooper had been murdered?’ inquired Rose. ‘You said she had met with an unfortunate accident –’
‘I did not wish to alarm them unduly,’ began Mason.
‘But they will have to know,’ protested Rose. ‘The police will be here in a moment. You will need to tell them before then. That’s a point,’ she said looking around, ‘where are the police? Shouldn’t they be here by now? The body was found quite a while ago, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s Constable Smith for you,’ said the housekeeper, with something akin to contempt. ‘The man can’t deal with no more than a couple of drunkards staggering home at closing time. Petty theft and damage, that’s what he’s used to and all he’s good for. He took fright, so he did, when Mr Mason telephoned him about Miss Cooper’s death. Told us to lock the servants’ hall and wait for the inspector. He’s over Bichester way.’
‘I see,’ said Rose. Privately she thought Constable Smith guilty of a dereliction of duty.
‘I wanted them to get used to the idea of Miss Cooper’s death,’ said the butler in so dull and quiet a voice that his words were very nearly inaudible. Indeed, both women were obliged to move a step or two forward to catch what he said. Rose thought that it was almost as if he had not heard the discussion concerning Constable Smith’s various professional failings, for his mind dwelt still on her original question. ‘To tell them it was murder … something so wicked as that ... it doesn’t bear thinking about …’
‘I’m sure she had it coming to her,’ said Mrs Field brusquely, though there was a tear in her eyes, which suggested that she was not unaffected by the butler’s words. ‘I know her sort. The servants, they’ll be pretty shaken up, and that’s a fact.’ She glared at Rose. ‘Mr Mason, he’s doing right by them, surely even you can see that?’
Mrs Field’s hostility filled the room. She had moved to stand beside the butler to illustrate her support for his way of thinking. They might have been an old married couple sharing an impossible burden. All at once, Rose felt that her presence in the room was no longer desired. Indeed, Mrs Field had all but turned her back on her as she patted the butler’s arm. It was tempting to take the unsubtle hint and leave. After a moment, she made to do just that. However, she was arrested by the housekeeper’s voice, loud in the prevailing silence and somewhat dismissive.
‘I take it, Miss Denning, that you will be attending to madam?’
‘No … no, I won’t. I’m afraid I have more than enough to do with her ladyship,’ Rose lied. ‘Perhaps one of the housemaid’s –’
‘No. If you can’t be minded to, I shall see to madam myself.’ The housekeeper looked at her coldly. ‘But why you can’t look after madam when she’s no trouble at all, I don’t know.’
Before Rose could make to protest or attempt to justify her position, the housekeeper had gathered up her skirts and disappeared from the room in a cloud of black. Her antagonism lingered in the air like a whiff of perfume. Rose, feeling she had made a bad job of things, made to follow her into the passage.
‘Don’t mind Mrs Field.’
She had all but forgotten the butler, who had lowered himself into one of the armchairs, his expression half hidden by a hand, which he held to his forehead as if to shield his face from her gaze. ‘She’s upset, she is. We both are. Mrs Field … she doesn’t mean to take it out on you, Miss Denning. That’s just her way.’ He hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘It’s one of us, you know.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Rose. She was aware of her own sharp intake of breath. If that was not enough, she could feel her heart beating in her chest. ‘What do you mean, it’s one of us?’
‘It’s one of the servants,’ explained Mason. ‘No one else could have got into the servants’ hall. Kept it locked at night, I did, more’s the pity.’
He tapped the breast pocket of his waistcoat, which presumably held the key, with his free hand, the other still partially obscuring his face. This time Rose wondered whether its purpose was to prop up his head to prevent him from slumping back into the chair.
‘One of the servants murdered Miss Cooper? I suppose that’s to be expected, what with it happening in the servants’ hall.’
‘Yes. But that’s not all, Miss Denning. Mrs Field and I, we have an inkling we know who did it.’
Chapter Sixteen
Rose did not press Mason to divulge the name of the person who had killed Miss Cooper. The drooped shoulders, the air of utter despondency and the recollection of the housekeeper fussing around and ministering to him were sufficient clues as to whom the two of them believed to be the murderer. It might well be, she thought, that they had had sight of, or were in possession of, some incriminating piece of evidence. She would not have put it past Mrs Field to remove a bloodied knife. Or it could just be no more than a suspicion, honed and perfected so that in their minds it was now almost fact. However, she could not help but think that there was a great deal of difference between theft and murder, a great number of steps to climb to ascend from the lesser crime to the greater. It would mean crossing a line after which there would be no going back.
She had walked out into the passage, somewhat dazed, not sure what to do next or where to go. The ordinary routine of service was in disarray, despite the butler’s fine words to the contrary. In normal circumstances, Rose would no doubt have drifted aimlessly towards the servants’ hall where the staff had a tendency to congregate when they had an odd moment to spare or sought company. Today, of course, the room was closed to them all, hiding as it did the hideous crime that had befallen Crossing Manor. Instead, the servants stood around in little groups, some in the stillroom, others in the pantry and a few in the passage causing something of an obstruction. They spoke in hurried whispers, glancing up at her guiltily, caught gossiping about Velda Cooper’s death by a visiting servant, the words frozen on their lips. Some had tried the patience of the cook by veering off into the kitchen, the warmth of the stove and the aroma of cooking providing comfort and solace from the situation in hand.
Rose knew she had a duty to mingle, to glean from the servants what little she could before the arrival of the police. Sudden death had unnerved them, particularly the demise of a woman still in her prime. The realisation that it was murder would frighten them further. And it was not at all certain, she reminded herself, that the police would acquiesce with her wish to keep her identity a secret. The servants were unlikely to talk to her freely once they knew who she was. Indeed, her presence in the servants’ quarters was unlikely to be tolerated, certainly not accepted. At best, they would think she had played a mean trick on them and, on reflection, perhaps she had.
A noise at her shoulder brought her to her senses. The butler, it appeared, had followed her example, for he had shuffled out into the passage in her wake. Immediately he came upon the staff, his posture changed. Gone was the hunched, dejected figure. Mason had drawn himself up to his not inconsiderable height and puffed out his weak pigeon chest. In different circumstances, the effect might have been considered comical. To Rose, it seemed almost pitiful, but she admired the man’s dogged determination to fulfil his part. The servants looked up to him and he in turn felt the responsibility that such a position bestowed. He viewed them with something of a pa
ternal air. Together, with Mrs Field, he was responsible for their moral welfare, there to provide guidance and offer protection. Never more had this latter duty come into play than this day. For in a few moments’ time he would inform them that Miss Cooper’s death had not been the result of natural causes.
Rose held back a little as the butler summoned the servants to congregate once again in the great kitchen. She followed slowly in his trail and was one of the last staff to enter the room. The kitchen was crammed full to bursting and Mason had already commenced his speech when she entered. She took up her position at the butler’s side, a lone attendant in Mrs Field’s absence. Such a vantage point afforded her a good view of the servants; she would be able to observe their individual reactions to the distressing news. She began by searching out Albert and Martha, who were standing as far away from each other as possible.
The butler’s words brought an immediate effect. Edna and Pearl, to whom the details of Velda Cooper’s death were not a surprise, clung to one another, tears pouring down the scullery maid’s little face. Agnes’s lip quivered and she looked very pale. Gone was the talkative maid that Rose had met on her arrival. In her place was a silent and reflective girl, pulling at her apron with hands that did not know what to do with themselves. While all the colour had drained from Martha’s face, even from her eyes, which had been red and swollen from excessive crying. Now they looked strangely dull and colourless. She was standing on the spot, her feet seemingly rooted to the ground, but her body swaying. Any moment now, Rose thought, she is going to faint. Agnes was obviously of the same opinion because she put out a hand and clutched at the girl’s arm before propelling her into an old wooden chair.
It was, however, Albert’s reaction to the news that interested Rose most. She had half expected him to sneer, even to look a little amused, so despicable a fellow did she find him. But he did none of these things. Where the others sobbed and grew pale, twisted their hands and toyed with their aprons, the young footman stood motionless, frozen to the spot. He might have been one of the stone statues that graced the gardens, he was so still. Even the expression on his face did not change. It was only his eyes that betrayed his emotions. Black as coal, like his hair, they flashed brilliantly in the dim light of the kitchen, the only sign that he was a living, breathing person, and that his uncle’s words had not fallen on deaf ears. He’s frightened, thought Rose. Mason has not even told them that the murderer must be a servant and already he’s afraid.
It was while these thoughts filled her head and she stared at the young man more keenly, that the housekeeper appeared, bustling into the kitchen as was her wont. She alone looked flushed, presumably from her exertions at helping Millicent to dress and rushing down the servants’ back stairs, for her hair had come slightly undone from its bun as if a strand or two had got caught on something. She went and stood beside the butler, her manner flustered. It was clear she was trying to catch her breath. There was a look of anxiety on her face. From the way she turned her eyes to look first at the butler and then at the servants, it was obvious that she was curious to know what she had missed. After a minute, the housekeeper’s gaze lingered only on the staff. Her eyes combed the audience, as Rose’s had done only moments before her. She was looking for someone. She gave an involuntary start. She appeared to have found the person she was looking for, for her gaze settled at last. Rose turned to follow her line of vision. She had expected to find Mrs Field staring at Albert. Much to her surprise, she found that the person who commanded her attention was the little scullery maid, Pearl.
‘This is a rum go and no mistake,’ muttered Inspector Connor, as soon as he had hung up the telephone receiver.
‘Oh?’ enquired his nephew politely, though in point of fact he was more interested in tucking into the plate of eggs and bacon that his aunt had thoughtfully seen fit to set before him.
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied his uncle. ‘Seems there’s been a murder up at the big house in Crossing village. You know the one, that great patchwork of a place? Ugly, I call it, made up of bits and pieces. Tudor here, Victorian there. Why he didn’t just pull it down and put up another in its stead, I’m sure I don’t know, given the amount of money he has and all.’
‘Who has?’
‘Edwin Grayson-Smith, of course. You may well think we’re out in the sticks here, and so we are, and what with you being a fine London gentleman now with your fancy ways, but we have our characters just the same. You must have heard of him, Charlie? He’s a businessman of sorts, what you might call an entrepreneur or a financier or some such. Rich as kings, some say.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of him,’ admitted Charlie, looking decidedly more interested in what the inspector had to say. He took a swig of tea and cleared his throat. ‘I say, Uncle, you’re not telling me someone did him in?’
‘Not him, Charlie my boy. One of his servants. A lady’s maid would you believe? Down in the servants’ hall and all. Her head bashed in good and proper!’
‘Murder in the servants’ hall, that’s a new one on me. Was Mr Grayson-Smith home at the time?’
‘No, not he. He was away on business making his money. There was only his wife at home and a young lady she had staying. Fancy sounding name … yes, here we are,’ said the inspector glancing at the notes he’d hurriedly written down. ‘Lady Lavinia Sedgwick.’
‘The Earl of Belvedere’s sister?’ said his nephew, his fork, with a piece of bacon on it, arrested in mid-air.
‘Met her have you?’
‘No, I haven’t. But I’ve heard of her. Quite a character if my superior’s to be believed.’
‘Well, I’ve got to hurry over to Crossing Manor now. That’s the name of Grayson-Smith’s house. The local chap’s only a young constable and not used to dealing with suspicious deaths. Sounds as if he took fright. Hasn’t even gone over to the place to take preliminary statements. Just told the butler to keep the room locked and we’d be over directly. The cheek of the man!’ Inspector Connor looked distinctly put out. ‘I’ve a good mind to give him what for, I have. Incompetent, that’s what the fellow is. Only a constable, he may be, but he should know what’s to be done in a case like this.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve asked the fingerprint chaps to meet me there and the police surgeon. Hopefully not too much time’s been wasted.’ He looked gloomily at his plate. ‘I suppose I can say goodbye to my breakfast. Make sure you leave me a morsel.’
‘I will,’ said his nephew, through a mouthful of egg. ‘Have a good day, Uncle. I expect to hear all about it this evening.’
The inspector made to go and then hesitated a moment to regard the young man with affection. He had no children of his own and regarded his nephew very much like a son, particularly as the young man was in the habit of taking his summer holidays at Bichester. He was a smart lad, as the inspector often said to his wife. Was making something of himself in London, so he was. A pleasant and cheerful young man who’d go far, even if he was a bit too well groomed for his own good and would insist on wearing his hat at that ridiculous jaunty angle whenever he went out. Still, they probably did things differently in London …
‘Look here, Charlie. It doesn’t feel right my asking you, and I know it’ll be something of a busman’s holiday for you, but how say you give me a bit of a hand?’ He paused a moment to give his nephew an opportunity to protest. Charlie, however, merely looked up expectantly, a cheeky grin on his face. Encouraged, his uncle continued. ‘Constable Jones is not the only one all at sea here. We’re not used to many murders in these parts, not murders in the houses of the rich, that’s for certain. I‘m not saying it’s beyond me, because it isn’t. I know my duty as well as the next man and I reckon I’ll make a decent enough stab at it but –’
‘But you’d like to use my expertise?’
‘Well … you may put it like that if you like. I was thinking more in the way of experience. You have more murders in London than we do, and what with you being a Scotland Yard detective, it stands to reason you could be a hel
p. Nothing official, mind.’ The inspector looked at his nephew gravely. ‘We’re not calling in Scotland Yard on this one, but if you want to liven up your holiday a bit, well, it would be something to tell your superiors about, wouldn’t it?’
‘It certainly would,’ agreed Charlie, ‘and I have to say that I am rather intrigued to meet Lady Lavinia.’
‘Well, I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of that lady, what with the murder happening in the servants’ hall, but I daresay you’ll get to meet her.’
‘Very well, Uncle, I’m in.’ Charlie grinned at him. ‘Now, just let me gobble down this last bit of toast and have a slurp of tea and we’ll go. Aunt won’t know herself, it’ll be so quiet.’
‘It certainly will be without you around to liven up the place.’ The inspector’s face became grave. ‘Now, when we get to Crossing Manor, I’ll be referring to you by your rank in the police force, none of this “uncle” and “nephew” business, do you hear, lad? We’ll need to do things properly.’
‘Certainly, Inspector,’ said Charlie adopting a mock serious manner and saluting. ‘Sergeant Perkins at your service and reporting for duty, Inspector Connor.’
‘You didn’t tell them about the locked doors,’ said Rose, catching up with the butler as he returned to the sanctuary of his pantry. ‘Shouldn’t you have told them that the murderer must be one of them? Hadn’t you a duty to put them on their guard?’
‘So many questions …’ mumbled Mason unhappily.
‘And have them crying and fainting and screaming?’ demanded the housekeeper whom, unbeknown to Rose and much to her annoyance, had followed them into the pantry. ‘I think not! We’d never get a stroke of work done.’
What was it with this woman, Rose thought, that she will never leave the poor chap alone? Why does she insist on playing chaperone?
Murder in the Servants' Hall Page 14
