The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

As Miss Anston picked up the card and bent to look at it, Tara felt a prickling sensation in the back of her neck. Tara trusted her feelings. She was being watched.

  Nerves tingling, she allowed her gaze to wander round the room, hoping to convey an impression of bored upper-class haughtiness in the presence of underlings. She was in danger. All her senses seemed heightened. Very faintly she heard an almost inaudible rustle. It was the door. She was sure there was a watcher behind the door. She wouldn’t usually have noticed such a tiny detail, but she saw, quite clearly, that one of the screw-holes in the Manager sign reflected the light. It was a glass spy hole.

  Tara’s fingers unconsciously wound themselves round the strap of her reticule. She had to play the part to perfection.

  ‘Oakley Gardens,’ murmured Miss Anston. ‘Yes, I know the area. It’s not far from Cheyne Walk, overlooking the Embankment.’ She glanced up with an expression of unmistakable greed.

  You enjoy this, thought Tara. You’re jealous of anyone with more money than you. You’d really enjoy seeing me squirm. Behind those wire-rimmed spectacles, Miss Anston’s eyes were very cold.

  ‘How can we help you?’ asked Miss Anston.

  ‘I need a maid.’ Tara leaned forward. ‘A competent house parlourmaid who will also prepare simple meals.’

  She didn’t want to make her requirements too simple. If she was willing to accept anyone, that might seem suspicious.

  ‘You require the girl to cook in addition to her other duties?’ asked Miss Anston with a frown.

  ‘I don’t want anything elaborate. I usually dine out. I only want the one servant and I want someone who can do everything. I pay well, mind. Fifty or sixty pounds a year. Perhaps a little more for the right woman. My current maid does very well but she’s leaving domestic service.’

  She made a fluttering gesture with her hand and laughed dismissively. ‘I don’t want any young girl who has to be shown the ropes. I haven’t time to be bothered with some country bumpkin who’s never seen a gas light before and is frightened of electricity.’

  Miss Anston permitted herself a wintery smile. ‘All our staff are totally competent.’

  ‘Are they?’ said Tara, suddenly growing very Irish. ‘Then you must be the most remarkable agency in London. Nobody I’ve tried yet seems to have exactly the sort of maid I’m looking for.’

  ‘We endeavour to give satisfaction, Madam. Incidentally, what led you to us? I’m happy to say we have many satisfied clients. Was it a personal recommendation?’

  This was a dangerous question. Tara had discussed it with Anthony and Sir Charles last night. If the Diligent really was a front for blackmailers, it was highly unlikely that their clients would recommend them. That was why she had noted the shops on Sullivan Place.

  ‘I had business with Hardcastles’, the glaziers, down the street, and I saw your office. I thought I may as well see if you had anyone suitable.’

  Miss Anston’s shoulders relaxed. Danger past.

  Tara breathed deeply and looked around her, as if to ensure they were alone, then leaned forward confidentially. ‘The thing is,’ she said, her voice dropping, ‘I’m not looking for a girl. What I’m really after is a mature woman who knows the ways of the world. Someone who can be trusted not to gossip, you understand?’

  Miss Anston drew back. There was an unmistakable predatory gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. ‘A good servant knows the virtues of discretion,’ she said sanctimoniously.

  ‘Yes, but …’ Tara stopped, as if trying to find the right words. ‘I’m not quite sure how to put this, but my husband’s in France.’ She dropped her gaze. ‘Life can be very hard for a woman left alone.’

  Miss Anston gave an unconvincing sigh. ‘You’re right. Naturally, one thinks first of the brave men at the front, but I often feel that the women left behind have made the greater sacrifice.’ She gazed at Tara with intense and, Tara was sure, entirely false, sympathy. ‘Women,’ she added, ‘suffer greatly from loneliness.’

  Tara clasped her hands in apparent relief. ‘That’s exactly it! Loneliness is the greatest burden a real woman can endure. I have a sensitive nature. Without companionship, without kind friends, I shrivel.’

  ‘But you have friends, surely?’ asked Miss Anston with cooing sympathy.

  ‘I do,’ said Tara simply. ‘And that’s the difficulty, you see. I entertain the occasional visitor. Male visitors. Nothing untoward, you understand—’ Miss Anston nodded – ‘but my husband has a jealous nature. It’d be easy for him to jump to the wrong conclusions if any gossip came to his ears.’ Tara looked down, twisting the ribbons of her reticule anxiously. ‘It would injure his feelings, which I don’t want to do, and yet I feel I have the perfect right to entertain guests in his absence.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Anston, with a smile that, for the first time, showed genuine warmth. ‘I’m perfectly certain we’ll be able to find the exact person who’ll fulfil your requirements very well, Mrs Russell.’

  She opened the desk drawer, looked inside, then tutted in annoyance. ‘I thought our ledger of available staff was here.’ She drew her chair back. ‘Excuse me. I must’ve left it in Mr Harper’s office.’

  Miss Anston stood up and went into the manager’s office, shutting it with a click behind her. Tara strained her ears but could hear nothing. Nevertheless, she was convinced that Miss Anston had gone to get official sanction before she dispatched a maid to Oakley Gardens.

  Miss Anston returned a few minutes later with the ledger. Resuming her seat, she opened the book. ‘Here we are,’ she said after a brief pause. ‘Mrs Russell, you’re in luck. It so happens that our Miss Bertha Maybrick is available. She’s twenty-seven, a very experienced house-parlourmaid, and is skilled in preparing simple meals. She has excellent references.’

  ‘And discretion?’ asked Tara anxiously. ‘She knows how to be discreet?’

  Miss Anston smiled. It was exactly the sort of smile, thought Tara, that a cat would give on hearing a mouse enquire if it was quite convenient to pop out across the kitchen floor for a moment. It was funny, thought of like that, but the reality was chilling. How many others had walked blindly into the trap?

  ‘Discretion,’ said Miss Anston, ‘is guaranteed. I may tell you that until the start of the week, Miss Maybrick was employed by Gloria Wilde, the actress. Miss Wilde has sailed for Hollywood. She was, of course, anxious that Miss Maybrick accompany her, but Miss Maybrick preferred to stay in London.’

  Miss Anston looked over the top of her spectacles. ‘Actresses require complete discretion. Professional jealousy, Mrs Russell, can be cruel. Make no mistake, our Miss Maybrick will always have your best interests at heart.’

  Tara gave a not entirely simulated sigh of relief. ‘She sounds as if she may suit me. How soon can she start?’

  ‘At once, if you require.’

  ‘I do. My current maid only stayed on to oblige. I am happy to give your Miss Maybrick a week’s trial. Shall we say three o’clock this afternoon?’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Miss Anston, making a note in the ledger. ‘Your maid will be there, I trust? It would be helpful for Miss Maybrick to have an account of her duties.’

  ‘I’ll make sure of it,’ said Tara, standing up to leave.

  It was with a real sense of relief that she escaped the Diligent and back into the crisp autumn sunshine of Sullivan Place. Miss Anston’s eyes had been very cold indeed behind those spectacles. She wouldn’t like to be in her power.

  What would happen if Miss Anston found out she wasn’t Grace Russell? She thought enviously of the real Grace, now on her way to Bristol, en route to Waterford. Grace was a genuinely good person, devoted to her husband, Michael.

  Grace, who knew of the odd straits that Anthony’s work sometimes led him to, was perfectly willing to help, and, what’s more, keep absolutely quiet about it. All the same, thought Tara ruefully, she’d better never know that her name had become, in some circles at least, a byword for adultery. Grace wouldn’t like that at
all.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘So you’re the new maid,’ said Miss Flora Shaw to the newly arrived Bertha Maybrick. The two women sized each other up.

  Bertha Maybrick was thin and efficient-looking, neatly dressed in black with a coil of dark brown hair, watchful hazel eyes, and a painfully straightened cockney accent.

  Flora Shaw, who had done many an odd job for Sir Charles, was stout, smiling and apparently easy-going.

  ‘It’s not a bad place,’ said Flora. ‘In a way I’m sorry to leave, but my sister has a shop in Silvertown and wants me to help. Well, family’s family, but I’ll be sorry to go.’

  ‘Mrs Russell’s husband is serving in France, I understand,’ said Bertha. She paused. ‘She must get lonely.’ There was a faint question in the words.

  Flora Shaw laughed heartily, then closed the kitchen door. ‘He’s serving in France all right, but I don’t know about lonely,’ she said, with a significant wink. ‘A lovely looking woman like that, it’s not to be wondered at. It takes all sorts as I always say.’ She gave Miss Maybrick a swift glance. ‘You don’t have views do you? Anyone with views wouldn’t suit at all. After all, she’s not teaching at a Sunday school.’

  Bertha Maybrick pursed her lips. ‘I wouldn’t like anything rowdy.’

  ‘There’s nothing like that,’ Flora reassured her. ‘Just visitors, you know? Polite enough, but you might have to cook breakfast for two.’

  Bertha’s lips compressed into a thin line. ‘I see.’

  ‘Just do your job and don’t gossip,’ said Flora. ‘It can cause a lot of trouble, gossip can, and we don’t want that.’

  She didn’t miss the avaricious gleam in Bertha Maybrick’s eyes. ‘No, of course not,’ she murmured. ‘Gossip is a dreadful thing.’

  In that, at least, she was sincere. Bertha Maybrick had no intention whatsoever of gossiping about what she saw.

  On the third morning of her new employment, Bertha was informed by Mrs Russell that she would be out to lunch. This didn’t come as a surprise to Bertha. Hearing the faint ting of the telephone bell in the hall the previous evening, she carefully picked up the receiver in her mistress’s bedroom and listened to a breathless conversation between Mrs Russell and a man she called Tony.

  Tony, she knew, was the tall, grey-eyed, soldierly-looking man who had visited – and stayed – the first evening. Bertha had received a ten-shilling note the next morning, ‘for the extra trouble’. Correctly identifying the wages of sin, Bertha pocketed it without comment.

  Mrs Russell, as she had said on the telephone, was very anxious that Tony shouldn’t be seen in Oakley Gardens. Tony’s wife was very suspicious. She was sure Tony’s wife was having the flat watched. They had to be very careful but she couldn’t live without seeing Tony. There followed a declaration of undying love which Bertha Maybrick listened to with grim amusement.

  Mrs Russell had had another visitor, an older man, an Irishman called Charlie, who had called Mrs Russell mavourneen and other terms of endearment when he thought the door was closed. Charlie hadn’t stayed but, with her knowledge of the world, Bertha had no doubt that the old fool was paying the bills.

  And she wouldn’t like Charlie to meet Tony, thought Bertha, gently replacing the receiver after the call was ended. It’d serve her right, she thought with a self-satisfied twist of her lips. It’s a disgrace, what’s she doing. I don’t hold with being immoral.

  Oddly enough, Bertha really didn’t hold with immorality. She had a fastidious distaste that amounted to aversion for all the frailties of the flesh. I’d like to see, she thought, her mouth tightening, any man trying it on with me! This had actually happened once. Ever since then Bertha had carried a small, sharp, kitchen knife in her handbag. That would show them, she thought with grim satisfaction.

  No, she didn’t hold with immorality. What she didn’t object to was profiting from it.

  ‘Surely I’ve given that awful woman enough ammunition to strike now,’ said Tara over her chicken and bacon pie. They were lunching in the Trocadero on Shaftsbury Avenue.

  She grinned ruefully at her husband. ‘She’s actually very good at her job. If I didn’t know what she was up to, I don’t think I’d realize she was listening in on the telephone. I’m sure she’s picked up all the information we’ve fed her.’ She giggled. ‘Charles Talbot is such a good actor, you know. He acted the besotted boyfriend to the hilt.’

  ‘Good for him,’ said Anthony, who couldn’t quite keep the reproof out of his voice.

  Tara giggled once more. ‘Are you jealous? You shouldn’t be, after all I said to you on the telephone last night.’

  ‘Wasn’t that all persiflage?’ asked Anthony, grinning.

  ‘Not all of it.’ Anthony looked understandably smug. ‘I hope she does strike soon,’ continued Tara. ‘We can’t keep it up for much longer. She’s bound to twig I’m not the real Grace Russell sooner or later.’

  ‘If you think there’s the slightest danger, get out,’ said Anthony alarmed.

  ‘I’ve got your men outside,’ said Tara. ‘It’s reassuring to know they’re there. It was a very bright idea to say your wife had detectives watching the flat.’

  ‘These people are professionals,’ he said. ‘If they do spot Talbot’s men, I want them to have a convincing explanation of why they’re watching the flat. Did you leave the letter, by the way?’

  ‘I did. Four pages of highly actionable prose, addressed to you, my darling. I put it away hurriedly when she came into the room. It’s hidden, of course, but she knows it’s there. That should stir something up.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Anthony. ‘The sooner you’re out of that flat, the better.’

  Bertha Maybrick gave a little grunt of satisfaction as she looked at the desk. There was a studio portrait of Major Michael Russell on the desk, but it didn’t interest Bertha. If anything, the portrait, and the crucifix that hung on the wall above the desk, increased her loathing of That Woman. She was nothing but a filthy hypocrite.

  She knew That Woman had been writing a letter and, what’s more, it was a letter she evidently didn’t want Bertha to see. She’d thrust it away beneath the blotter when Bertha had come into the room. She thought she hadn’t been seen, but Bertha had been too quick for her.

  The letter wasn’t under the blotter now, so where was it? A book, a cheap turgid romance, was lying on the desk. It was exactly the sort of book That Woman would read.

  With a grim smile of satisfaction, Bertha opened the book. There was the unfinished letter, folded in two.

  Bertha opened the letter and read it through with a growing sense of moral indignation. It was disgusting what That Woman was doing, absolutely disgusting. She looked at the portrait of Major Russell with an indignant sniff. Fool of a man! He deserved everything he got, marrying a woman like her. And as for her … Well, she richly deserved everything that was coming to her. Picking up a pen, she set to work copying out the flowery phrases. She put the copy in the pocket of her apron and carefully replaced the original in the book.

  Then, feeling as if she had done a really good hour’s work, she went into the hall and picked up the telephone.

  In Sullivan Place, Miss Anston hung up the receiver with a grim smile of satisfaction. Names, dates and a letter. All they needed was one more piece of information and Joshua would be very pleased indeed.

  With Bertha Maybrick safely in the kitchen, Tara looked at the book lying on the desk. The single hair that had lain inside the cover was gone. Bait taken.

  She finished the letter (the romance novel was a helpful inspiration), addressed it to a Mr A. Hamilton and stamped it. If the letter was ever delivered, it would find its way, via Mr Andrew Hamilton, to Charles Talbot. Sir Charles had far too much respect for his enemy to give them a fake address.

  ‘There’s a letter for the post on the hall table, Bertha,’ she said, when the maid came in with afternoon tea. She didn’t miss the gleam in Bertha’s eyes. ‘Could you post it at once, please?’

&
nbsp; ‘Very good, Madam,’ said Bertha, putting the tea tray on the table. ‘I’ll do so directly.’

  Once Bertha had left the room, Tara slipped out into the hall and was rewarded by the faint ting of the telephone bell. That, she thought with satisfaction, was Bertha, envelope in hand, informing her boss of ‘Tony’s’ name and address. Now all she had to do was wait.

  FOURTEEN

  Tara had never been blackmailed before. As she told Anthony in the restaurant that evening, what she was chiefly worried about was her ability to act as if she was really scared when the time came.

  That wasn’t a problem. Eleven o’clock the next morning Bertha informed her there was a Mr Smith to see her. Bertha couldn’t quite hide her smirk as she showed him in. Despite herself, Tara’s heart was racing as she stood up to greet the visitor.

  ‘Mr Smith’ was a man in his fifties or thereabouts, grey-haired with sharp blue eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. He smiled genially as he came into the room. Tara remembered the description Sir Charles had given of Harper from the local policeman. An affable manner? That smile – that snake’s smile – was it. Her stomach turned over and her mouth was dry.

  ‘Mr Smith?’ she began. ‘I don’t think we’ve met?’

  ‘And yet, Mrs Russell, I would like you to consider me as your friend.’ His accent, the accent the policeman couldn’t place, was American.

  Without asking for permission, he sat down and regarded her gravely.

  Tara remembered to act. She was surprised how nervous she was. I don’t know what he wants, she told herself. I would be horrified if a complete stranger walked into my house and made himself at home. Her voice, when she spoke, cracked. That wasn’t acting, but it fitted the part.

  ‘How dare you, sir! I don’t know who you are but I must ask you to leave at once!’ Her hand stretched out to the bell, as if to ring for the maid.

  ‘Don’t!’ said Mr Smith. His voice was commanding.

  Tara paused, waiting.

  Mr Smith put his head on one side. ‘My dear Mrs Russell, you really do not want anyone else to hear what I’m about to say.’ Again, the snake’s smile flashed out. ‘It’s for your own good, my dear lady.’