by Anne Perry
“Cheeky!” Ada said warmly. “I don’t know nothin’ o’ the kind! You fancy yerself way too much, Mr. Edwards, an’ that’s a fact.”
“Not ’alf as much as I fancy you!” he retorted. “’Old still, then!”
They had not seen Gracie yet, but a couple of steps farther down into the laundry and they would. Worse, they would realize that she had to have heard them. What would she do? She was revolted at the thought of hiding in one of the baskets, full of other people’s dirty sheets. She might even get marked with blood herself, and how would she explain that? But she had to have these sheets for Pitt. There was no other way out of here, just the one flight of stairs, and Ada and Edwards were already at the foot of it. If Gracie had not been so small, and bent double half behind the linen basket, they would have seen her by now.
She must hide the sheets safely: That was more important than saving herself from embarrassment, or even bullying in the future. It was only for a few days, after all! But how? What could she do to distract their attention? She stared around at the shelves with all their jars and packets, then at the big copper tubs bubbling away with the sheets and towels in them. If she opened the flue on the boiler, it would roar up quickly. There would be steam all over the place—perhaps even a small flood. She could hide the embroidered sheets, stuff them in the bran tub temporarily, and when Ada and Edwards were busy trying to stop the flood, she could come from the bottom of the stairs as if she had just arrived. It might work. It had to.
She crouched behind the basket and reached for the long wooden spirtle that was used to stir the linen around. It would be just long enough to reach the flue, if she were very careful. Her arm ached with the weight of holding it up from one end and keeping it steady. She must make no sudden moves or it might catch their notice.
Ada was giggling more loudly and Edwards was talking softly to her the whole time. If Gracie didn’t do something pretty soon, this was going to get worse. The spirtle was long and awkward. There were tears of frustration in her eyes by the time she finally hit the flue open. Then the spirtle slipped out of her grip and clattered to the floor.
Miraculously neither of them took any notice. If she got caught now, Ada would never forgive her. She could not afford that. Ada hated her enough already. Gracie had wild thoughts of finishing up in the linen cupboard like the prostitute. Had she also seen something that she shouldn’t have, poor soul? Was that what had got her killed? It was about the only reason that made any sense. But what could she have seen here that anyone cared about? They seemed to do anything they wanted to anyway.
Seconds ticked by. Ada was resisting, thank heaven, playing a game. Gracie had no idea where to look for Pitt. Could she ask Mr. Tyndale to find him?
Steam belched out of the copper and the lid banged up and down with the force of it. It happened a second time before Ada realized what it was and gave a yelp of horror. Edwards must have thought it was something he had done, because he laughed.
“The copper’s on too ’igh, stupid!” Ada shouted, as steam billowed out and filled the room. “Come an’ ’elp me get it off!”
As she plunged forward, yanking her dress straight as she went, Gracie slipped through the steam toward the stairs, then turned around rapidly, and gasped with surprise.
“Wot ’appened?” she cried out as if aghast.
“Never you mind!” Ada shouted at her. “Go and get on wi’ yer own job. I’m all right ’ere. Yer swept the stairs yet? Well, do it then! Don’t stand there gawpin’!”
“Yes, miss,” Gracie said obediently. She scampered upstairs before the steam cleared and she was obliged to see Ada’s open dress and general disarray.
Gracie realized that once someone put those sheets into the boil, no one would be able to prove a thing. She nearly asked Mags, the other between-stairs maid, if she had seen the policeman, then realized she had no explanation for wanting to know, so instead she went immediately to her alternative plan and found Mr. Tyndale.
He was alone in the butler’s pantry, inspecting the silver to see if it had been cleaned to perfection. He looked very serious, frowning a little.
She knocked on the door.
He looked round with irritation, then saw who it was. “Miss Phipps? Is something wrong?” he asked anxiously.
She came in and closed the door behind her. “Yer’d better call me ‘Gracie,’ sir,” she corrected him, feeling awkward and yet savoring a flicker of very definite enjoyment. “I gotter speak ter Mr. Pitt, very urgent, but there in’t no way I can ask anyone where ’e is. I found summink as could be very important. Can yer ’elp me?”
“Yes, of course I can. What have you found?” He was clearly worried.
She shook her head. “I gotter tell Mr. Pitt.”
Tyndale was embarrassed. He obviously felt foolish for having asked, and then been rebuffed.
Now she was sorry for him, and perhaps a trifle foolish also for making him uncomfortable. He might remember it and not be the ally she needed. She swallowed hard. This could be the wrong judgment, but regardless of that she had better be quick. “Can I ask you summink, sir?”
He was still guarded, uncertain of the correct protocol with her. She was a servant, and yet she was not. “Certainly. What is it?”
“The sheets with V R stitched on ’em, an’ a little crown…does anybody get ter sleep on them ’ceptin’ ’Er Majesty, like?”
“Where did you see those?” he asked sharply.
“In the laundry.”
“That’s impossible! Her Majesty is at Osborne, and no one else uses them. Thank you for telling me. I shall find out what has happened and put a stop to it.”
“Yer mustn’t do that, sir!” She all but grasped hold of him, getting her hand as far as to touch his sleeve before she snatched it away.
“It’s a clue, or least it may be. Yer gotta keep it a deadly secret till Mr. Pitt says yer can tell. It’s a murder, Mr. Tyndale. Yer can’t tell nobody nuffin’.”
He looked pale. “I see.”
At that moment there was a sharp rap on the pantry door, and a moment later it flew open and Mrs. Newsome stood in the entrance. She was a good-looking woman in an agreeable, ordinary way, but now her face was flushed and her eyes were hot. “What are you doing in here, Gracie Phipps?” She looked from Gracie to an obviously uncomfortable Mr. Tyndale, now also coloring deeply with both anger and embarrassment.
“She came…” he started, and then floundered badly.
Mrs. Newsome’s face tightened, her eyes hard.
Ridiculously, Gracie thought of Ada and Edwards on the laundry stairs, and felt the heat in her own cheeks. She must rescue Mr. Tyndale. The idea was absurd, and revolting, but it was abundantly clear what Mrs. Newsome thought. And Mr. Tyndale was only in this situation because he was helping Gracie. He might care what Mrs. Newsome believed of him, but even if he didn’t, he would care bitterly about being thought to behave inappropriately with a brand-new serving girl less than half his age.
Gracie lied with ease. “I came ter give ’im a message as the policeman’d like ter see ’im, ma’am.”
“Really,” Mrs. Newsome said coldly. “And why did he ask you to deliver such a message?”
“’Cos I were there, I ’spect,” she said, her eyes wide.
“Indeed.” There was no light whatever in Mrs. Newsome’s face.
“Well, in future, Gracie, you will get about your duties without speaking to policemen, and you will not come into the butler’s pantry, or into any other room, and close the door. Do you understand me? It is completely inappropriate.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am, I won’t.” Gracie swallowed her anger and her dignity with quite an effort.
“I told her to close the door, Mrs. Newsome,” Tyndale suddenly found his voice. “I did not wish other staff to be hearing a message from the police. It is distressing enough having them here at all. Everyone is upset.”
Mrs. Newsome’s face expressed disgust that was almost comica
l. “Do you imagine I am unaware of that, Mr. Tyndale?” she said scathingly. “While you are here counting the knives with Gracie, I am trying to find Ada; assure Mrs. Oliphant that she will not be murdered in her bed; persuade Biddie that she cannot leave, at least until the police tell her she can, and she’ll get no character from me for leaving us in the lurch. I am also trying to stop Norah from having hysterics, and make sure someone dusts the hall and at least gets a start with the ironing.” She picked at a stray wisp of hair across her brow and poked it back into its pins savagely, making the whole effect worse. “And in case you have not noticed,” she went on, “one of your serrated-edged meat knives is missing. You should have twenty-four.” Less flustered, she would have been a comely woman, and not as old as Gracie had at first assumed.
Suddenly Gracie was aware of a vulnerability in her that almost took her breath away. Mrs. Newsome was jealous. It was absurd, and desperately human. She cared for Mr. Tyndale.
“I had better go and see what the policeman wants,” Tyndale said unhappily. “I…I know it is difficult. Please do your best, Mrs. Newsome. And I know one of the knives is missing. I shall speak to Cuttredge about it.” He closed the drawers in which the knives sat in their green baize slots, and locked it with one of the keys from his small, silver chain. Then he walked past both women and went out to look for Pitt.
Gracie and Mrs. Newsome stared at each other. The silence grew increasingly awkward.
“May I be excused, please, ma’am?” Gracie said at last, her mouth dry. She wanted intensely to escape the emotion in the room. She must not allow Mrs. Newsome to know how much she had seen. She would never be forgiven for it.
“Yes.” Mrs. Newsome straightened her skirt automatically, her own much larger key ring jangling. “Of course you may. Is Ada looking after you, showing you what to do?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am.” She would say nothing about what Ada was really doing in the laundry, or that Ada was something of a bully. It was difficult to think that Mrs. Newsome could be so blind! But one did not tell tales.
“Good. Since it is eleven o’clock, you may go to the kitchen for a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Gracie bobbed rather an awkward curtsy. It was not something she was used to doing; Charlotte would have found it ridiculous.
Along the corridor, in the huge kitchen with its Welsh dressers of crockery and copper pans on the walls, rafters hung with herbs, Cuttredge was sitting in one of the hard-backed chairs. Mrs. Oliphant, the cook, was in another opposite him. There was a teapot on the table, several clean cups, and two plates of fruit cake.
“I reckon it were stole!” Rob, the boot boy, said with a shrug. “Yer won’t never find it.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Oliphant retorted sharply. “You keep a still tongue in your head, boy, or you’ll go to bed with no dinner!”
He bit his lip, but his expression said he knew a lot he dared not say.
“Well what, then?” Mrs. Oliphant demanded. “Who stole it? You saying one of us is a thief?”
“’Course I in’t,” he said indignantly, his round eyes widening.
“Why’d anyone ’ere take a knife for? Can’t sell it, can yer, not one dinner knife.”
“It was probably dropped,” Cuttredge put in.
Mrs. Oliphant ignored him. “Well, there’s no one else, unless you think one o’ those wretched girls took it?” she said to Rob. “They weren’t nowhere near the dining room, you stupid boy! Dinner was all cleared away before we took ’em up. You don’t feed tarts like them. What are you thinking of?”
“There was the old feller,” Rob said stubbornly.
“What old feller?” Mrs. Oliphant challenged. “’Ere you. Gracie, that your name? Well, sit down, girl. Pour yourself a cup o’ tea. Cake’s fresh. Oh, come on!” She snatched the pot and a clean cup and poured it for Gracie impatiently. She pushed it across at her, and one of the plates. “Look like a twopenny rabbit, you do. Put a bit o’ meat on your bones, girl. Next thing they’ll accuse us o’ starvin’ you.” She turned back to Rob. “What other one? What are you talking about?”
He blanched, so that his freckles stood out like blotches on his skin. “I mean the old feller what come wi’ the big box, Mrs. Oliphant.”
“What old feller?” she said with disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
Gracie stopped with her cup halfway to her lips.
“The man wot came ’ere a bit after midnight wi’ that box o’ books come for Mr. Dunkle, or wot’s ’is name,” Rob answered her.
Mrs. Oliphant’s wispy-fine eyebrows shot up. “You sayin’ as that old man what delivered the books pinched one of our knives and took it with ’im?” she said with disbelief. “Whatever for?”
“I dunno, do I!” Rob said indignantly. “’Cos it come from the Palace, I s’pose. You should ’ear some o’ the things I get asked ter nick fer people.”
“You take a pinch o’ dust, my boy, an’ your feet won’t touch the ground!” Mrs. Oliphant said furiously. “I catch you, an’ I swear you’ll eat off the mantelpiece fer a week, an’ glad of it.”
Rob rubbed his behind as if it were already aching. “I said I were asked, I din’t say as I took nothing!” Now he was really offended. “Was me as told yer the knife were gone. You’re ungrateful, that’s what you are.”
“Don’t you speak to me like that, you cheeky lump!” she said hotly. “You forget yourself, Rob Tompkins. You let Mr. Tyndale catch you talking nonsense an’ he’ll wash your mouth out with soap, he will, lye soap an’ all!”
“Then you tell ’im the old fellow took the knife!” he charged her.
“’Ow do I know?” she demanded. “You stop crying an’ drink your tea before I throw it away!”
He snatched the cake before she could remove the plate.
“You better have the last one too,” she said. “Go on! Take it! Another twopenny rabbit if ever I seen one.”
He grinned at her, showing gappy teeth.
“Where’d yer see ’im?” Gracie asked as casually as she could, her mouth dry. At last she was learning something.
“Don’t encourage ’im!” Mrs. Oliphant warned.
Gracie shrugged. “Sorry. ’E’s probably nobody.”
“Yeah ’e is so!” Rob insisted. “Bit taller’n me, ’e were, wi’ scruffy white ’air an’ dirty face. Edwards knows—’e ’elped the fella carry it. ’E were down ’ere while they was unpackin’ the box, before ’e takes it back out again. Cup o’ tea, I s’pose. ’E come past Mr. Tyndale’s pantry an’ out o’ the kitchen through the side door inter the yard. S’pose ’e went back ter the cart ’e come in. But ’e went past the pantry, I swear!” He looked at Gracie, hopeful of support.
“An’ how do you know?” Mrs. Oliphant asked. “What were yer doin’ out o’ yer bed at that time of night? Stealin’ cake, I’ll wager!”
“I come fer a drink o’ water!” Rob said with self-conscious righteousness.
“Down them stairs?” Gracie asked doubtfully.
“’E sleeps in the scullery,” Mrs. Oliphant explained.
Rob nodded, smiling. “Nice an’ warm in there.”
Gracie refrained from pointing out that there was also a tap in there—but not cake.
“Stupid,” she said, sipping her tea. “Fancy stealin’ a table knife! In’t even any good. Why don’t ’e take a kitchen knife, if ’e wanted one?”
“Them table knives is special for meat,” Mrs. Oliphant told her. “Shave your face with them, yer could. Believe me!”
Gracie finished her tea with difficulty, heart pounding, then thanked Mrs. Oliphant and excused herself as swiftly as she dared. She was going so hastily she almost ran into Pitt on the stairs.
“What is it?” he asked her with an edge of urgency in his voice. “Mr. Tyndale said you wanted to see me. Something about sheets.”
“I found ’em in the laundry,” she said breathlessly, no louder than a whisper. “I ’id ’em in the bran bin. They’re �
�Er Majesty’s sheets. They got V R and a crown on ’em, an’ they’re all soaked in blood.”
“From the cupboard,” he said calmly. “They took all the sheets down to see which ones they could save.”
“But V R means they’s ’ers!” She stared up at him, exasperated at his obtuseness. “’Er own, like! An’ they weren’t folded like the rest of ’em in the cupboard, sir. They bin slept in! They was all creased and rankled up.”
Pitt looked very grave. “Are you certain, Gracie?”
“’Course I am! It din’t make no sense, but I’m certain sure for positive,” she was emphatic. “An’ that in’t all. There’s a table knife missing, one o’ the real sharp ones for cutting meat. Rob, the boot boy, says he saw an old man ’ere wot brought a big box, about midnight, an’ then took it away again.”
“When?” Pitt asked. “The night of the murder? Where?”
“Downstairs, going past the butler’s pantry and out into the yard,” she replied. “’E came wi’ a big wooden box. Edwards ’elped him carry it.”
“How big was the box?” Pitt said immediately.
“Dunno. But I can ask.”
“No,” he said quickly, grasping her arm. “Don’t ask. It doesn’t matter. See if you can find out if anyone else saw him, and how long he was here. Just possibly the woman’s death has nothing to do with the guests here after all.” He smiled suddenly, a glowing look, full of hope.
Gracie grinned back at him, satisfied she had helped him, really helped. Maybe even helped the Queen herself. Suddenly the scrubbing and the obedience were worth it. She heard footsteps below, and went on up the steps with light feet, leaving Pitt to go down.
CHAPTER
FOUR
PITT RECEIVED GRACIE’S information with a surge of optimism. He paced the room he had been given, turning it over in his mind. If it could be proved that the old man the boot boy had seen entering the Palace with the box delivered to Cahoon Dunkeld was guilty, then the case could be closed with no worse scandal than a certain laxity on the part of the guards who had allowed him in. But even that was something for which they could hardly be blamed. He had come because he was a carter delivering a box belonging to one of His Royal Highness’s guests. And if he had taken one of the dinner knives, the sudden opportunity presenting itself, then he had not arrived armed, or with the intent to commit murder.
