by Emily Organ
A family portrait hung above the fireplace. It depicted Mr and Mrs Glenville with three small children, who I took to be Sophia, Maurice and Jane. Both Sophia and Maurice stared out of the picture with sullen faces and shocks of red hair. Jane was the pretty, dark-haired baby on her father’s lap. The artist had flattered Mrs Glenville, and she looked quite a beauty. Mr Glenville’s likeness was more accurate, except that the scar on his face had been omitted.
I set the candle on the desk, and it occurred to me that the multitude of drawers might contain something useful for James’ investigation. I carefully pulled out the smaller drawers at the top of the desk and peered inside. I found writing paper, pots of ink, pens and a rubber stamp with ‘Blundell & Co’ marked on it.
I tried a larger drawer that was lower down in the desk, but it was locked. Distant footsteps cautioned me to concentrate on my cleaning work, so I referred to Mrs Craughton’s list and opened the glass cabinet next to Mr Glenville’s desk to begin cleaning the ornaments within it. It was an odd assortment: a pair of Etruscan-style vases, the bust of a Roman gentleman, bronze statuettes of warriors and goddesses, a table clock which had stopped working, and an odd-shaped stone, which was about the size of a house brick.
As I took each object out of the cabinet and wiped it with my cloth, I wondered how I could find out the information James required from me. Maisie didn’t seem to know a great deal, and Mr Perrin had shown little interest in conversing with me so far. Mrs Craughton seemed the happiest to talk, and I hoped that she had some useful knowledge of the Glenvilles’ affairs.
But how would I be able to ask relevant questions without her becoming suspicious? The solution would probably be to ask just a few questions each day. But how long would it take me to find the answers I needed? I desired my time here to be as short as possible.
“Mrs Craughton’s got you cleaning the curios, then?”
The soft, deep voice behind me caused my heart to skip a beat. I spun around to see Mr Glenville in the centre of the room. I hadn’t even heard him enter.
Chapter 12
“I’m so sorry, Flo. I didn’t mean to alarm you!” Mr Glenville smiled apologetically.
“Oh, um, I can do this another time, sir,” I said, flustered. “I didn’t realise you required the use of this room now. I was told you would be using it later.”
“Please don’t worry.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, then stepped closer to the cabinet and peered inside it. “These odd things have needed cleaning for a while. Continue as you are, and don’t mind me. Goodness, I remember this.”
He reached into the cabinet, picked up the odd-shaped stone and turned it over in his hands.
“It’s one of the few things I have left of my mother’s,” he said. “One of the only things, in fact. She didn’t have much. Do you know what it is?”
His eyes were like deep, dark pools, and he was close enough for me to smell his eau de cologne. It was an exotic scent, which brought to my mind the bright flowers and scented shrubs of Colombia my father had described in his diaries.
“I have no idea.” My mouth felt dry. I felt sure he had guessed that I wasn’t a real maid.
“It’s an elephant’s tooth!” He grinned. “My mother once worked for a nabob on his return from India. For some reason, he gave her this!”
“It’s very large for a tooth,” I said.
“Big creatures, though, aren’t they? I’d very much like to see one in the wild.”
“I’ll be sure to take extra care with the tooth, sir.”
“I’m sure you will, Flo.”
I smiled meekly as he placed it back inside the cabinet, hoping that he would leave the room. My hopes were dashed as he walked over to his desk and seated himself there, only a few feet from where I was working. My heart pounded heavily, and my fingers felt clumsy.
Why did Mr Glenville create such a reaction in me?
“I feel I must apologise for my daughter,” he said.
“Please don’t, sir. There’s no need,” I replied, as I cleaned a statuette in an awkward manner. “She’s simply a spirited young woman. She knows her own mind.”
“She certainly does.” He sighed.
“She strikes me as a clever girl,” I said. “She has quite a future ahead of her.”
“Oh, she’s clever all right. Too clever for her own good. I swear she should have been born a boy.”
He noticed the puzzled look on my face.
“My words sound odd, I know! But you understand what I mean, don’t you? She’s not a typical girl. Not like her sister Jane. Jane’s just like her mother. Sadly, I think Sophia is rather like me.” He smiled. “If only Maurice were like her, everything would be rather different.”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“Despite having six children, I have no heir,” he replied. “Maurice is the only boy, and he lacks the ability to inherit the business, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed.”
I nodded uneasily.
“Everyone told us to put him in an institution as soon as he was born. Could you ever do that to your own child?”
“No, I don’t think I could.”
“Even now the boy’s twenty years old, people still say it. What do they know? I can’t deny that Camilla and I were disappointed as his weakness grew more obvious. And for a long time we hoped to have another boy. But things are the way they are, and we love him just as much as his sisters. It’s impossible not to, isn’t it? Do you have children, Flo?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you’ll understand one day.”
“I might understand quite a bit already.”
“I’m sure you do.” He smiled, and there was a warm twinkle in his eyes.
I glanced at the jagged scar on his face and wondered how the injury had occurred.
“You’re rather sharp, aren’t you?” he continued. “Not the usual calibre of maid.”
I felt my heart skip another beat. Did he suspect me?
Nervous perspiration caused my spectacles to slip down my nose. I pushed them back up, cleared my throat and decided to change the subject.
“I hear you’ve been at Blundell’s a long time, sir.”
“You’ve heard correctly. Yes, I was ten when I began work there. It’s been almost forty years now. Can you believe that? Forty years!”
“I can’t at all, sir.”
“I was the smallest boy there, so I was the one they would send under the machines to clean. I fitted into the small spaces easily, and that’s how I lost this thing.” He shrugged the shoulder of his missing arm. “It was caught in a line shaft.”
“Ow!” I winced.
“I didn’t know anything about it, of course, I lost consciousness the moment it happened.”
“And you continued to work there after that?”
“Well, there wasn’t a lot else I could do. Mother didn’t have any money, and school was out of the question for a boy like me. I had to work. Fortunately, Thomas Blundell thought a one-armed boy could still be of some use!” He laughed. “He saw the potential in everybody, that man. It’s no secret that the workers in my factory have been complaining about their lot. And most of them have the use of all their limbs. They don’t realise how much safer the factory is now than it used to be. These people encourage them to complain, you see.”
“Which people?”
“The likes of Dorothea Heale. I’m afraid that’s why I lost my temper when Sophia mentioned her at the breakfast table this morning. Dorothea and her friends lurk around the gates of my factory and encourage dissent. If I were to ask the workers coming out of any factory in this city after a long shift what they thought of the place, I would no doubt soon be surrounded by a crowd of whinging people encouraging each other in their complaints. Don’t you agree, Flo?”
“It sounds quite likely.”
“Exactly. Once someone starts to complain about something, it puts the idea into someone else’s head, and then they realise they
all want to be complaining about it. It spreads like a disease! Don’t ever get pulled into that trap. Very few people possess independent thought. Have you noticed that? We all wish to be paid more, don’t we? And we all wish to work a little less. Although I think reform is extremely important, these sentiments can sometimes be appropriated by troublemakers.”
I felt myself beginning to relax in Mr Glenville’s company as his manner was surprisingly informal. As I listened to him and methodically cleaned each object in the cabinet, I wondered if the factory owner was as unpleasant as the rumours about him suggested.
James had called him slippery and untrustworthy. Was I right to believe his opinion?
“This country relies on its workers,” Mr Glenville continued. “They’re not just responsible for the output of their factories each day. Oh no, it’s much more than that. Great Britain is so named because of its industry. It’s the backbone of the British Empire! We should all take pride in our work, Flo. From the ten-year-old boy who cleans under the machines to the men on the company’s board of directors. We all do our bit, and look what we can achieve together. Life is about work and industry. This is why I won’t tolerate complaining. If a worker has a genuine grievance, I’m more than happy to listen. But when it comes to general grumbling and moaning, which often goes hand in hand with complacency, I have no tolerance for it whatsoever.”
I liked the manner in which Mr Glenville addressed me. He spoke to me as an equal, rather than as a member of his staff.
“I have considered taking legal proceedings against Mrs Heale,” he continued. “But I’m not sure it’s a worthwhile use of my time and money. Hopefully she’ll realise that harassing people who are fortunate to have steady, paid work is also a waste of her time. There are countless other issues in this city which need addressing, aren’t there? The slums, for example. And crime. Hopefully she’ll direct her attention towards those in the future.”
“What about workers’ pay?” I asked.
“What do you mean, Flo?” His eyebrows drew closer together.
“Perhaps if you paid the workers more they would complain less.”
He laughed. “If only it worked like that. Do you think that if I gave each worker an extra shilling a week they would be content? Not to mention the fact that it would bankrupt my business. It’s a business I run, not a charity.”
“You bought Albert Archdale’s factory, didn’t you?”
He gave an impressed nod. “You really do know a few things about me, don’t you?”
One corner of his mouth lifted into a smile and I realised I was close to giving away my identity. I cursed myself inwardly for continuing this discussion with him.
“Yes, I bought Archdale’s, and the rate of accidents has decreased dramatically since I did so. Archdale couldn’t have cared less about his workers. There haven’t been any complaints about me yet at the Bermondsey factory. Mrs Heale has yet to loiter beside the gates there!”
Mr Glenville got up from his seat.
“Well, I’ve talked at you for long enough. Thank you for all your work with these curios this afternoon.” He stepped toward the cabinet again and admired them. “They look much better now. Isn’t it funny how attached you can become to such silly things? Each one is a memento, I suppose.”
“A memento of what, sir?”
He turned to me and I found it difficult to remove my eyes from his. He looked at my face so intently that I felt sure he hadn’t blinked for some time.
Did he look at everyone this way?
I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck.
“Perhaps I shall tell you one day,” he said softly. “Each one of these objects has its own story. Much like people, I suppose. We all have our own stories, don’t we?”
“We do. And some have more than one.” I wasn’t sure where my words had come from; I had intended to remain silent.
“Interesting!” A smile spread across his face. “I like that thought very much.” Still his eyes didn’t blink. “Complicated creatures, aren’t we?” He grinned and turned to leave the room.
“See you later, Flo,” he called back over his shoulder.
“Goodbye, sir.”
I remained standing where I was as he closed the study door behind him. His scent lingered in the air, and it felt as though the shadows in the room had deepened. The more I got to know Mr Glenville, the less I knew what to make of him.
By the time I retired to my attic room that evening, my body was aching from the physical work. I should have felt pleased that I had managed to convince everyone I was a maid, but instead I felt dissatisfied that I had made no progress with James’ investigation. Moreover, there was a niggling worry in my mind that perhaps I hadn’t been so convincing after all. I thought about the comments Mr Glenville had made.
‘Not your usual maid’ was how he had described me. What had he meant by ‘complicated creatures’? Had he been referring to me or himself? Or had it simply been a turn of phrase, which I was dwelling upon too much?
My mind felt almost as weary as my body as I changed into my nightdress, and it was only then that I noticed someone had been in my room. The neat pile of writing paper wasn’t exactly as I had left it on the dressing table. It had been moved slightly to the left, as if someone had leafed through it. There was nothing obviously out of place, but I could sense that things had been shifted and put back clumsily. I hurriedly dropped to my knees and checked the trunk under my bed. I was relieved to see that it had remained in the exact position in which I had left it.
Or had it? Had the intruder cleverly left it just as he or she had found it?
I leapt up and moved the chair over to the wardrobe so I could check that the key to my trunk was in its original hiding place.
Thankfully, it was.
I knew that Mrs Glenville and Mrs Craughton were entitled to check my room and ensure that it was tidy. My door didn’t have a lock on it, and I couldn’t expect complete privacy.
I returned to my trunk and tried its lid. It was firmly locked. Then something else under the bed caught my eye. It looked like a crumpled piece of cloth. I picked it up and found that it was a white handkerchief with a lace trim. Three initials were embroidered in one corner: CDC.
I hadn’t remembered seeing it under the bed before, and it was free of dust. It occurred to me that it must have been dropped there recently. Who in the household had the initials CDC? The first and last name began with a ‘C’. The only person I could think of was Mrs Craughton. Was this Mrs Craughton’s handkerchief in my hand?
I couldn’t think how it had found its way under the bed. Perhaps it had ended up there while she was preparing the room for my arrival. That was the most likely explanation I could think of. However, I didn’t recall seeing it when I first placed the trunk under my bed. Had Mrs Craughton entered my room and looked through the papers on the dressing table? Had she tried to open the trunk?
If Mrs Craughton wanted to look through my belongings, she could have simply asked my permission. Why had she been secretive about it? And could I be sure that she was the mystery intruder?
Chapter 13
Maisie’s knock at my door the following morning came as an unwelcome interruption. Having lain awake worrying about who had been in my room, I had fallen into a deep slumber only shortly before dawn.
Maisie chuckled when she saw me. “Yer want to be back in bed, don’t yer, Flo? I know that feelin’.”
Once again, we crept around the quiet house and prepared the fires.
“Does Mrs Craughton check your room?” I whispered as we prepared to go into the nursery.
“No,” replied Maisie with a look of surprise. “She ain’t been in yer room, ’as she?”
“I think so. I can’t be sure.”
“I can’t be sure, neither. P’raps she does check it and I don’t know nuffink about it.”
Mrs Craughton handed me a letter at breakfast time. I wondered if I would ever be brave enough to ask her
about the handkerchief she had dropped in my room.
Would it cause embarrassment? Would she even admit it? I decided to wait a while before broaching the subject.
The letter had been forwarded to Florence Parker from my Milton Street address, which had been heavily inked out. I was grateful to Mrs Garnett for helping me hide my identity.
“A letter already,” said Mrs Craughton. “You must be popular.”
“It’s probably from my sister,” I replied. “I sent her my new address, but she still posted it to the old one!”
Thankfully, this explanation seemed to satisfy Mrs Craughton as I opened the envelope and held the letter up close to my spectacles so that no one else could read it.
My Dear Madam,
Thank you for your delightful letter, and may I say how flattered I am that the daughter of the eminent plant-hunter, Mr. F. B. Green, should wish to make contact with me.
Writing a book about your father’s life is an admirable undertaking, and I wish you the best of luck with the endeavour. As an author of many books myself, I can attest that it is no small task! You will no doubt find my own texts on the subject of plant-hunting to be of great assistance in your toils, and I am confident that you shall achieve the end result with aplomb.
I would be more than delighted to meet with you, and to discuss your father’s life and work. You are welcome to visit me at my home at the above address at a time and date convenient to yourself.
Do please note that my next round of travels will take me to the Himalayas, and I shall be departing London in July. You will no doubt wish to make an appointment with me before then.
Do please contact my secretary, Mrs Bowes, to arrange a suitable time.
I eagerly anticipate our forthcoming rendezvous.
Yours very truly,
Mr. Isaac Fox-Stirling
I looked forward to hearing what Mr Fox-Stirling would be able to tell me about his expedition to find my father. I hoped he would have some new information about his disappearance.
