by Celina Grace
It was then I realised the time and sat up with an exclamation that made everyone stop talking and look at me. I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Sorry, everyone but I’ve just realised I need to get back—“ I stopped myself saying to work. I didn’t want the actors to know I was a servant. Ridiculous really – Tommy knew already and he was such a gossip that it was probably common knowledge around the theatre that Tommy’s niece and her friend worked in service.
Verity, bless her, didn’t argue. She quipped something about there being ‘no rest for the wicked’, which made Caroline smile, and we stood up and fetched our coats. I surreptiously stroked Caroline’s fur, which was hanging next to my shabby old jacket – it felt wonderful. It was hard to resist the urge to bury my face in it.
“So long, my darlings.” Tommy gave us both a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Come back and see the play again sometime. You might even get to watch the second act.”
“We will.” Verity gave him a hug. “Keep us posted on any developments, Tommy. You know what I mean?”
He winked at her. “I certainly do.”
Caroline Carpenter gave us a dazzling, dismissive smile and a wave of her hand. The diamond on her ring finger flashed like a little star under the dim overhead light. Aldous Smith grunted something that could have been a goodbye.
“I can’t believe we got to meet Caroline Carpenter,” I enthused on the way home. “And Aldous Smith as well.” I paused. “He’s a bit strange, isn’t he?”
“He’s just a bit shy,” Verity said. “I’ve met him before, and he’s been quite different.”
“Well, Caroline is as charming as I thought she’d be.”
“Mmm.” Verity adjusted her hat. “God, Joanie, did you see the size of that engagement ring?”
“How could I miss it?” I said with feeling. “Who’s she engaged to, anyway?”
“Sir Nicholas Holmes.”
I paused. “Now, from the way you just said that, it sounds like he’s someone quite impressive, but I have absolutely no idea who he is.”
Verity grinned. “He’s an MP. I don’t know where his constituency is, or anything like that, though.”
“An MP and an actress?” I considered this for a moment.
“Oh, come on, Joanie, acting is quite respectable now. Especially if you’re good at it and get plenty of good press, like Caroline does.”
“I suppose so.” We’d reached the entrance to the underground station by now and began walking down the steps, into the fug of cigarette smoke and the smell of oil. We joined the back of the queue waiting for the guard to open the metal gates to allow access to the train.
It was too crowded and noisy to talk in the third class carriage. I stood, hanging onto the leather strap that dangled from the ceiling and tried to keep my balance in the rocking, swaying, clattering train. I thought about many things: Caroline Carpenter’s talent and beauty, Tommy’s lovely manners, what it must be like to work in a theatre. As we began to draw near our stop, the hard work lying ahead of me that night began to intrude and I sighed a little and mentally began to plan out all the things I had to do that night, thoughts of the murder and of the theatre forgotten.
Chapter Six
When I woke up the next morning, Verity was already awake, sitting up in her bed with a shawl around her shoulders as she read a letter. I sat up myself, shivering. Nancy, one of the two housemaids, hadn’t yet been in to light our fire and the room was freezing.
“Morning,” Verity said absently, without looking up from her letter.
“Morning,” I said, yawning. “Sorry. Who’s the letter from?”
“Nora.”
Now I did sit up properly. Nora had been a friend of Verity’s and mine, a parlourmaid at Merisham Lodge. She’d got herself in trouble – no, that was a stupid way of putting it – she’d found herself in trouble, and both Verity and I had tried to help her. From what Verity had told me, a sympathetic Dorothy had arranged for a procedure to help Nora get rid of the baby. (I didn’t know exactly what this was and Verity refused to tell me). Sadly, despite the immediate problem being solved, neither the combined charm of Verity and Dorothy could persuade Mrs Anstells to keep Nora on in her position. I hadn’t witnessed the discussion that took place between the lady of the house and the head housekeeper, but Verity had and relayed the gist of it to me later. “No, madam could surely not countenance Nora remaining in her post, no indeed. To keep her on would be to approve of the depravity of the girl’s wanton behaviour and would set a terrible example to the other young maids in the house. No, indeed, her ladyship would surely not countenance such a thing and if that indeed was the case, then she, Mrs Anstells herself, would no longer be able to remain in the employ of such a household…”, Verity had said, rolling her eyes. The fact remained that Dorothy had to dismiss Nora or risk losing her housekeeper, so away poor Nora had to go. The only consolation was that Dorothy promised to write her a decent reference.
“I didn’t know she’d written to you,” I exclaimed, going over to Verity’s bed and getting in beside her. It was a squeeze and she flinched away from my cold feet.
“Ow, Joan, your feet are freezing. Here, I’ll get up and you read Nora’s letter.” She threw back the bedclothes to get out and threw them back over me. “Where’s bloody Nancy with the coals?” Just as she said that, there was a tap at the door and Nancy hurried in, looking flushed and bearing the welcome sight of the brass coal scuttle in one hand.
“About bloody time,” Verity grumbled, but she helped Nancy rake out the ashes and set the fire. Soon a merry blaze was warming the room and Nancy hurried out again.
I read through Nora’s letter, feeling a mixture of relief and despair. Nora had had to go home after she was dismissed and, from the sounds of it, had had to take whatever job she could get; that of a maid of all work at a solicitor’s house near her home village. I suppose it was a job but… I looked around at Verity and my room, which for a servant’s room was really quite comfortable. We had an electric bedside light, a wardrobe each – well, to be fair, part of Verity’s job was to dress well and advise her mistress on fashion, so she needed more clothes storage space than I did – and underfoot was a rug rather than cold, bare floorboards.
I caught sight of the time. “Oh, help. I’m late!” I jumped out of bed and began to dress hurriedly, washing myself quickly in the washbowl that stood on the dresser and shrieking at the touch of the icy water.
“See you later,” I said to Verity, but she called me back just as I was about to hurry out of the door.
“Oh, Joan, Dorothy might have already mentioned this to Mrs Watling but she’s having a guest to dinner tonight.”
“Very well.” I waited for her to go on. She didn’t normally give me this kind of warning.
“Don’t you want to know who it is?”
I looked at her expressively. “Who is it?”
Verity smiled. “Inspector Marks.”
I looked at her again. “Inspector Marks is dining here tonight?”
Verity nodded. “Yes, she made me call him up the other night and invite him to dinner. Out of the blue. I suppose she wants to chew over what happened with the collapse of the Lord C’s trial.”
I still had my hand on the door handle but I made no move to leave. “Perhaps,” I said slowly. “She wouldn’t – it wouldn’t be because of this new case, would it?” I answered my own question. “No, how could it? What would Dorothy have to do with that?”
Verity was getting dressed herself by now. “Well, I just thought I’d better let you know.”
“Oh, help.” Something else had occurred to me. “It’s Mrs Watling’s evening out tonight. I suppose I’ll be doing the whole meal.”
“You’ll be fine,” Verity said in a cheerful voice, slightly muffled by the blouse she was pulling over her head. “Do that clear soup thing, he’ll love that.”
“That’s a starter.”
“So, start with that.” Her red head emerged from the blouse, grinni
ng at me. I rolled my eyes, flapped a hand in goodbye, and left the room.
Mrs Watling hadn’t yet appeared when I rushed into the kitchen, thankfully, although Doris, the tweeny, had already got the range alight and the kettle boiling. I gave her a warm smile of approval as I tied on my apron.
As we prepared the breakfasts, I let myself think about the strangeness of Dorothy inviting Inspector Marks to dine. He wasn’t gentry, he wasn’t fashionable society. Yes, he was very senior in his profession but that wouldn’t normally be enough for Dorothy to go the trouble of putting on a three course meal for him. Surely it was just because she wanted to talk to him about the trial of Lord Cartwright and why it had failed? What other explanation could there be?
I prepared Dorothy’s tray for Verity to take up and began setting the table in the servants’ hall for breakfast. There were nine staff that lived in; Mr Fenwick, Mrs Anstells, Mrs Watling, myself and Verity; the two housemaids, Nancy and Margaret, who also acted as parlour maids when necessary; Andrew, the footman who doubled as the chauffeur, and little Doris, the between maid. Between us all, there was a lot of food to prepare, although nothing like the quantities that had been demanded at Merisham Lodge. As we sat down to breakfast, I was beginning to worry about the meal I would be expected to make for the dinner party that night. Would Dorothy choose the menu? It would be the first meal that I would have had to prepare completely on my own, although, thinking about it, I supposed I would have Doris to help me. I shovelled in bacon and eggs without really tasting anything, thinking of menus and presentation and whether I’d need to consult with Mr Fenwick on the wine. If it was up to me to chose the menu, then I’d do roast beef, I decided. Roast beef with all the trimmings, with the clear soup to start and a fancy pudding. Men liked meat, didn’t they? Inspector Marks probably wasn’t that used to fine dining, was he? So there was nothing to worry about, was there?
“Joan? Joan?”
I came to with a start, realising Mrs Watling was addressing me. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Stop woolgathering, my girl. Her ladyship wants to see you upstairs.”
“Me?” I said ungrammatically in surprise.
“Yes, you. Come on, look lively. You know I’m out tonight, don’t you?” I nodded. “Don’t you worry,” added Mrs Watling kindly, having noticed my look of panic. “There’s nothing much to it, and it’s not like you don’t know how to cook. Let me know what her ladyship wants and we’ll run through it together.” I flashed her a grateful look as I set off for the stairs.
Dorothy was in the main drawing room, wearing her cream satin house pyjamas, the little Turkish slippers that ended in droll little bells on the curly toes, her golden hair pin-curled and clipped to her head and covered in a filmy net of chiffon. As I waited respectfully just inside the door, I wondered if I’d ever seen Dorothy in less than a full face of make-up. I didn’t think I had.
“Oh, Joan, hullo. Do come in and sit down at the table. I thought we’d run through the dishes for tonight – I suppose Verity has told you?”
“That you’re expecting Inspector Marks to dinner? Yes, my lady, she has.”
“Good, then you’re forewarned,” said Dorothy, approvingly. She sat down gracefully in one of the seats at the table and gestured to the other. I seated myself cautiously, feeling out of place in my uniform in this genteel, feminine room. I would have loved to have had a proper look around but there was little chance of that.
Dorothy was a relaxed and generous employer and a modern woman, but there was still no way on Earth that I was going to be able to ask her exactly why she’d asked the inspector to dinner. That would have been dreadfully impertinent. As she leant forward over the sheet of paper on which she’d scrawled suggestions for the menu, I could smell her distinctive perfume. I didn’t know the name of it but it was French and very expensive, so Verity had said. Dorothy always smelt of it, mixed with a sophisticated undertone of cigarette smoke, but today there was a discordant note in her scent, something that made my nostrils flare. After a moment, I realised what it was. Brandy.
I looked around the room surreptitiously, but I couldn’t see a glass or a bottle anywhere. On the table was a cooling tea pot and a cup and saucer with the brackish dregs of tea leaves in the bottom of it. I sniffed again, wondering if I was mistaken. After all, it was barely ten o’clock in the morning, far too early even for Dorothy to have had a cocktail. I must have been mistaken. Perhaps some had been spilled on the carpet in here or something.
I made an effort to bring my attention back to what Dorothy was saying. She sounded just as she normally did, with the same sort of rich, dark drawling voice as she always had.
“—and I thought a sort of seafood medley might be nice as an accompaniment to the lobster, don’t you think?”
I stared blankly at the elegant scrawl of Dorothy’s handwriting and swallowed. Did I dare say what I thought?
“Joan?” she prompted.
“I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean to be inattentive. It was just – I wondered whether this menu might be a little – a little, um, sophisticated for Inspector Marks. I mean, it’s absolutely delicious, mouthwatering, my lady, it’s just that I wonder whether he might – um, he might—“ I trailed off, feeling myself beginning to blush. Why couldn’t I just keep my big mouth shut? What did it matter, anyway? I just want to impress him, I thought to myself and then I did blush, a great wash of heat climbing into my face.
I thought Dorothy might be annoyed with me but she was lighting a cigarette with a smile on her face. “Do you think so, Joan? I wonder—“ She regarded the menu she scribbled down, pursing her bright red lips and frowning. “Well, he is a policeman after all. You’d know more about that level of society than I would.” I hoped she didn’t notice the wince I gave at that but she wasn’t looking at me. “No, no, perhaps you’re right.” She picked up her fountain pen and scored through her words with a flourish. “You’re quite right. So, what do you suggest?”
After my suggestion of roast beef had been well received, we settled on the soup, the h’ordeuves and the dessert. I was dismissed with a kindly smile and with the tea tray in my hands. I carried it carefully back down the stairs, china chinking musically away.
“So what’s it going to be?” asked Mrs Watling as I came back into the kitchen and thankfully put the tray down on the table.
“Roast beef, with French onion soup to start. A lemon tart to finish.”
“Nice and plain,” said Mrs Watling approvingly. “Not like her ladyship. Did you suggest that?” I nodded. “Well, good for you, Joan. You’ve got nothing to worry about tonight. Ring up the butcher now and get them to send you round the joint, you know what that delivery boy is like, he’s never on time.”
I nodded again, trying to hide my disquiet. I wasn’t used to talking on the telephone and didn’t much like doing it. Still, Mrs Watling was right – I didn’t want to be hanging about later waiting for the main course to arrive.
The downstairs telephone was situated just outside Mr Fenwick’s parlour. As I picked up the receiver and looked up the number of the butchers, on the list that was pinned up to the wall, I had a very unwelcome thought, one that seemed to come out of nowhere. Dorothy wasn’t inviting Inspector Marks to dinner because – because she was sweet on him? Because she was romantically interested in him? Don’t be stupid, I told myself fiercely, staring blindly at the list of telephone numbers. She wouldn’t be interested in a policeman as a beau, even if he were a chief inspector. Not Dorothy, surely? I pushed the thought of her previous lover, Simon Snailer, from my mind. He’d been quite a disreputable artist-type, so it wasn’t as though she wasn’t used to slumming it… I felt very disloyal and uncomfortable even thinking those thoughts, both about Dorothy and about Inspector Marks. What business was it of mine, anyway?
I realised I knew nothing about Inspector Marks’s home life. Perhaps he was married anyway. Did he have children? I didn’t even really know how old he was, except he was quite you
ng to be in such a senior position. Possibly, he wasn’t even yet forty.
It’s none of your business, Joan. Just cook a superb meal and let that be your reward. Stop getting ideas above your station. I told myself all that in a fierce inner whisper and then put my hand to the dial, determined not to think about it anymore.
Chapter Seven
I heard the front doorbell ring at precisely eight o’clock, and a few moments later, the ponderous tread of Mr Fenwick moved over the floorboards above my head as he went to answer it. The anxiety inside me screwed a notch tighter. The beef was done to a turn and resting in the warming part of the oven, the potatoes and carrots were crisping up nicely. Doris was mashing up the cooked swede with lots of butter.
“More salt and pepper,” I said as I passed her with the roasting tin in my hands. Now I could appreciate how snappy Mrs Watling could get during the preparation for a big dinner party. This was just for two and it was hard enough getting everything cooked and presented to perfection. I caught the tail end of the sulky look Doris gave me but I was too busy making the gravy to really notice.
I transferred the soup to the big-bellied serving bowl, adding the layer of cheese and toasted bread slices to the top, and then slid it back into the oven for one last warm-through. The beef, vegetables, gravy and condiments were transferred to the trays that Andrew and Mr Fenwick would carry up to the dining room before serving the meal. I wasn’t expected to wait at the table here, although I had on occasion at Merisham Lodge. It was a job I’d always hated, being afraid that I’d spill something or drop a plate with disastrous results, but perversely, I now wished I was able to go up and work in the dining room. I admitted to myself, with some shame, that I wanted to be there in the room to see what Dorothy and Inspector Marks were talking about.
