by Anne Perry
She waved a hand airily. “Only socially. London is very small, you know, and most good families are connected with each other. That is the purpose of a great many marriages. I have a cousin of sorts who is related to one of Beatrice’s brothers. How is she taking the tragedy? It must be a most grievous time for her.”
He set down his chocolate cup for a moment. “Very hard,” he replied, concentrating on a memory which puzzled him. “To begin with she seemed to be bearing it very well, with great calm and inner strength. Now quite suddenly she has collapsed and withdrawn to her bedroom. I am told she is ill, but I have not seen her myself.”
“Poor creature,” Callandra sympathized. “But most unhelpful to your inquiries. Do you imagine she knows something?”
He looked at her acutely. He had remarkable eyes, very dark clear gray, with an undeviating gaze that would have quelled quite a few people, but Callandra could have outstared a basilisk.
“It occurs to me,” he said carefully.
“What you need is someone inside the house whom the family and servants would consider of no importance,” she said as if the idea had just occurred to her. “And of course quite unrelated to the investigation—someone who has an acute sense of people’s behavior and could observe them without their giving any thought to it, and then recount to you what was said and done in private times, the nuances of tone and expression.”
“A miracle,” he said dryly.
“Not at all,” she replied with equally straight-faced aridity. “A woman would suffice.”
“We do not have women officers in the police.” He picked up his cup again and looked at her over the rim. “And if we did, we could hardly place one in the house.”
“Did you not say Lady Moidore had taken to her bed?”
“That is of some help?” He looked wide-eyed.
“Perhaps she would benefit from having a nurse in the house? She is quite naturally ill with distress at her daughter’s death by murder. It seems very possible she has some realization of who was responsible. No wonder she is unwell, poor creature. Any woman would be. I think a nurse would be an excellent thing for her.”
He stopped drinking his chocolate and stared at her.
With some difficulty she kept her face blank and perfectly innocent.
“Hester Latterly is at present without employment, and she is an excellent nurse, one of Miss Nightingale’s young ladies. I can recommend her highly. And she would be perfectly prepared to undertake such an engagement, I believe. She is most observant, as you know, and not without personal courage. The fact that a murder has taken place in the house would not deter her.”
“What about the infirmary?” he said slowly, a brilliant light coming into his eyes.
“She is no longer there.” Her expression was blandly innocent.
He looked startled.
“A difference of opinion with the doctor,” she explained.
“Oh!”
“Who is a fool,” she added.
“Of course.” His smile was very slight, but went all the way to his eyes.
“I am sure if you were to approach her,” she went on, “with some tact she would be prepared to apply for a temporary position with Sir Basil Moidore, to care for Lady Moidore until such time as she is herself again. I will be most happy to supply a reference. I would not speak to the hospital, if I were you. And it might be desirable not to mention my name to Hester—unless it is necessary to avoid untruth.”
Now his smile was quite open. “Quite so, Lady Callandra. An excellent idea, I am most obliged to you.”
“Not at all,” she said innocently. “Not at all. I shall also speak to my cousin Valentina, who will be pleased to suggest such a thing to Beatrice and at the same time recommend Miss Latterly.”
* * *
Hester was so surprised to see Monk she did not even think to wonder how he knew her address.
“Good morning,” she said in amazement. “Has something—” she stopped, not sure what it was she was asking.
He knew how to be circumspect when it was in his own interest. He had learned it with some difficulty, but his ambition overrode his temper, even his pride, and it had come in time.
“Good morning,” he replied agreeably. “No, nothing alarming has happened. I have a favor I wish of you, if you are willing.”
“Of me?” She was still astonished and half disbelieving.
“If you will? May I sit down?”
“Oh—of course.” They were in Mrs. Home’s parlor, and she waved to the seat nearest the thin fire.
He accepted, and began on the purpose of his visit before trivial conversation should lead him into betraying Callandra Daviot.
“I am engaged in the Queen Anne Street case, the murder of Sir Basil Moidore’s daughter.”
“I wondered if you would be,” she answered politely, her eyes bright with expectation. “The newspapers are still full of it. But I have never met any of the family, nor do I know anything about them. Have they any connection with the Crimea?”
“Only peripheral.”
“Then what can I—” She stopped, waiting for him to answer.
“It was someone in the house who killed her,” he said. “Very probably one of the family—”
“Oh—” Understanding began in her eyes, not of her own part in the case, but of the difficulties facing him. “How can you investigate that?”
“Carefully.” He smiled with a downward turn of his lips. “Lady Moidore has taken to her bed. I am not sure how much of it is grief—she was very composed to begin with—and how much of it may be because she has learned something which points to one of the family and she cannot bear it.”
“What can I do?” He had all her attention now.
“Would you consider taking a position as nurse to Lady Moidore, and observing the family, and if possible learning what she fears so much?”
She looked uncomfortable. “They may require better references than I could supply.”
“Would not Miss Nightingale speak well of you?”
“Oh, certainly—but the infirmary would not.”
“Indeed. Then we shall hope they do not ask them. I think the main thing will be if Lady Moidore finds you agreeable—”
“I imagine Lady Callandra would also speak for me.” He relaxed back into his chair. “That should surely be sufficient. Then you will do it?”
She laughed very slightly. “If they advertise for such a person, I shall surely apply—but I can hardly turn up at the door and inquire if they need a nurse!”
“Of course not. I shall do what I can to arrange it.” He did not tell her of Callandra Daviot’s cousin, and hurried on to avoid difficult explanations. “It will be done by word of mouth, as these things are in the best families. If you will permit yourself to be mentioned? Good—”
“Tell me something of the household.”
“I think it would be better if I left you to discover it yourself—and certainly your opinions would be of more use to me.” He frowned curiously. “What happened at the infirmary?”
Ruefully she told him.
Valentina Burke-Heppenstall was prevailed upon to call in person at Queen Anne Street to convey her sympathies, and when Beatrice did not receive her, she commiserated with her friend’s distress and suggested to Araminta that perhaps a nurse would be helpful in the circumstances and be able to offer assistance a busy ladies’ maid could not.
After a few moments’ consideration, Araminta was disposed to agree. It would indeed remove from the rest of the household the responsibility for a task they were not really equipped to handle.
Valentina could suggest someone, if it would not be viewed as impertinent? Miss Nightingale’s young ladies were the very best, and very rare indeed among nurses; they were well-bred, not at all the sort of person one would mind having in one’s house.
Araminta was obliged. She would interview this person at the first opportunity.
Accordingly Hester put on her bes
t uniform and rode in a hansom cab to Queen Anne Street, where she presented herself for Araminta’s inspection.
“I have Lady Burke-Heppenstall’s recommendation of your work,” Araminta said gravely. She was dressed in black taffeta which rustled with every movement, and the enormous skirt kept touching table legs and corners of sofas and chairs as Araminta walked in the overfurnished room. The somberness of the gown and the black crepes set over pictures and doors in recognition of death made her hair by contrast seem like a pool of light, hotter and more vivid than gold.
She looked at Hester’s gray stuff dress and severe appearance with satisfaction.
“Why are you currently seeking employment, Miss Latterly?” She made no attempt at courtesy. This was a business interview, not a social one.
Hester had already prepared her excuse, with Callandra’s help. It was frequently the desire of an ambitious servant to work for someone of title. They were greater snobs than many of their mistresses, and the manners and grammar of other servants were of intense importance to them.
“Now that I am home in England, Mrs. Kellard, I should prefer nursing in a private house of well-bred people to working in a public hospital.”
“That is quite understandable,” Araminta accepted without a flicker. “My mother is not ill, Miss Latterly; she has had a bereavement under most distressing circumstances. We do not wish her to fall into a melancholy. It would be easy enough. She will require agreeable company—and care that she sleeps well and eats sufficiently to maintain her health. Is this a position you would be willing to fill, Miss Latterly?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kellard, I should be happy to, if you feel I would suit?” Hester forced herself to be appropriately humble only by remembering Monk’s face—and her real purpose here.
“Very well, you may consider yourself engaged. You may bring such belongings as are necessary, and begin tomorrow. Good day to you.”
“Good day, ma’am—thank you.”
Accordingly, the following day Hester arrived at Queen Anne Street with her few belongings in a trunk and presented herself at the back door to be shown her room and her duties. It was an extraordinary position, rather more than a servant, but a great deal less than a guest. She was considered skilled, but she was not part of the ordinary staff, nor yet a professional person such as a doctor. She was a member of the household, therefore she must come and go as she was ordered and conduct herself in all ways as was acceptable to her mistress. Mistress—the word set her teeth on edge.
But why should it? She had no possessions and no prospects, and since she took it upon herself to administer to John Airdrie without Pomeroy’s permission, she had no other employment either. And of course there was not only caring for Lady Moidore to consider and do well, there was the subtler and more interesting and dangerous job to do for Monk.
She was given an agreeable room on the floor immediately above the main family bedrooms and with a connecting bell so she could come at a moment’s notice should she be required. In her time off duty, if there should be any, she might read or write letters in the ladies’ maids’ sitting room. She was told quite unequivocally what her duties would be, and what would remain those of the ladies’ maid, Mary, a dark, slender girl in her twenties with a face full of character and a ready tongue. She was also told the province of the upstairs maid, Annie, who was about sixteen and full of curiosity, quick-witted and far too opinionated for her own good.
She was shown the kitchen and introduced to the cook, Mrs. Boden, the kitchen maid Sal, the scullery maid May, the bootboy Willie, and then to the laundrymaids Lizzie and Rose, who would attend to her linens. The other ladies’ maid, Gladys, she only saw on the landing; she looked after Mrs. Cyprian Moidore and Miss Araminta. Similarly the upstairs maid Maggie, the between maid Nellie, and the handsome parlormaid Dinah were outside her responsibility. The tiny, fierce housekeeper, Mrs. Willis, did not have jurisdiction over nurses, and that was a bad beginning to their relationship. She was used to power and resented a female servant who was not answerable to her. Her small, neat face showed it in instant disapproval. She reminded Hester of a particularly efficient hospital matron, and the comparison was not a fortunate one.
“You will eat in the servants’ hall with everyone else,” Mrs. Willis informed her tartly. “Unless your duties make that impossible. After breakfast at eight o’clock we all,” she said the word pointedly, and looked Hester in the eye, “gather for Sir Basil to lead us in prayers. I assume, Miss Latterly, that you are a member of the Church of England?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Willis,” Hester said immediately, although by inclination she was no such thing, her nature was all nonconformist.
“Good.” Mrs. Willis nodded. “Quite so. We take dinner between twelve and one, while the family takes luncheon. There will be supper at whatever time the evening suits. When there are large dinner parties that may be very late.” Her eyebrows rose very high. “We give some of the largest dinner parties in London here, and very fine cuisine indeed. But since we are in mourning at present there will be no entertaining, and by the time we resume I imagine your duties will be long past. I expect you will have half a day off a fortnight, like everyone else. But if that does not suit her ladyship, then you won’t.”
Since it was not a permanent position Hester was not yet concerned with time off, so long as she had opportunity to see Monk when necessary, to report to him any knowledge she had gained.
“Yes, Mrs. Willis,” she replied, since a reply seemed to be awaited.
“You will have little or no occasion to go into the withdrawing room, but if you do I presume you know better than to knock?” Her eyes were sharp on Hester’s face. “It is extremely vulgar ever to knock on a withdrawing room door.”
“Of course, Mrs. Willis,” Hester said hastily. She had never given the matter any thought, but it would not do to admit it.
“The maid will care for your room, of course,” the housekeeper went on, looking at Hester critically. “But you will iron your own aprons. The laundrymaids have enough to do, and the ladies’ maids are certainly not waiting on you! If anyone sends you letters—you have a family?” This last was something in the nature of a challenge. People without families lacked respectability; they might be anyone.
“Yes, Mrs. Willis, I do,” Hester said firmly. “Unfortunately my parents died recently, and one of my brothers was killed in the Crimea, but I have a surviving brother, and I am very fond both of him and of his wife.”
Mrs. Willis was satisfied. “Good. I am sorry about your brother who died in the Crimea, but many fine young men were lost in that conflict. To die for one’s Queen and country is an honorable thing and to be borne with such fortitude as one can. My own father was a soldier—a very fine man, a man to look up to. Family is very important, Miss Latterly. All the staff here are most respectable.”
With great difficulty Hester bit her tongue and forbore from saying what she felt about the Crimean War and its political motives or the utter incompetence of its conduct. She controlled herself with merely lowering her eyes as if in modest consent.
“Mary will show you the female servants’ staircase.” Mrs. Willis had finished the subject of personal lives and was back to business.
“I beg your pardon?” Hester was momentarily confused.
“The female servants’ staircase,” Mrs. Willis said sharply.
“You will have to go up and down stairs, girl! This is a decent household—you don’t imagine you are going to use the male servants’ stairs, do you? Whatever next? I hope you don’t have any ideas of that sort.”
“Certainly not, ma’am.” Hester collected her wits quickly and invented an explanation. “I am just unused to such spaciousness. I am not long returned from the Crimea.” This in case Mrs. Willis had heard only the reputation of nurses in England, which was far from savory. “We had no menservants where I was.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Willis was totally ignorant in the matter, but unwilling to say so. “Well, we
have five outside menservants here, whom you are unlikely to meet, and inside we have Mr. Phillips, the butler; Rhodes, Sir Basil’s valet; Harold and Percival, the footmen; and Willie, the bootboy. You will have no occasion to have dealings with any of them.”
“No ma’am.”
Mrs. Willis sniffed. “Very well. You had best go and present yourself to Lady Moidore and see if there is anything you can do for her, poor creature.” She smoothed her apron fiercely and her keys jangled. “As if it wasn’t enough to be bereaved of a daughter, without police creeping all over the house and pestering people with questions. I don’t know what the world is coming to! If they were doing their job in the first place all this would never have happened.”
Since she was not supposed to know it, Hester refrained from saying it was a bit unreasonable to expect police, no matter how diligent, to prevent a domestic murder.
“Thank you, Mrs. Willis,” she said in compromise, and turned to go upstairs and meet Beatrice Moidore.
She tapped on the bedroom door, and when there was no answer, went in anyway. It was a charming room, very feminine, full of flowered brocades, oval framed pictures and mirrors, and three light, comfortable dressing chairs set about to be both ornamental and useful. The curtains were wide open and the room full of cold sunlight.
Beatrice herself was lying on the bed in a satin peignoir, her ankles crossed and her arms behind her head, her eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. She took no notice when Hester came in.
Hester was an army nurse used to caring for men sorely wounded or desperately ill, but she had a small experience of the shock and then deep depression and fear following an amputation, and the feeling of utter helplessness that overwhelms every other emotion. What she thought she saw in Beatrice Moidore was fear, and the frozen attitude of an animal that dares not move in case it draws attention to itself and does not know which way to run.
“Lady Moidore,” she said quietly.
Beatrice realized it was a voice she did not know, and an unaccustomed tone, firmer and not tentative like a maid’s. She turned her head and stared.
