The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

by Ashley, Mike;

  “Good afternoon, Miss Brodie,” Stockwell replied stiffly. She disconcerted him, and he had not yet worked out why, although he had spent some time thinking about the matter. She was really quite agreeable, even if a trifle over-confident, and opinionated above her station. It was not becoming in a woman. But she had been of great assistance to him in that terrible business of the murder of Lady Beech. A certain latitude was perhaps allowable. “A most pleasant day,” he added. “I fancy the ladies will be enjoying the garden. Spring is one of the most attractive seasons, don’t you think?”

  “Most,” she agreed.

  He frowned. “Is something troubling you, Miss Brodie? Is it a matter with which I could assist?” He owed her a certain consideration, a protection, if you like. She was a woman, and a visiting servant, and this was his house. Her welfare was his concern.

  “I doubt it, Mr Stockwell,” she replied, her lips tight again at the thought of Colette. “I find Mrs Welch-Smith’s maid very trying, that is all. She is convinced of the superiority of all things French, and she is at pains to say so.”

  “Ignorance,” Stockwell said immediately. “She is a foreigner, after all. She may not know any better.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Brodie snapped. “She is not in the least bit ignorant. She is simply …” She stopped abruptly. What she had been going to say was unbecoming to her. She closed her mouth.

  Further down the corridor a maid went by with a dustpan in her hand.

  “Fortunately the General’s man, Harrison, is as English as we are,” Stockwell said, looking at her sympathetically. “In fact he seems to have very little liking for France or the French. Although naturally he is discreet about his remarks – merely an inflexion here or there which the sensitive ear may discern.”

  “I have barely seen him.” Brodie thought about it for a moment. “Is he the rather portly young man with the brown eyes, or the fair-haired man with the absent-minded expression?”

  “The fair-haired man,” Stockwell answered. “The other is the coachman. But it is understandable you should be confused. Harrison spends at least as much time in the stable. I confess I don’t think I have seen him in the laundry or the bootroom or the pantry. And the General looked rather as if he had dressed himself. I believe he shaves himself also.”

  “Then what is Harrison here for?” Brodie said curiously.

  “That is a mystery which I have solved,” Stockwell replied with satisfaction, a smile on his long nosed, rather round-eyed face. “The General is an inventor, of sorts, and has brought with him his latest contraption, which is intended, so I believe, to clean and polish boots by means of electricity.”

  “Land sakes!” Brodie exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

  “For something to do, I imagine,” Stockwell replied. “Gentlemen are largely at a loss for something to do.”

  “How does this concern Harrison?” Brodie asked.

  “He is assembling the machine in the stables,” Stockwell answered. “Or at least he is assisting the General to do so – although I fancy Harrison may be doing most of the work. However, he seems to enjoy it, in fact to take a certain pride in it.” A look of puzzlement crossed his rather complacent features. “There is no accounting for the difference in people’s tastes, Miss Brodie.”

  “Indeed not,” she said with feeling, and proceeded up the stairs.

  *

  Dinner was an awkward meal, in spite of the unquestionable excellence of the food: a delicate consommé, fresh asparagus from the kitchen garden, picked at it’s tenderest, fresh trout, grilled until it fell from the bone, a saddle of mutton, several kinds of vegetables, followed by apple pie and thick cream, or trifle or fruit sorbet of choice. The awkwardness was caused largely by Violet Welch-Smith. Pamela Selden could see very easily why her brother had wished assistance over the week. Violet was a difficult woman, and she believed in candour as a virtue, regardless of the discomfort it might cause. She was also an enthusiast.

  “We had the most marvellous food on our recent trip to France.” She looked at her husband who was sitting opposite her across the table. “Didn’t we Bertrand?”

  Bertie Welch-Smith was unhappy. He thought the remark, just as they were finishing a meal provided by their host, to be unfortunate.

  “Didn’t care for it a lot, myself,” he said with a frankness his wife should have admired. “Too many sauces. Like apple sauce with pork, or mint with lamb, or a spot of horseradish now and again, that’s about all. Oh, and a good custard to go with a pudding of course.”

  Pamela hid a smile. She liked Bertie Welch-Smith. He was in his middle fifties, retired from a career in the army which was brave rather than brilliant. He had reached the rank of General in the old system of his father having purchased a commission for him, and then his turn for promotion having come fortunately soon. A single escapade of extraordinary valour in the Ashanti wars had brought him to the favourable notice of his superiors. He was not a naturally belligerent man; in fact, he was not unlike Freddie Dagliesh himself – good natured, rather shy, something of a bumbler except in his particular enthusiasms. For Freddie it was his garden, a thing of extraordinary beauty with flowers and trees from all over the world. For Bertie Welch-Smith it was mechanical inventions.

  “You need to cultivate your taste more,” Violet said earnestly.

  “What?” Bertie was already thinking of something else.

  “Cultivate your taste,” she repeated slowly, as if he were foolish rather than merely inattentive. “The French are the most cultured nation on earth, you know.” She turned to Pamela. “They really know how to live well. We have a great deal to learn from them.”

  Freddie stiffened and looked at Pamela in desperation.

  “I think living well is rather a matter of personal preference,” Pamela said, with a smile. “Fortunately we do not all like the same things.”

  “But we could learn to!” Violet urged, leaning forward across the table. The lights of the chandeliers winked in the crystal and the silver. The last of the dishes had been cleared away. Stockwell came in with the port. The ladies did not retire, since there were only four people present altogether. They took a little Madeira instead and remained.

  “Do tell Freddie and Pamela about our stay in France, Bertie,” Violet commanded. “I am sure they would be most interested.”

  Bertie frowned. “I had rather thought of going for a stroll. Take Freddie to see my new machine, what?”

  “Later, if you must,” she dismissed his plea. “It is a harmless enough occupation, I suppose, but there is absolutely no requirement for such a thing, you know. There are valets and bootboys to polish one’s shoes, should they require it. Which brings something to mind.” She barely paused for breath, her Madeira ignored. “Do tell Freddie how you found poor Harrison and employed him. A French valet is a wonderful thing to have, Pamela; and a French lady’s maid is even better. I cannot tell you the number and variety of skills that girl has.” And she proceeded to tell her, detail after detail.

  Bertie attempted to interrupt but it was doubtful in Pamela’s mind if Violet even heard him. Her enthusiasm waxed strong, and Bertie’s eyes took on a faraway look, although Pamela guessed they were really no greater distance than the stable, and his beloved machine.

  “So very modern,” Violet gushed. “We really are old-fashioned here.” Her hands gesticulated, describing some facet of French culture, her face intent.

  “I say!” Freddie protested. “That’s hardly fair. We are the best inventors in the world!”

  She was not to be deterred. “Perhaps we used to be,” she swept on. “But the French are now … endlessly inventive … and really useful things …”

  Bertie opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked vaguely crushed.

  “You should tell them about finding Harrison,” Violet glanced at him, then back to Freddie. “And French menservants are excellent too, not just capable of one skill, like ours, but of all manner of things. Bertie never cea
ses to sing Harrison’s praises.”

  “Harrison is English!” Bertie said with umbrage. “Dammit Violet, he is as English as steak and kidney pudding!”

  “But trained in France!” she retorted instantly. “That makes all the difference. His mind is French.”

  “Balderdash!” He was growing pink in the face. “He speaks the language, because he spent time there. That was where we found him. But he was more than happy to return home again with us … his home. He made that very plain, at least to me.”

  “I never heard him say that!”

  Pamela hid a smile behind her napkin, pretending to sneeze.

  “You don’t listen” Bertie muttered.

  “What did you say?” Violet looked at him sharply.

  “He said you don’t—” Freddie began.

  Pamela kicked him under the table. He winced and opened his eyes very wide.

  Pamela smiled charmingly. “He said he won’t miss it,” she lied without blinking. “I presume he meant that Harrison won’t miss France, when he has been with you for a while. After all, you have adopted so many French ways, haven’t you? And you have a French maid yourself, so he can always speak the language, if he chooses.”

  Violet looked confounded for a moment. She knew something had passed her by, but she was not quite sure what.

  Pamela rose to her feet. “Shall we go for a stroll in the garden?” she suggested. “There is a clear sky and a full moon. I think it would be very beautiful.”

  Freddie sighed with relief. Bertie’s face broke into a smile. Violet was obliged to agree, more so, civility demanded it.

  *

  The following morning Brodie woke Pamela with a hot cup of tea, and drew the curtains to a brilliant spring day, with light and shadow chasing each other across the land. A huge aspen, green with leaf, shivered in the breeze and the garden glistened from overnight rain. Pamela’s clothes were ready, since she had decided the previous evening what she would wear. After a few exchanges of pleasantries Brodie left to run the bath, and came face to face with Colette on the landing, looking efficient and very pretty, and to Brodie’s eyes, a trifle smug.

  She looked even more pleased with herself two hours later when Brodie encountered her in the kitchen. She had just come in from the back door and, glancing towards it, Brodie saw a nice looking, if rather foreign, young man in the yard, somewhere between the coal chute and the rubbish bins. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as though undecided whether to leave or return, but Colette did not look back, and indeed she flushed with colour as she caught Brodie’s eye. But there was no way to know if it was annoyance or embarrassment. Brodie thought the former.

  A junior housemaid, a girl of about twelve, passed by with a bucket full of damp tea leaves for cleaning the carpet. They were excellent for picking up the dust. She nodded to Brodie respectfully, and walked past Colette as if she had not seen her. Brodie assumed she was another victim of the superiority of all things French. What did the French clean their carpets with? She had heard they did not drink tea! Coffee grounds would hardly serve. The very thought of it was unpleasant.

  The cook was giving orders for the day’s menus. She was a buxom woman with a face which atfirst glance seemed benign. But Brodie knew her well enough to be aware that a fierce temper lurked behind the wide, blue eyes and generous mouth. At the moment it was drawn tight as she caught Colette’s smirk at the mention of custard for the suet pudding. “Yes?” she said challengingly.

  Colette shrugged. “In France we ’ave more of the fruit and less of the suet,” she said distinctly, but without looking at anyone. “It is lighter, you understand? Better for the digestion, and of course for the form.” She was petite herself, beautifully curved, and moved almost like a dancer on a stage. Brodie felt a little squat and clumsy beside her. “Although you could be right,” Colette went in with a delicate little shiver. “After all, the climate, it is so damp! Maybe you need all the suet fat to keep you warm.” And without allowing time for anyone to think of a retaliation, she swept out, giving her skirts a little flick as she turned the corner.

  “Oh!” the cook let out a snort of exasperation. “That girl! I swear if she comes in here one more time and tells me how good French cooking is, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll not be responsible!”

  The kitchen maid muttered her agreement and heartfelt support.

  Stockwell arrived looking portentous. It was his job to keep the entire household in order, and domestic difficulties were his to deal with. He had anticipated trouble in his address to the servants in general, in this morning’s prayers before breakfast, but it appeared that might prove insufficient. He should have known the cook by now, but habit and duty were too strong. “I am sure you will always be responsible, Mrs Wimpole,” he said smoothly. “You are the last person to let us down by behaving less than perfectly.” He straightened his shoulders even further. “We must not allow other nationalities to think we do not know how to conduct ourselves … even if they do not.”

  Mrs Wimpole snorted again and banged her wooden spoon so hard on the kitchen table she all but broke it. The scullery-maid dropped a string of onions and gave a yelp.

  “We all have our own difficulties to bear,” Stockwell said sententiously.

  “Leastways Mr ’Arrison in’t French,” the bootboy said venomously, looking at Stockwell as boldly as he dared. “And no visitin’ General in’t makin’ a machine wot’il take away yer job from yer.” He looked thoroughly unhappy and frightened, his blue eyes wide, his blond hair standing slightly on end where the housekeeper had cut it rather badly – when Stockwell had been absent, up in London with Freddie.

  “It won’t take your job, Willie,” Brodie said comfortingly. “I don’t suppose for a moment it works and, even if it did, do you imagine any gentleman would use it himself?”

  “Mr Stockwell is all-fired keen on it, Miss,” Willie said doubtfully. “ ’im or Mr ’Arrison and the General is out there in the stables playin’ wif it every chance they gets.”

  “They are assembling it, Willie,” Stockwell broke in. “That is entirely different.”

  “I don’t see no difference,” Willie replied, but he did look rather more hopeful.

  “Of course there is a difference,” Brodie reassured him. “In fact there is no relation. Putting it together is invention – a very suitable occupation for a gentleman, keeping him out of the house and harmlessly busy. Operating it every day to clean shoes would be work, and entirely unsuitable. Whoever heard of a gentleman cleaning his own boots?”

  Willie was almost mollified. There was only one last hurdle to clear.

  “Wot if ’e ’specs Mr Stockwell ter use it, seein’ as it’s a machine, an invention, like, and Mr Stockwell’s clever, an is ’is butler, an’ ’e don’t keep a separate valet?”

  Stockwell stiffened.

  “Butlers don’t clean boots,” Brodie pronounced without hesitation. “Regardless of how clever they are.”

  “Oh … well I s’pose it’s alright then.”

  “Of course it’s all right,” Brodie said briskly. “There is no reason whatever for you to worry.”

  *

  After a late and excellent breakfast of the sort Bertie Welch-Smith most enjoyed – eggs, bacon, sausages, kidneys, crisp-fried potatoes and tomatoes, followed by toast and sharp, dark Dundee marmalade and several cups of strong Ceylon tea, all of which he had sorely missed in France – he and Freddie went out to the stables to tinker with the machine.

  “Ah!” Bertie said, with satisfaction, patting his stomach. “Can’t tell you, old chap, how I missed a decent breakfast in France. Don’t mistake me, food’s very good, and all that, but I do like a proper cup of tea in the morning. Don’t care for coffee much, what? And I like a little real marmalade, some of the stuff you can taste, not all these damn pastries that fall to bits in your hand.”

  “Quite,” Freddie agreed. He had never been to France, but he did not approve in principle. There weren’t many people he d
isliked. One had to be either dishonest or unkind to offend Freddie; but he did dislike Violet Welch-Smith, although he would not have dreamed of letting Bertie see that. Bertie was both his guest and his friend, and therefore sacred on both counts.

  They strolled side by side in the sun towards the stables and the marvellous machine.

  “And then you must come and see my magnolias,” Freddie said hopefully. “I’ve got some purple ones which really are very fine, if I say so myself.”

  “Certainly, old boy,” Bertie agreed. “Delighted!” He did not know what a magnolia was, but that was irrelevant. Freddie was a good fellow.

  *

  Brodie busied herself about her duties. There was delicate personal laundry to be done. There was a spot of candlewax on the gown Pamela had worn the previous evening, and she must take it to the ironing room and press it between blotting paper with a warm iron. She would have to remove the pink with a little colourless alcohol. Gin was best. It was a tedious job, but it was the only way. Then naturally there would be a great deal of other ironing to do. A lady’s maid’s accomplishments were many, but Pamela very seldom desired to be read to or otherwise entertained. She always found more than sufficient to occupy herself. Anyway, she was obliged to accompany Violet, and listen continuously to her endless account of her sojourn in France, and its sophisticated pleasures.

  Just before midday, Brodie was walking through the hall towards the conservatory to deliver a message, when she saw a newspaper lying on the table near the umbrella stand. It was the local newspaper, and it had obviously been read and cast aside because it was open at the centre page. She glanced at it and her eye was caught by an advertisement for an exhibition of modern inventions, to be held in the town. Apparently it was most remarkable for the variety and ingeniousness of the machines. In fact, in two days’ time the French Ambassador himself was going to open the exhibition formally. In the meantime, it was possible for local people to attend a preview on the following afternoon, if they should so wish.