Brodie was not interested in machines. On the whole, she considered them inferior to a mixture of industry and a little common sense. But perhaps she should keep abreast of ideas, even if only to know what they were, and ease the minds of poor souls like the bootboy.
Tomorrow was her afternoon off. There was really very little for her to do here. All but the most urgent of jobs could wait until she returned home. It would be a pleasant diversion from having to be civil to Colette. The matter was decided. She made a mental note of the time and the place, and continued to the conservatory on her errand.
Stockwell also saw the newspaper, but the copy that caught his eye was the one that Freddie had read and cast away, folded where he had finished it. Stockwell bent to tidy it quite automatically. Books and papers out of alignment, pictures crooked, odd socks, a smear on a glass, all scraped his sensibilities. As he folded the papers neatly, his eye fell on the advertisement for an exhibition of the latest inventions to be held in the town hall, preview possible tomorrow, for local persons with a scientific interest. Stockwell most certainly had a scientific interest. He was eager to acquaint himself with all things modern, and to keep up with the latest challenges and conquests of the intelligent man.
If Mr Dagliesh would permit it, he would make a brief sortie into the town and observe what was on display. The household would take care of itself quite adequately between, say, two o’clock and half-past four tomorrow afternoon. He would be home again in plenty of time, to make sure that everyone did their duty at dinner. There was no need to mention it to anyone except Mr Dagliesh. Mrs Wimpole would be about her own skills in the kitchen, the footmen did not need to know anything except when he would return, and it was not a suitable matter to discuss with Miss Brodie. After all, scientific inventions were hardly women’s business.
*
The evening was long, and punctuated with moments of definite unease. Violet Welch-Smith kept repeating recipes for food that was supposed to be remarkably good for the health, which embarrassed her husband, though not greatly. He was too rapt in his satisfaction with his boot polishing machine, which Harrison had assured him was now perfect. Freddie endeavoured not to listen, simply to make agreeable noises every time Violet stopped talking long enough. Pamela kept the peace as well as she could – and her temper as well as she thought possible.
Brodie had the curious experience of seeing Colette’s admirer again. It was just after ten in the evening and she was coming back from fetching a petticoat she had inadvertently left in the ironing room, when she saw Colette standing in the passageway with her back to the light, and not a foot away from her was the man Brodie had seen her with before. This time he was facing the light and she saw his features quite distinctly. He was very dark with fine brows and a slightly aquiline nose. She judged he would normally be a very pleasant looking man, but at this moment his expression was one of earnestness bordering upon anger, and he was whispering fiercely to Colette, something which seemed not to please her at all.
“Auguste, c’est impossible!” she said furiously.
Brodie did not speak French, but the meaning of that phrase was clear enough, as was Colette’s defiant stance, hands on hips, chin raised, shoulders stiff.
Something must have distracted Auguste – perhaps the light reflecting on Brodie’s face or the faintest of rustles as the fabric of her dress brushed against the wall. He turned and left so quickly, melting into the shadows of the passageway back to the door, that, had she not seen the look on Colette’s face, she might have supposed he had been a figment of her imagination and not a real person at all.
Brodie disliked Colette profoundly, but to tell tales was a contemptible thing to do, something she had never stooped to since one dismal episode in her youth which she preferred not to think of now. She contented herself with looking at Colette meaningfully – to Colette’s discomfort – and then, with a decided swing in her own step, she continued on her way.
*
The following afternoon Brodie, with Pamela’s good wishes, dressed in her best afternoon skirt and jacket, a green which became her very well, and set out to walk briskly into the town. It was only a matter of some two miles or so, and she expected to accomplish it in half an hour. It was an extremely agreeable day, mild and bright with a steady breeze carrying the heady scents of hawthorn blossom. There were still primroses, pale on the dark banks of the ditches. Birds sang, and far away over the fields a dog barked. Other than that there was no sound but the wind in the trees and her own brisk footsteps on the road.
The exhibition was very well signposted and she found it immediately. There were few people attending, which was fortunate. It would give her time to look for the General’s device without being hurried on.
The first machine which caught her attention was a travelling electric stairlamp, made by M. Armand Marat, obviously a Frenchman with a name like that. In fact about everything she saw in the first room appeared to be invented, designed or made by a Frenchman.
She passed to the second room, but, before she could examine the machines in it, she saw the back of a very upright man of robust physique, his clothes immaculate, his hair greying and perfectly barbered, a completely unnecessary furled umbrella in his hand. What was Stockwell doing here? She considered retreating, then was furious with herself. Why on earth should she allow Stockwell’s presence to dictate what she should do? She would not be driven out!
“Good afternoon, Mr Stockwell,” she said decisively.
He turned around very slowly, his face almost comical with surprise. “Miss Brodie! What on earth are you doing here? Has something happened?” Now he looked alarmed.
“Yes, something has happened!” she said disgustedly. “It appears that the French have stolen a march on us. All the inventions in this miserable place are French! There is barely a single exhibit that is English that I have seen! It is most disconcerting.”
“I agree,” he said unhappily. “It is most regrettable. However, I can think of nothing whatever to do about it, except take defeat like gentlemen … and ladies. To concede defeat with grace at least has dignity, and that we must never lose, Miss Brodie. Stiff upper lip in times of hardship.”
Brodie disliked conceding defeat at all, even if she were rigid to her eyebrows.
“Is there nothing British here at all?” she asked.
“Only the General’s boot polishing machine,” Stockwell said grimly. “I fear it is hardly a great cultural step forward for mankind, nor will it be of particular benefit to anyone at all. As you quite reasonably pointed out to young William, it is merely a toy for gentlemen, until they tire of it and find a new one. Probably the best that can be said of it is that it is not dangerous. No one will cut off their fingers, or set fire to the house with it.”
Brodie sighed. “I suppose we had better have a look at it, since we are here anyway.” She gazed around her. “Where is it?”
“It is in the next room, where the curator is. Although what harm he imagines could come to any of these, I don’t know. I suppose someone might try to use one of them?”
Brodie gave him a withering look.
He shrugged.
Side by side, but not touching, they made their way to the third room and its exhibits. The curator was standing in the centre. On the wall by the door as one would leave was a poster declaring proudly that the event would be opened officially by the French Ambassador to the Court of St James, on April 12th, which would be … the day after tomorrow.
“Well, which is it?” Brodie whispered, staring around her at the extraordinary array of machines and contraptions of every size and shape that were established against the wall. Not one of them looked obviously useful. Some resembled clothes mangles, others tin boxes with wires, yet others elaborate typewriters. One looked rather like a bicycle stood upside down on its saddle, with two rather small wheels. Stockwell pointed to it.
“That is it,” he said very quietly, so the curator would not hear him.
&
nbsp; Brodie’s heart sank. It really did look extraordinarily cumbersome – more fun than a brush and cloth and a good jar of polish, but a great deal less convenient. She was now quite convinced that William’s job was in no jeopardy.
“Oh dear,” she murmured sadly.
They walked over with affected casualness and stared at the contraption. Viewed from only a yard away, it was even more like a bicycle. It was possible to see quite easily which were the moving parts, where the brushes were, and where one was intended to place one’s foot in order to have one’s boots very highly polished. There was a metal foot with many joints, and a ratchet to alter its size according to the boot in question, but it would still be an awkward and rather time-consuming task to place the boot accurately. It was so much easier simply to put one’s hand into a boot or shoe, and polish with a brush in the other hand. Brodie refrained from comment.
“Ah …” Stockwell said thoughtfully. “I believe I see the principle upon which it works. Simple, yet clever. It would obtain a most excellent shine.”
“Yes,” Brodie agreed loyally. After all, it was a British invention and the General was one of the household. “It certainly would. Unparalleled.” She continued to look at it in the hope she could see something she could admire more genuinely. The longer she looked at it, the less hope did she feel.
Stockwell must now have been feeling the same, judging by the despair in his face.
Brodie went over the mechanism in her mind once more, envisioning precisely how it would work, when switched on. There seemed to be a part whose function she could not see; in fact the more she considered it, the more convinced she was that it was not only redundant, but it would actually get in the way when the thing was set in motion. There were two parts of it, metal parts, which were bound to touch when they moved in the only way they could. She pointed it out to Stockwell.
“You must be mistaken, Miss Brodie,” he said quite kindly. After all, how could she be expected to understand how a machine would work.
“No I’m not, Mr Stockwell,” she replied. She was very good at judging the length of a thing with her eye. Good heavens, she had sewed from exact measurements for enough years. She knew the length of a skirt, the size of a waist or the width of a hem to an exactness. “It will strike that piece there!”
“Really!” he said with diminishing patience. “Do you imagine Mr Dagliesh and the General have not tried it out?”
Actually, Brodie thought that was very likely, since she was more than ever convinced that the rising bar would catch against the angled cross bar – not violently, but sufficient to graze it – and since they were both apparently metal, to strike a spark. It also looked long enough to touch the bar immediately above, but perhaps that did not matter. That might be where it was meant to rest. However, with the best will in the world, which she had, she could not admire it with any enthusiasm.
Stockwell was still regarding her crossly, waiting for an answer.
“I suppose they must have,” she conceded reluctantly, and then with a parting shot. “I don’t understand what that piece is for?” She pointed to the metal bar against which the moving part must rest when it had completed its cycle.
Stockwell’s face took on a look of indulgent superiority.
“It is part of the structure, Miss Brodie, necessary for the strength of the machine when it is in motion.”
“I don’t see how.” His tone troubled her. “Surely that piece above it is sufficient for that purpose? It is not going to bear either weight or stress.” Her mouth compressed into a thinner line.
“It must do, or it would not be there!”
“What stress? Surely the piece above it serves that purpose?”
“Do not concern yourself, Miss Brodie,” he said coldly. “Machinery is not the natural talent of women. It is hardly to be expected that you should understand the principles of engineering. It reflects no discredit upon you.”
She had not for an instant considered it might. It was discredit to the machine she had in mind. But she could see from the set of his face that he did not understand it either, and therefore would brook no argument. However, he added one word too many. “I am sure you can appreciate that, Miss Brodie!”
“No,” she said abruptly. “It is not myself I am questioning, it is the machine. I am afraid it is not quite right, and may let the General and Mr Dagliesh down when the French Ambassador comes to test it.”
“Balderdash!” Stockwell retorted, pink in the face now and plainly discomfited. “I think, Miss Brodie, that we have looked at this exhibit long enough. I am going to have a cup of tea. I observed a very agreeable establishment a mere five minutes away. If you wish to join me, I do not mind.”
It was an uncharacteristically ungracious invitation, made under duress, but Brodie accepted it, partly because she would not be dismissed like that, but mostly because she was extremely ready for a cup of tea. It had been a long, thirsty walk into town, and would be the same on the return, especially if she were to try to keep up with Stockwell’s pace.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly in reply.
He looked a little surprised, but after a moment’s hesitation offered her his arm. He would never have dreamed of doing so in the house, but this was different. Here they were practically socially equal.
She accepted it as if it were her due.
They walked together across the street and along the pavement without speaking any further, but when the tea was ordered by Stockwell, and poured by Brodie, he broke the silence at last, tentatively to begin with.
“Miss Brodie …”
“Yes, Mr Stockwell?”
“I have observed a … person … around the house and grounds lately, a foreign-appearing person, who seems to be paying attention to Mrs Welch-Smith’s maid. Have you noticed anything?”
“Yes I have,” she said quickly – mention of Colette thawing her annoyance with Stockwell very rapidly. After all, it was a very secondary matter. “I have seen him twice now. I heard her address him as ‘Auguste’, and say what I believe was ‘it is impossible’.”
He leaned forward. “You believe? Did you not hear clearly?”
“What I think she actually said was ‘c’est impossible’.”
“I see. No doubt you are correct about the meaning, but it could refer to anything, even another meeting between them. But let us be diligent, Miss Brodie, and be warned. It is not unknown for servants of a certain character to open the way for accomplices to rob a house. We must be ever aware of the possibility. I shall have the footmen be extra alert where locks are concerned …”
“That will be no use if she lets him in,” Brodie warned. “And …”
“And what?” he said urgently. “There is something else? Strive to remember, Miss Brodie. Crimes are solved by deductive reasoning, and prevented by acute observation beforehand.” He blinked very slightly. “I am still reading the exploits of Mr Sherlock Holmes in the Strand Magazine. I find him most satisfying in his logic, and somewhat instructive as to the processes of detection. Please, inform me of all you recall of this person ‘Auguste’.”
Brodie thought very carefully before she began. It was most important that she did not allow her feelings to colour her memory, for the sake both of truth and most particularly of honour – in front of Stockwell of all people. “It is more a matter of impression,” she said, guardedly. “He was a good looking man …”
“I have seen him,” Stockwell interrupted. “I have no difficulty in accepting that Colette may be enamoured of him. I wish to know something of use … relevant to … to detection! Perhaps I have not made myself clear …”
“You do not need to!” she said politely. “If you had permitted me to finish it would have become apparent.”
He flushed faintly pink, and stared back at her. He was not going to go further than that. An apology was out of the question. He waited.
She cleared her throat. “He was very neat about his person, well shaved, well barbered,
his shirt collar clean and pressed, his tie straight … that was as much of him as I observed. The shadows made it impossible to see the rest of his apparel clearly enough to describe. He gave me the impression of a service clerk in some form of business, or …” she hesitated. “That is not quite right.”
“Yes?” he prompted, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Yet he had rather more confidence than I would have expected in a man of such an occupation. He left very quickly upon seeing me, as if he did not wish me to look at him too closely, yet I detected in him no feeling of alarm, certainly not of guilt. When I look back on that, it is curious.”
“It is indeed,” he agreed, drinking his tea “Are you quite sure of that, Miss Brodie?”
“Yes, I believe so. And the oddest thing is that, rather than stop flirting with each other when they became aware of me, that was the moment they started. Before they saw me – or to be more accurate, before she saw me – they were talking earnestly, as if about some matter of importance. There is a good deal of difference between a woman’s attitude when she is talking to a man simply to play, and the subject matter is irrelevant, and when she means what she says.”
“I was aware of that.” He pursed his lips. “I have dealt in my profession with a large number of young housemaids and footmen. This what you describe is most puzzling. We require to know a great deal more about Colette and her admirer, if that is what he was; although now I begin to believe he may be something else. The question is, is he deceiving her too, pretending to be enamoured of her, but, in truth, merely using her to gain access to the house, or is she a knowing accomplice. And what of the valet, Harrison? He is an unusual man.” Stockwell frowned, puzzlement marked deeply in his normally smooth, even, and complacent face.
“In what way?” she asked, sipping her tea, but not taking her eyes from his. “I have barely seen him. He is never in the laundry or ironing rooms … or the stillroom or bootroom either, for that matter.”
The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction Page 36
