The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

by Ashley, Mike;

  “Quite,” he agreed. “It seems to me that the General does the greater part of his own valeting, while Harrison is in the stables attending to that invention of theirs. Now it is safely installed, he is back in the house, but I still see little of him. However it was his remarks, his expression to which I refer.”

  “What remarks?” Tacitly, she offered him more tea, and he accepted. She poured it while he answered, after she had disposed of the now cold dregs in the slop basin.

  “He says very little about France. Thank you,” he said, referring to the tea. “But when anything French is mentioned, a look of distaste, almost of anger, crosses his face. I am not certain if it is his own personal feeling, or if he is merely embarrassed that Colette, and Mrs Welch-Smith, should be so eager to praise everything French while in the house of an Englishman. They do it to a degree which borders on offence.”

  “It is well across the border!” Brodie said tartly, helping herself to a fresh scone, butter, jam and clotted cream – a very English delicacy in which she would not normally indulge. She would have to abstain from pudding at supper.

  “You are correct,” Stockwell agreed graciously. “I am afraid several of the staff are beginning to be ruffled by it. There is some peacemaking to be done.”

  Brodie sat in silence, thinking. There was indeed a mystery. Perhaps something genuinely unpleasant threatened. She and Stockwell must join forces, as before.

  “This time we must prevent any crime before it happens, Mr Stockwell,” she said very sincerely.

  “I have every intention that we shall do so, Miss Brodie,” he agreed with feeling. “We must be equal to the task. As before, I shall find your assistance. You shall be my Watson!”

  On the contrary, she thought to herself, I shall be your Holmes! But she had more tact than to say so.

  The evening did not go smoothly. When Brodie returned to the house, more than a little footsore, Colette surveyed her tired face and wet feet with disdain, and made a remark about the glamour and excitement of Paris, and the charm of the French countryside, where of course the climate was kinder. Sunshine was so very good for the spirits.

  Brodie glared at her, and went upstairs to change into dry shoes and her uniform dress. Even in the days of her youth she had never had a figure like Colette’s, or the art to tie a bow till it looked like a frill of lace for the occasions when an apron was required.

  After dinner, quite by chance, as she was returning from the stillroom, Brodie again saw the mysterious Auguste. He was walking along the passage from Stockwell’s pantry towards the back door. He had not seen her, and she had time to study him quite carefully, making mental notes to observe with skill, not mere curiosity. To begin with he was quite tall, and he walked with an elegance. Certainly he did not sneak or cower. His jacket was well cut, but, as he passed under the lamp on the wall, she could see that it also was not new. She glanced very quickly at his feet. One could sometimes tell much about a person’s station in life from their boots. His were very well worn indeed, and now wet.

  “Good evening, Monsieur,” she said briskly.

  He froze, then very slowly turned and stared at her. He was obviously abashed at having been seen, but he did not look guilty, rather annoyed at himself.

  “Good evening, Madam,” he replied courteously. His voice was pleasant enough, but heavily accented.

  “I assume you are looking for Colette?” Brodie continued.

  For a moment he was taken aback. She thought he was even going to deny it. Then he made an awkward little movement, half a bow. “No thank you, I was just about to go.” He indicated the way to the door.

  She looked him up and down closely. His suit fitted him too well for him to conceal anything of size in his pockets. At least on this occasion he had not robbed the household.

  “Goodnight, then,” she answered pleasantly, and resumed her way towards the kitchen. She was pleased to see Colette there, busy preparing a special egg-and-milk drink which Mrs Welch-Smith liked before retiring. She was looking for the nutmeg.

  “Second drawer in the spice rack,” Brodie said tartly.

  “Oh!” Colette spun around. “How do you know what I wanted, Miss Brodie?”

  “Well, that’s black pepper you have in your hand! Or maybe you like pepper in your milk in France, even last thing at night?”

  “Of course not!” Colette snapped. “Although, if you know anything about cuisine, you would not need to ask! Really, such an idea! All the delicacy would be lost. But then, English cooking is hardly an art – is it!”

  “Well, it is obviously not one you know,” Brodie returned. “Nor is a decent respect for the household of your host, or you could not make such an unseemly remark. But then French manners are hardly an art either!”

  Colette drew in her breath to retaliate.

  Brodie got there first. “And another thing, while we are discussing it, it is not done in England for a visiting maid to have her followers in the house without permission – which would not be granted. I dare say Monsieur Auguste is a perfectly respectable person, but it is a principle. Some maids can attract a very dubious class of followers …”

  Colette was furious, but oddly she did not explode with outrage. She seemed on the verge of speech, and then to hesitate, as though undecided, even confused.

  “Many houses have been robbed that way,” Brodie added for good measure.

  Extraordinarily, Colette started to laugh, a high pitched giggle rising towards hysteria.

  Stockwell appeared at the door, his face dark with disapproval.

  “What is going on here?” he demanded.

  Brodie was annoyed at being caught in what was obviously a quarrel. It was undignified. And by Stockwell, of all people.

  She was prevented from replying by the arrival of Harrison, General Welch-Smith’s valet. He was a pleasant-featured man with fair hair and large, strong hands. At the moment there was a sneer on his lips.

  “Saw that follower of yours going across the yard,” he said to Colette. “You’d better make sure you don’t get caught, my girl! French may have the morals of an alley-cat, but English don’t like their servants having strange men in off the streets. Imagine what the mistress’d have to say if I brought some dolly-mop into the house! Get caught having a quick fumble in the cupboard under the stairs, and the mistress won’t be able to protect you, no matter how well you can use a curling tong … the General’ll have you out!”

  Colette looked at him with utter loathing, but she seemed to have nothing to say. She turned on her heel, but, when she stopped at the door, the milk and nutmeg temporarily forgotten, the look in her face was not one of defeat, but of waiting malice, as if she knew she would triumph in the end.

  *

  Brodie went to bed unhappy and profoundly puzzled. There was too much that did not make sense, and yet when she examined each individual instance, there was nothing to grasp. Who was Auguste? He did not behave like a man in love. Why did Colette seem to think she had some peculiar victory waiting for her? Why had Harrison been living in France so long if he disliked the French as he seemed to? She realized in thinking about it that she had heard him make other disparaging remarks, and there had been a light in his eyes of far more than usual irritation or disapproval. There was some deep emotion involved.

  How on earth was the General’s machine going to work when one piece was going to strike another as soon as it was set in motion? And what about the extra cross bar? So far as she could see, it offered no additional strength, no purpose, and certainly no beauty.

  She went to sleep with it all churning in her mind, and woke in the middle of the night with the answer sharp and horribly clear, as if she had already seen it happen: the two pieces striking would ignite a spark … the extra piece had a hideous use … it was not metal but dynamite! It would explode – a mechanical bomb – killing the French Ambassador, or at the very least seriously injuring him.

  General Welch-Smith would be blamed, naturally. H
e designed the machine. He made it, with Harrison’s help. He had just returned from a long sojourn in France.

  And Freddie Dagliesh would also be blamed, by implication. The General was staying in his house, they had been friends for years; Freddie had assisted in the last minute touches to the machine. It was quite horrible.

  Perhaps Colette knew of it? That could be why she had that look of secret triumph in her eyes. Then who was Auguste? An accomplice? He must be.

  But an accomplice to whom? Surely the General had not really done this? Why? What had happened to him in France that he could even think of such an idea?

  The reason hardly mattered. The thing now was to prevent it from happening. She must tell Stockwell. He was the only person who would believe her. Then together they would tell … who? Not the General, certainly. And would Freddie give a moment’s credence to such a tale?

  She and Stockwell must do it alone, and there would be no opportunity to speak in the morning. They would all be far too busy with their own duties. She needed time to persuade him of the inevitable logic of what she had deduced. He could be stubborn now and again. And he would be appalled at being woken in the middle of the night. It was conceivable there had never been a woman in his bedroom, in his adult life, except a housemaid to clean it. If he had ever had any personal relationships they would most assuredly have been conducted elsewhere, and with the utmost discretion.

  She sat up and fumbled in the dark for matches to light the candle. There were gas lamps downstairs, of course, but on the servants’ level – even the superior servants such as herself – it was candles. She succeeded, then reached for her shawl; there was no time to bother with the fuss of dressing, chemises and petticoats and stockings. Wrapped up with a shawl for decency more than warmth, she tip-toed along the corridor to the farther end where she knew Stockwell’s room was situated. There was a connecting door between the male servants’ quarters and those of the female servants, as decorum required, but it was not locked.

  She was watching ahead of her so carefully, that she caught her toe against the leg of a side table where ewers of water were left. She almost cried out with pain, and there was a distinct rattle as china touched china.

  Good heavens! What on earth would anyone think if she were found here? She was right outside Stockwell’s door. How could she possibly explain herself? She couldn’t! The General’s invention was going to explode and kill the French Ambassador! She could hear the laughter now, and see the total contempt in their eyes. It was almost enough to make her turn back. She had a blameless reputation! It would be a lifetime’s good character gone – and for what?

  To save one man’s life and another man’s reputation, that was what.

  Dare she knock?

  What if someone else were awake and heard, and thought it was their own door?

  They would answer it. They would see her standing here in her nightgown and shawl, her hair down her back and a candle in her hand, waiting at Stockwell’s bedroom door. She would never be able to live it down! She could hear the young maids’ comments now! Hear their laughter. They would never let her forget it! Silly old woman – absurd – at her age!

  That was it. It was decided! She put her hand on the knob, turned it and went in. She closed it behind her very nearly without sound. Stockwell was lying curled over on his side in the middle of the bed, blankets tucked up to his chin, nightcap – a little askew – on his head. He looked very ordinary and very vulnerable. He would probably never ever forgive her for this.

  “Mr Stockwell …” she whispered.

  He did not move.

  “Mr Stockwell …” she said a trifle more loudly.

  He stirred and turned over.

  Heavens alive. What if he saw her and cried out? That would be the worst of all possibilities. “Don’t say anything!” She ordered desperately. “Please keep quiet!”

  Stockwell opened his eyes and sat up slowly, his face transfixed with horror. His nightcap slipped over one ear.

  She could feel her face burning.

  “I had to come!” she said defensively.

  “Miss Brodie!” The words were forced between his lips. He was aghast. He opened his mouth to continue, and could not.

  “I know what is wrong!” she said urgently. “With the machine! With the General’s machine! It is going to explode … and kill the French Ambassador … and General Welch-Smith will be blamed. I don’t know … perhaps he should be. But Mr Dagliesh will be blamed also, and he shouldn’t. We must do something about it before that can happen.”

  To do him justice, he did not ask her if she had been at the port, but his expression suggested it.

  “Imagine it in your mind!” she urged. “Visualize how the contraption will work. The French Ambassador places his foot on the rest, presses the button and the polish cloth rubs his boot, then the second piece starts to move.” She waved her hands to demonstrate. “It has to come down, in order to buff the leather. It strikes the cross bar, only very lightly, but sufficiently to cause a spark.” She leaned forward a little. “Now – visualize the other piece … unnecessarily double, you recall …That is the dynamite, Mr Stockwell … it will ignite, and explode!” She jerked her hand and nearly threw the candle at him.

  “Miss Brodie!” he cried.

  “Be quiet!” she whispered in agony of embarrassment. “Think of where we are! I had to come, because there will be no time in the morning. We may not even see each other till half way through the day. We must do something to prevent this! No one else will. It lies with us.”

  “I … I shall speak to Mr Dagliesh,” he offered. “In the morning!”

  “To do what?” she said exasperatedly. Really, Stockwell was being very obtuse. Perhaps he was one of those people who woke only slowly?

  “Well … to …” he looked uncomfortable. He could now see the pointlessness of expecting Freddie to do anything at all about it. He would only speak to the General, in his own innocence, believing Welch-Smith to be equally blameless.

  “If the General knows about it, he will deny it,” she pointed out. “And if he doesn’t know about it, of course he will deny it. Mr Dagliesh will be immensely relieved, and tell us we do not need to worry. All is well.”

  He frowned. He was obviously feeling at an acute disadvantage sitting up in the bed, but he did not wish to rise with Brodie standing there. He felt very exposed in his striped nightshirt. There was something about being without trousers which was highly personal.

  “Perhaps all is well?” he said with a thread of hope. “Surely it is more than possible the design is simply clumsy?”

  The perfect answer was on her lips. “Do you imagine Mr Sherlock Holmes would be content with ‘a possibility’, Mr Stockwell?”

  He straightened up visibly, forgetting his embarrassment and his doubts.

  “I shall meet you at the stables at a quarter past eleven, Miss Brodie,” he said with absolute decision. “We shall take the carriage, as if on an errand, and determine for ourselves the exact nature of this wretched machine. Be prompt. Whatever your duties, see they are completed by then. We must act.”

  She smiled back at him approvingly. “Assuredly, Mr Stockwell. We shall prevent disaster … if indeed disaster is planned. Goodnight.”

  He clutched the sheet with both hands. “Goodnight, Miss Brodie.”

  *

  It was a fine day and the ride to the town was swift and pleasant. Outside the exhibition hall were posters proclaiming the official visit of the French Ambassador the following morning. Inside, there were rather more people than there had been yesterday. Brodie and Stockwell were obliged to excuse themselves and pass several groups standing in front of various examples of French ingenuity and design. They heard exclamations of admiration and marvel at a people who could think of such things.

  Brodie gritted her teeth, remembering why they were here. The French might be the most inventive race in Europe, but it would be English courage and foresight, English nerve and i
ntegrity that saved the Ambassador.

  They found the boot polisher, looking more than ever like a bicycle upside down. Brodie was both relieved and offended that there was no one else in front of it, admiring the ingenuity which had thought of such a thing. That was the trouble with the British … they always admired something foreign!

  She glanced at Stockwell, looking utterly different this morning: in his pin-striped trousers and dark jacket, his face immaculately shaved, if a little pink, his collar and tie crisp and exactly symmetrical. She thought she saw in his eye a reflection of the pride, and the conviction she herself felt. It was most satisfying.

  She turned her attention to the machine. It would not move without the electrical power, and that was to be turned on tomorrow, by the Ambassador; but, the more she looked at it, the more certain she was that the parts would rub against each other with sufficient force to strike a spark. There was only one thing that remained to be done. She leaned forward to touch the redundant piece and feel its texture. Metal … or dynamite? She did not know what dynamite felt like, but she knew steel.

  “Don’t touch the exhibits, if you please, Madam!”

  It was the voice of the curator, sharp and condescending, as if she had been a small child about to risk breaking some precious ornament. She flushed to the roots of her hair.

  Stockwell leaped into the fray with a boldness which surprised even himself.

  “Yes, my dear, better not,” he said calmly. He turned away from Brodie as if the order would be sufficient, his word would be obeyed, and engaged the curator in conversation. “Please tell me, sir, something about this remarkable piece of equipment over here.” He all but led the man across the room to the farther side, and a monstrous edifice of wires and pulleys. “I am sure you know how this works, the principle behind it, but I confess I fail to grasp it fully.”

  “Ah well, you see …” the curator was flattered by this upstanding gentleman’s interest, and his perception in realizing that a curator was a man of knowledge himself, not merely a watchman who conducted people around. “It’s like this …” He proceeded to explain at length.