Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Bertha pretended not to hear. ‘Then you fold the napkin like this and place it on the side like so.’

  The maids giggled, dropped cutlery and generally got it wrong. Belinda had managed to cut her finger and was milking the situation. ‘Oi, look at this, girls. I’ve lost two pints of blood already. And it’s me fucking ring finger. I’m out of the marriage market for life.’

  Bertha glared. ‘Belinda, mind your language. I’ve repeatedly asked you not to swear in front of Cat.’

  Belinda did her best to look shame-faced. ‘Real sorry, Mrs Brown.’

  As soon as Bertha turned her back, Belinda gave Cat a pinch. They both giggled.

  Bertha smoothed back her dyed black hair and tightened the apron around her wide hips.

  ‘Girls, let us continue. We’re going to stay here until you get it right.’

  Cat slid onto a kitchen chair, flipped open her sketchbook and started drawing the kitchen cats.

  Eventually the maids were dismissed for the day. They tore off their aprons, lit up cigarettes and disappeared. The kitchen was silent. From the direction of the servants’ stairs, Cat heard Belinda shrieking, ‘Oi, it’s the new desk Johnny. I saw him first, girls. Come on up, handsome! Don’t be shy, we won’t eat you. Yet.’

  A male voice answered, ‘There’s more than enough of me to go round, ladies. The queue forms to the left. Keep it orderly now. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.’

  More shrieks, whistles and ribald laughter.

  Bertha grimaced. ‘He started in reception this morning. Another Yorkshire lad, full of himself. What’s on your mind, sweetie?’

  ‘I want to know everything about Matthew Lamb.’

  ‘Oh?’ Bertha carefully measured out the tea leaves. Two teaspoons and one for the pot. She busied herself laying out cups and saucers. Her cheeks were pale under the rouge. Bertha cut two thick wedges of cake, poured milk into the cups and remained silent.

  Cat put cake forks on the kitchen table. ‘Please. Tell me about Mr Lamb.’

  Bertha sighed. ‘What do you already know?’

  ‘I know Daniel was in love with him. But what’s the big mystery about? He’s been dead a long time.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘But you promised that when I turned sixteen you’d stop treating me like a child.’

  ‘Me and my big mouth. Fair enough. Matthew Lamb was not well liked by the staff. He was a very competent manager but lacked the common touch. He thought he was better than the lot of us put together. Gave himself airs and graces.’

  Bertha poured the tea. ‘When Matthew died in the automobile crash there was vicious gossip and the gutter press spread unsubstantiated rumours about his lifestyle. Because his vehicle went up in flames, there were problems identifying him. It was an ugly business that turned into a major scandal. Doc reckons Danny had a nervous breakdown, made worse by the losses he’d experienced during the war. He’d lost both his brothers and most of the soldiers under his command. Then to cap it off, shortly after he returned from the war, Matthew Lamb, his closest friend died in that horrible accident.’

  Cat’s eyes widened. ‘He’s never mentioned the army.’

  ‘Like many returned servicemen, Daniel doesn’t like talking about the war.’

  ‘Tell me about Matthew Lamb’s accident. Please.’

  ‘Daniel last saw Matthew in a Soho nightclub on the night he died. Some reckoned Matthew was drugged, but others said he was just liquored up. Yet the bartender swore he was straight as a die. Matthew’s friends told the press that he’d been set up.’

  ‘Set up?’

  ‘They reckoned Matthew had been slipped a drugged drink before he left the nightclub and got into his automobile.’

  ‘What about his passenger? Who was he? Was it Daniel?’

  ‘Daniel? No it wasn’t.’ Bertha daintily dabbed her wide scarlet mouth with a napkin. She added two sugars to her tea. ‘Actually it was a she. A working girl.’

  ‘A prostitute?’

  ‘Yes. She’d taken up whoring as a career. Not surprising given the situation after the war. It probably seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Many girls had been deserted by soldiers and it was their only option. Lots of young women were left with illegitimate children to clothe and feed.’

  ‘Was she Mr Lamb’s girlfriend?’

  ‘I don’t know. To his credit, Matthew was always very discreet about his women. It was rumoured that she was kept by two wealthy brothers. She was a real piece of work.’

  Cat spoke with her mouth full. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Cat dear, you shouldn’t eat and speak at the same time.’

  ‘Sorry, this cake is delicious. Please tell me about her.’

  ‘I can’t remember her name, it was something bogus. Fancy French names were all the rage for whores. Gentlemen love throwing away their money on girls called Gigi, Colette or Mimi. It makes them feel cosmopolitan. Well, after the automobile crash she disappeared. Completely. Being uncommonly pretty, she stood out in a crowd. So believe me, the staff would know if she was still around London. Jim covered all bases.’

  Cat nodded, pressing up the cake crumbs and licking them off her fingers. ‘Daniel warned me never to ask Edwina about her brother. Why?’

  Bertha lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘It’s hard to say, really. Edwina is a strange creature.’

  Cat cut an extra piece of cake and wrapped it in a napkin. Bertha remained sitting at the kitchen table. She stared at the wall. A forgotten cigarette dangled between her fingers and ash fell onto the table. Cat removed the cigarette from Bertha’s hand and butted it out. ‘Please tell Chef the cake was out of this world. And thank him.’

  Bertha stirred and shook herself back into the present. ‘Will do. And make sure you don’t stay out too late tomorrow with Susie and Milly.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I know everything, pet. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. In fact, I know what you are going to do even before you do. Even Jim, who is quite the cynic believes in my intuition. There’s no harm in you going to an afternoon tea dance, but under no circumstances are you to end up in the pub with those two. I want you to promise me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Bertha assumed a sterner tone. ‘If a boy treats you with anything less than complete respect, you must distance yourself. And make sure you always have enough money for your cab fare home. A young lady can’t possibly ruin her reputation if she leaves at the first sign of trouble. And remember to sit as far away as you can from the cabbie. You don’t want to encourage familiarity.’

  Cat giggled and flung her arms around Bertha’s neck. She inhaled Bertha’s unique scent. It was a mixture of starched linen, rosewater and complexion powder, the scent of her childhood. And it still made her feel special and safe.

  The painting of Matthew Lamb exerted a strange power over Cat. Sometimes she went up to the old nursery at night just to talk to him. In the darkness she could just make out his sapphire eyes in the reflected glow of the street lights. She’d often sneak him up to the rooftop, so they could watch the moon over London. He was the perfect friend: silent, attentive and willing to go wherever she pleased. Cat could tell Matthew Lamb her deepest, darkest secrets and he wouldn’t rat on her.

  Cat was surreptitiously working her way through Daniel’s collection of erotic and banned books. She smuggled them past Edwina by concealing them in copies of the Ladies’ Home Journal. Edwina was thrilled Cat was finally showing an interest in feminine pursuits. But what she didn’t know was that the Marquis de Sade had displaced Cat’s interest in D.H. Lawrence’s erotica. Lady Chatterley’s Lover now seemed tame to her. She found French sadism and Henry Miller’s sexually explicit novels far more informative.

  When a Supreme Court judge was found dead and hanging on the doorknob of his hotel room, Cat remarked to Jim Blade, ‘Obviously he was masturbating an
d rather overdid it. Probably using self-asphyxiation to heighten his orgasm. Poor man. I feel sorry for his wife, too, given that he was kitted up in lady’s undergarments and gold high heels. Size thirteens. What is it about cheap black corsets that men find so appealing?’

  Jim couldn’t think of a suitable reply. He anguished over the possibility that he hadn’t protected her enough. At what point had the kid become so worldly and knowing? Obviously she’d been talking to someone. Who? I’m going to hunt this pusbag down. And when I find him, I’ll tear him limb from limb and remove his fingernails with a pair of rusty pliers. Shove his testicles through a kitchen mincer and feed his brain to the cellar rats. Or, better still, hang the sonofabitch on a meat hook in the cold room. Let him slowly bleed to death. Drip, drip, drip.

  Jim Blade often had revenge fantasies. They kept him company in his darkest hours. Sometimes in his capacity as a professional detective, he’d been able to act on his murderous impulses. It felt good.

  As they reclined in bed one Sunday morning, Jim turned to his nearest and dearest.

  ‘I’m really worried about our kid. I don’t think I’ve protected her enough; she’s seen way too much. There are too many sordid goings-on in the hotel. She knows as much about sexual perversity as a Soho brothel madam.’

  Bertha Brown plumped up a pillow. ‘Fret not, Jim. Children born during and after the war had shorter childhoods. They witnessed ugly and frightening events. Cat will be just fine. She knows she’s deeply loved.’

  ‘She’s still taking an unhealthy interest in Matthew Lamb.’

  ‘I know, she’s kept his portrait. It’s still hidden up in the old nursery.’

  Jim sat upright. ‘That bastard is as much fucking trouble dead as he was alive.’

  ‘Her curiosity is natural. And that painting would appeal to any sixteen-year-old girl. It’s mysterious and sexy. Cat’s got no idea that Matthew Lamb was as devious and shifty as a sewer rat. Nor has she heard the full story about that hard-hearted French bitch.’

  Jim frowned. An acute pain shot through his gut. ‘God, I hope she never finds out. You didn’t tell her too much, did you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Jim, of course not. But her curiosity is only to be expected.’

  ‘Has she said anything to you about wanting to be my understudy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s taken to following me around. Wants to know how I’d go about finding a missing person. You know what I think?’

  ‘That it’s something to do with her birth mother?’

  ‘Yep. It’s not just the questions. Cat’s also made several trips down to the labyrinth. She’s been snooping through the old reception desk books. I think she’s trying to work out which debutantes were in the hotel the morning she was abandoned.’

  Bertha wiggled down to get more comfortable in bed. ‘Curiosity about her mother is natural. It’s just a phase. Now, about this detective business. Danny reckons Cat’s got a real gift and should go to art school. Rather than wind up working in the du Barry hotels. Shouldn’t we be supporting that?’

  ‘Cat’s portraits are great. I’ve got a few up on the walls of the boiler room. Her sketch of my bookie, Marvin Jones, is a classic. She really caught his shifty eyes and lean ferret face.’

  Bertha whispered in his ear. ‘Jim, I’d kill for a nice cup of tea. In fact, I would amply reward the first gentleman who procured me a pot of the stuff. Sexual perversities would be generously offered in return.’

  ‘Of course, dearest. I’ll sort it right away.’

  The bedsprings groaned with relief as Jim heaved himself to his feet. Wearing nothing but his watch, he padded across the bedroom carpet. Bertha eyed his hairy back appreciatively. He was built like a brown bear, covered front and back in a thick brown pelt.

  Bertha was crazy in love with Jim. Her former husband had neither pampered nor appreciated her. Bertha discovered after their honeymoon that Bernie Brown’s one true love was Guinness stout. She also came to the conclusion that he’d only proposed to her because he was work shy, hated being a chef and hoped she’d support him. As if. Soon Bernie’s mask fell off, his violent nature erupted and he was sacked from a prestigious job at the Ritz for repeatedly getting drunk on the job. As it turned out, the handsome bastard had also been fucking his way through the Ritz clientele. And a lonely young widow – living all alone in a Brighton mansion – had fallen for him. Bertha was thrilled when she woke in the middle of the night to discover Bernie had deserted her, taking off for Brighton with only a clean pair of underpants and his shaggy toothbrush.

  Small wonder that the heroes of Bertha’s favourite romantic novels, all resembled Jim Blade in some way. He worshipped the ground she trod on and she only had to mention she fancied something and he would conjure it up for her. Despite Jim’s maverick nature, Bertha trusted him unconditionally and he gave her the space to be entirely herself. In short, they were matched to perfection.

  She snuggled deeper under the quilt. Bertha loved Sunday mornings in bed. It was her day off and she fully intended making the most of it.

  7

  Darkness and Illusion

  It was soon the time of year for making plans for the long-awaited summer vacations. Shortly before she was due to leave for the day, Mary pretended to be busy rearranging the files. She tried to make the question sound casual. ‘So, Daniel, will I go ahead and make your holiday bookings for summer?’

  ‘Yes. But it won’t just be Cat and her old man going to Venice.’

  Mary’s face fell. She shuffled some more papers. ‘Oh, so Edwina will be going?’

  ‘Hell, no. Holidaying together makes us both miserable. It will just be Cat, Michael and myself. I was planning on inviting you too, Mary. Since she turned sixteen, Cat’s far more interested in female company. I’m no longer enough for her, thank God. She’s dead keen for you to come, and so am I. Of course, if you’ve already made other plans, I understand.’

  Mary’s shoulders relaxed. She smiled. ‘I’d love to. But I’ve got to rush or I’ll be late for my elocution lesson. She gets real nasty if I’m even two bloody minutes late.’

  Daniel helped Mary into her coat and she pulled a soft cloche hat over her head. She picked up her handbag. Come summer and lover-boy Kelly is going to have his hands full of Edwina. Poor bastard.

  *

  They made an unusual family that summer: the two distinguished, handsome Englishmen, the fair sixteen-year-old girl and her redheaded companion. Venice was at her best that day, lolling in the bright light, too lazy and hot to stir a limb. When the group disembarked from their boat on the Grand Canal, all the breakfast diners in the hotel restaurant discreetly took the measure of their new neighbours. The dark-haired Englishman whispered something and the other three laughed as they ascended the steps from the canal.

  There was something strange yet wonderful about the new arrivals. They were dressed in the latest summer whites. The men wore tailored linen suits and were charmingly self-assured in the way that only rich men can afford to be. The woman and girl were attired in fashionable silk sheaths that had been cut on the bias to subtly reveal their slim but curvaceous figures.

  Following the economic crash, hemlines had dropped from the dizzy knee heights of the roaring twenties. The demise of optimism and gaiety was translated into fitted, sensual garments that caressed the calves and brought attention back to women’s ankles. Gone were the boyish, baggy waistless frocks of the flappers and fashion magazines proudly proclaimed that bosoms and waists were back in a big way. And only a few astute fashion devotees asked the obvious question: but where did they go in the first place?

  Mary Maguire found the concept of women’s fashion ridiculous but she always managed to dress elegantly and then not fuss about her appearance. The result was she appeared to be effortlessly stylish. In Venice she ensured that she and Cat had the latest Parisian hats, in order to protect their English complexions from the fierce sun.

  The onlookers noted that despite t
he heat the two ladies did not seem to sweat, they just shimmered. Lovely. The girl had the strangest violet-coloured eyes and unruly blonde hair and her slim neck was accentuated by an exceptionally fine string of pearls.

  Mary Maguire counted the bags and prodded a brown leather Gladstone bag with her foot. ‘Yes, they’re all here and accounted for. Daniel, I can’t believe you’ve brought along Maurie’s old medicine bag. It’s so tatty and its replacement was so stylish; Louis Vuitton’s craftsmen made it exactly to your specifications.’

  Daniel grinned. ‘That bag just didn’t cut the mustard. For starters, it lacked bullet holes. Whereas this rotten old thing has character and sentimental value. My old man never went on safari or anywhere else without it.’

  Michael grabbed the medicine bag, examined it from all sides and carried it up the steps with another two heavy bags. Daniel said, ‘Whoa, treat it gently, old boy. It’s not as robust as it used to be.’

  Then, to the disappointment of the hotel’s diners, the other three picked up their suitcases and disappeared into the cool recesses of the palazzo, leaving two servants to carry in the rest of their luggage.

  At lunchtime the English party reappeared on the Grand Canal and headed towards the hotel’s restaurant. The girl’s appearance didn’t seem to occupy her and she was oblivious to the lustful gazes of the young Venetian waiters. Her father however was fully aware of the interest his daughter was arousing.

  Daniel placed a protective arm around Cat’s bare shoulders as they walked up the stairs. And when he grinned and exposed his sharp white teeth, even the cheekiest waiter looked away. In the restaurant there was much whispering.

  ‘Who do you reckon the redhead is?’

  ‘Well, obviously she’s the girl’s mother.’

  ‘Nah. She’s not wearing any rings.’

  ‘Maybe she’s the mistress? She’s a real peach.’

  ‘Could be a governess.’

  ‘Too well dressed.’

  Part of the newcomers’ appeal was that they were such a tight-knit group and didn’t seem to need anyone else.