A Knightsbridge Scandal

by Anita Davison

‘Mr William thinks most of the residents were out last night,’ Flora said. ‘I take it the police questioned the staff?’

  ‘Flatfoots crawling all over the place,’ Sally completed her train of thought. ‘Blagging cups of tea in the kitchen. Crafty lot.’ She folded Flora’s negligee, smoothing the silk with her hands. ‘Anyway, in my experience, it ain’t strangers who does people in.’

  ‘Aren’t, Sally,’ Flora said automatically, though she couldn’t fault her maid’s logic. Even in her own experience, she found this to be true.

  ‘Let me redo your hair, Miss Flora. It’s all coming down at the back.’ Sally tucked the negligee beneath a pillow, then positioned herself behind Flora’s chair at the dresser.

  ‘My fault, I’m afraid.’ Flora relaxed into Sally’s firm, busy hands. She had already been dressed once that morning, but at the last moment, had panicked that her grey silk was too dowdy and had insisted Sally bring out the green skirt and white blouse with pearl buttons, thus dislodging all the maid’s hard work on her hair.

  ‘Good play last night, were it?’ Sally asked as she picked pins out of Flora’s curls.

  ‘The play was most enjoyable,’ Flora chose not to correct her this time. ‘Although not what you would call a glamorous show. The cast all wore ordinary clothes when I was looking forward to seeing some extravagant costumes.’

  ‘Ordinary to you maybe, Missus, but not for the likes o’ me.’

  ‘You can drop the “poor little me” attitude.’ Flora narrowed her eyes at Sally’s sullen reflection in her dresser mirror. ‘I was a governess before I married, don’t forget.’

  ‘Not likely to, not when the mistress keeps reminding all of us staff,’ Sally muttered, then brighter. ‘I went to the Vaudeville once to see that Marie Lloyd. Though we were sat right up in the gods, so it could’ve been Queen Alexandra for all I saw of ’er.’

  An image of the Queen singing ‘The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery’ to an enraptured audience sprang into Flora’s head and she stifled a giggle.

  *

  Randall produced an impressive spread at breakfast, complete with hot and cold dishes, soft rolls, toast and two varieties of marmalade. ‘To welcome you to Prince Albert Mansions, Miss,’ he said when she exclaimed at the row of bubbling bain-maries on the sideboard.

  ‘That’s most thoughtful of you, Randall.’ Flora took the chair he held out for her with relief, hoping he didn’t notice the sudden wave of nausea evoked by the cloying smell of hot fat and cooked eggs. ‘However, I doubt I’ll do all this much justice. I’m still recovering from the excellent dinner we had last evening.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Miss Flora.’

  Randall replenished the coffee pot from a kettle set above a flame, then poured another cup which he handed her. ‘Mr Osborne always enjoys a hearty breakfast.’

  ‘Indeed, I do.’ William turned from the sideboard, a full coffee cup in one hand and a plate piled with toast in the other. ‘Randall is trying to make me into a homebody with his excellent cooking.’ William resumed his chair and reached for the butter dish. ‘Did you sleep well, Flora? You look a little heavy-eyed.’

  ‘Very well, it’s just I’m still not accustomed to these electric lights.’

  ‘I’m surprised Bunny’s enthusiasm for new innovations hasn’t extended to having electricity fitted in Richmond.’

  ‘Believe me, he’s tried, but his mother won’t hear of it. In her opinion it’s not only dangerous, but a conspiracy among scientists to control our brains. She feels the same way about wireless telegraphy.’ The warm, yeasty smell of the basket of soft rolls on the table called to her and she helped herself to one.

  ‘This coffee is excellent, Randall.’ Flora hoped the compliment would compensate for her lack of appreciation for his food. The ploy appeared to work as the butler accompanied his parting bow with a slightly puffed out chest. ‘Has there been any more news about that poor woman who died last night?’ she asked when they were alone again.

  ‘The police were back again early this morning, but by all accounts they have discovered very little.’ William poured milk into his cup.

  ‘Didn’t anyone see anything?’ Flora tore off a piece of roll and popped it into her mouth.

  ‘Apparently not, and it was a bitterly cold night, so most of the staff stayed huddled round the fire in the communal sitting room.’

  ‘Have they any idea yet who the dead woman was?’

  Randall returned with a dish of blackcurrant jam that he placed at Flora’s elbow.

  ‘Another of my favourites, Randall. You must be psychic, or have you been doing your research?’

  ‘I aim to please, Miss Flora.’ He waggled his fingers in the air. ‘And in answer to your question, I’m certain the victim wasn’t from this building.’ His expression became pained as if the notion of murder tainted his domain. ‘The police think she might have been a member of the staff or maybe a guest of the Alexandra Hotel next door.’ He broke off at the sound of the doorbell and turned to William, ‘Excuse me, sir. Are you at home?’

  William set down his cup. ‘That’s probably Gordon. Let him in, would you?’ He consulted his half-hunter. ‘I suppose I must hang about for a while until the police get here.’

  ‘Randall seems well informed,’ Flora said as the door closed.

  ‘He has an impressive network of contacts in this building who keep him up to date. He ought to go into espionage.’

  They were still smiling at this observation when Randall showed Mr Gordon into the room, looking much as he had the previous day. His black suit jacket buttoned to the neck, highly polished shoes and a leather briefcase held like a shield in front of him.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Harrington,’ he greeted her with a half bow.

  Flora returned his greeting, uncertain he was the same man she had seen at the theatre, dismissing it as unimportant. After all, why shouldn’t he enjoy an evening of entertainment like anyone else? But then if so, why did he leave during the interval?

  ‘Time for a coffee, Gordon?’ William asked. ‘We’re expecting a visit from the constabulary this morning and might need to linger awhile.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, no.’ His tone gave the impression he had wasted enough time on niceties. ‘You have a meeting with the Prime Minister this morning.’ A look of panic entered Gordon’s dark eyes as if changing the schedule at such short notice bordered on sacrilege. ‘A meeting which is bound to extend through luncheon.’

  ‘I cannot help that. There’s been a murder right next door to this building. I have to make myself available to the police. Inconvenient certainly, but there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  Flora blinked, and peered at William over the rim of her cup.

  ‘Sorry.’ He flinched. ‘Didn’t mean to be insensitive. But it’s all dashed awkward.’

  ‘Might I make a suggestion, sir?’ Mr Gordon cocked his head like an attentive blackbird. ‘You could always dictate a statement recounting your movements last evening, which I could transcribe and deliver to the police station on your behalf.’

  ‘Capital idea.’ William crumpled his napkin and discarded it on the table. ‘If this detective chap isn’t content with that, I could always call in at Cannon Row later.’ He rose and strode towards the door. ‘Grab your notebook, Gordon, and we’ll step into the study. Though I doubt you’ll need one with your memory.’ He gripped the doorknob, but at the last second turned back. ‘I’m sorry, Flora. I forgot about today’s meeting with Balfour. I probably won’t be back for luncheon.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ Flora hid a surge of disappointment. ‘I doubt I could compete with the Prime Minister in any case.’

  She was halfway through her second cup of coffee when the doorbell sounded again. Randall’s round, low tones drifted along the hall, followed by a pause, then William’s voice.

  Flora rose carefully and crept to the door, curious as to what this Inspector Maddox looked like. However, the man with William in the hallway was not
a policeman but the sandy-haired neighbour with the thin moustache she had seen the evening before. What was his name? Cranley? No Crabbe.

  Flora couldn’t hear what they were saying, but as she strolled past them on her way to her room she bestowed a smile and a nod at the pair. Crabbe’s boyish face was flushed and he spoke in a low rapid tone, while William listened, his head down and one hand cradling his chin.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Flora.’ William halted her. ‘Come and meet Arthur Crabbe, my neighbour. Arthur, this is my daughter, Flora Harrington. She’s come to stay with me for a few days.’

  Flora took the man’s outstretched hand with a benign smile. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ His gaze lingered on her for mere seconds, then slid away, evidently eager to resume his conversation with William.

  Leaving them to their talk, Flora inclined her head and continued along the hall but had only gone a few paces when she heard the neighbour speak.

  ‘I had no reason to connect the two incidents, but with another riot taking place last night, I couldn’t help wondering if it was all of a piece ’

  Intrigued, she ducked into an alcove that contained her bedroom door.

  ‘And as if to complicate things, if what the lady said is true, it looks like someone on the staff has been tot-hunting, sir,’ Mr Crabbe continued.

  ‘Have you any firm evidence which would confirm these theories, Crabbe?’ William kept his voice low.

  ‘No, just a feeling. But, sir, I-’

  ‘We cannot act on feelings alone, Crabbe,’ William interrupted, dismissing him.

  A contrived clearing of a masculine throat from behind her brought Flora’s head around to where Mr Gordon leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe of William’s study. He stood with his arms crossed, his face an impassive mask, though his black eyes glinted with a mixture of amusement and triumph. Or was it a warning?

  ‘Mr Gordon.’ Flora pushed open her bedroom door, then before she could stop herself, asked, ‘Did you enjoy Miss Jeffreys’ performance last night?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Harrington?’ He blinked as if the question was unexpected. ‘I do not understand your meaning.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought I saw you at the Theatre Royal.’ She cast a look behind her but William and Mr Crabbe had moved away. ‘I must have been mistaken.’

  ‘Indeed you were. I do not frequent the theatre,’ he replied carefully. ‘Especially comedies. I find them too frivolous for my taste.’

  ‘My apologies then. Good day to you.’ She entered her room, closed the door quickly and leaned against it. Releasing a slow breath, she reminded herself to be more discreet in future.

  Chapter 6

  An hour after the departure of the taxi that took William and his assistant to Whitehall, there was still no sign of Inspector Maddox.

  ‘Well, I don’t intend to wait here all day.’ Flora tossed the copy of London Illustrated News she had been reading onto a nearby table. ‘Get your coat, Sally, we’re going to Harrods.’ Without her mother-in-law present to disapprove, she felt quite daring. ‘I might even treat us to morning coffee at Fullers in Regent Street.’

  ‘Straight away, Missus.’ Sally shut a dresser drawer with a thump. ‘Waiting around for flatfoots is no way to spend the morning.’

  Beatrice Harrington derided the idea of women dining in public, despite the innovation of a tearoom like Fullers. Several such establishments had appeared in the city over the previous few years and, apart from Beatrice Harrington, no one thought less of the ladies who chose to frequent them without a male escort.

  ‘I’ve never been in a real restaurant,’ her maid said when she joined Flora at the front door. ‘Leastways, not one with cloths on the tables and everything. Don’t suppose a whelk stand at the local market counts.’

  ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’ Flora emerged into the lobby, where Dunne turned from sorting the post into a bank of pigeonholes behind the counter.

  ‘Good morning, Miss,’ he greeted Flora breezily, aiming a vague nod in Sally’s direction.

  ‘Has there been any more information about last night’s drama, Mr Dunne?’ Flora asked.

  ‘The maids can talk of nothing else this morning, Miss. Two have even threatened to give notice, afraid of being murdered in their beds.’

  Flora smiled, bemused by the notion the world teemed with deranged maniacs out for blood when a more prosaic reason existed for most murders. ‘Do the police know yet who the woman was?’

  ‘No one seems to have known her.’ The porter leaned his forearms on the desk, his hands folded together as if preparing for a gossip. ‘The lad who brought the newspapers thought Cedric might have been up to his tricks.’

  ‘Who’s Cedric? Another resident?’

  ‘No, Miss. Now there’s a tale for you.’ Dunne winked and beckoned Flora closer.

  Sally hovered a few feet away, though her rigid shoulders gave away the fact she listened intently.

  ‘About the time of Waterloo, I believe it was,’ Dunne began, his ponderous manner of speech indicating they were in for a protracted bout of storytelling. ‘When there was soldiers in the Yard, not that I could remember that far back, ‘cos I wasn't even born then.’

  Flora shifted her feet and eyed the main door, wishing he would get on with it.

  ‘In those days, they used the cellar of The Grenadier as a gambling den. One night, a young subaltern, called Cedric, was caught cheating at cards, so his comrades gave him a beating. They must have got carried away as they ended up killing him.’

  ‘That was harsh.’ Flora winced. ‘What happened to the men who killed him?’

  ‘Nothing, so far as I know.’ Dunne shrugged as if Flora had missed the point of the story. ‘Every autumn since then, Cedric’s ghost has been seen in the rooms of the pub and a long sighing moan drifts up from the cellar.’

  ‘A ghost who strangles women?’ Sally rolled her eyes and Flora smiled.

  ‘Don’t take my word for it.’ The porter’s mouth drooped in disappointment. ‘There’s plenty who’ll confirm objects there disappear or are moved overnight. Tables and chairs rattle for no reason and a friend of mine said he heard footsteps overhead when he knew for certain there weren’t no one there.’

  ‘That’s a fascinating story.’ Flora gestured to Sally that it was time to go. ‘Though, I doubt a ghost had anything to do with what happened last night.’ She broke off as a young woman strode into the lobby. She wore a pale grey coat with a jaunty red felt hat on her fair curls, a sprig of green tucked into the hatband.

  ‘Can I help you, Miss?’ Dunne asked the newcomer.

  ‘Might I leave some leaflets here for the residents?’ She gave the porter a disarming smile and delved into a basket slung over her arm.

  ‘That depends, Miss. What are they for?’ He straightened from the desk, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘This pamphlet outlines the aims of our society.’ She slid a pile of leaflets in front of him. ‘Including an invitation to our next meeting. Perhaps your residents might like to come along and see what we have to offer?’ She cocked her head at Flora. ‘Everyone is welcome.’

  The porter glanced at the leaflet and immediately his face suffused with red. To Flora’s horror, he snatched the pamphlets from the counter, circled the desk and thrust them into a wastepaper basket. ‘Not in my building you don’t. We don’t want the likes of you round ’ere.’

  Flora gasped, too shocked at his behaviour to offer any protest.

  Ignoring her, Dunne grasped the young woman by the elbow and steered her towards the door, shoving her roughly outside. He closed the doors firmly then dusted off his hands as if he had handled something nasty.

  Flora stared through the bevelled glass panel of the main door, where the young woman was still visible on the step. She appeared quite calm as she adjusted her hat, which had been dislodged in the scuffle. She strolled unhurriedly onto the drive, then turned and raked the façade of the building with a resigned smile.r />
  ‘Surely that young lady didn’t deserve to be treated so harshly, Mr Dunne?’ Flora seethed. ‘All she did was make a simple request, and very politely at that.’

  ‘Hah! She’s one of them, suffragists!’ Dunne spat out the word as if it tasted bitter. ‘Unnatural those women are. Can’t have her disgraceful pamphlets where gentlemen reside. Votes for women, I ask you, never heard of such a thing.’ He resumed his place behind his desk, retrieved his pile of letters and tapped them sharply on the countertop before going back to posting them through the pigeonholes.

  ‘Miserable old sod,’ Sally muttered to the porter’s turned back.

  Flora privately agreed as she strode to the wastepaper basket and retrieved one of the pamphlets. Only a few pages thick, the cover bore a drawing of a multi-branched tree topped by green foliage and labelled with towns around England; the whole set on a red background and the words, National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies in bold black on white at the top.

  Millicent Garett Fawcett’s work in the Women’s Suffrage Movement had always interested her, though she had yet to meet anyone closely involved.

  By the time Flora glanced again through the front door panel, the woman had gone. Was she received everywhere she went with such hostility?

  ‘Well, are we going or not, Missus?’ Sally huffed with impatience. ‘Wearing me coat indoors means I won’t feel the benefit, or so me Mum always says.’

  ‘Indeed, we are leaving right now.’ Flora shook her thoughts free from the young lady, shoved the pamphlet into her coat pocket and pushed through the doors.

  Flora set off along Knightsbridge where the shops had begun their preparations for Christmas, with small fir trees, their roots wrapped in wet sackcloth, set out by optimistic shopkeepers to tempt early revellers. Bow-fronted shop windows full of toys and plaster figures of angels with gold-tinted wings set in artificial snow scenes greeted them with each step.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the night before and the scene she had witnesses between Mr Crabbe and the young woman. She had no reason to connect the two, but couldn’t help wondering if that incident was related to what had happened in Old Barrack Yard later that night.