Scandal Above Stairs_A Below Stairs Mystery

by Jennifer Ashley

  I let the topic drop and showed Tess, as promised, how to make tea cream. I’d set pans of fresh milk to heat on the stove this morning, and now the cream was thick on top. I skimmed off the cream, boiled it in a clean pan, and added tea leaves that were still green—that is, they hadn’t been rolled and dried, which is what makes tea black. I stirred in a bit of sugar and isinglass, which is a jellylike substance, to thicken it.

  I scooped a little of this concoction onto a spoon and shoved it at Tess. She hesitantly tasted the cream then seized the spoon and ate the whole dollop. “That ain’t bad,” she said, licking her lips. “Those upstairs eat well with you in the kitchen, don’t they?”

  We sent up the tea with scones and the tea cream then turned to the labor of getting supper. Tess asked me what I had discovered at Scotland Yard, and I gave her a truncated version of the story, eliminating Daniel’s reaction to Mr. Pilcher and his revelations to me.

  “Hope they find the bloke what did the killing,” Tess said darkly. “I worry for Mr. McAdam. He’s a bit reckless, he is.”

  I could not disagree.

  I taught Tess to make maître d’hôtel butter, which combined butter with parsley, salt, pepper, and a squeeze of lemon juice, mashed together with a wooden spoon. Tess asked why the butter was named after a gent who worked in a hotel, and I had to admit I did not know.

  We served the butter with the fish I’d broiled, sending it up first thing when supper above stairs commenced.

  Tess continued to ask about my outing as we turned to preparing the meat, a roast I’d finish off with potatoes and a salad topped with fresh mayonnaise. “Did you find out who’s burgling all the houses in Park Lane?”

  She spoke with an air of curiosity, nothing in her manner suggesting she knew anything about these crimes other than what I or Mr. Davis had mentioned.

  “No, I have not,” I said. “But I intend to.”

  Things had gone on long enough. Tonight, Daniel was to meet with Lady Cynthia and Mr. Thanos at the pub near Bedford Square and discuss what they’d discovered. I wanted to be there to listen to what they had to say, but I knew I was too busy tonight to hie off that far from home. If I left too often, Mr. Davis would grow incensed, and so he should, as he had as much work to do running the house. Also, Mrs. Bywater might give me the sack. Then she’d no doubt try to save money by promoting Tess to full cook, which would be a disaster.

  “Ooh,” Tess said, watching my face as she whipped the egg yolks for the mayonnaise. “What’cha up to, Mrs. H.?”

  “I am up to cooking supper,” I said coolly as I ladled the beef’s juices over the potatoes that I’d thrown into the pan. “But tomorrow, I will introduce you to my colleagues in Mayfair kitchens. You need to know the right people if you’re to make a name for yourself.”

  Tess did not look as though that pleased her, but she only nodded and kept whipping the yolks until I deemed them ready to receive the clear oil that would make them into mayonnaise.

  And if I took Tess to the houses that had been burgled and then poked about, that was my business. I trusted Lady Cynthia and Mr. Thanos to do their best, but none knew the workings and secrets of homes like their servants. It was high time I discovered things for myself.

  * * *

  * * *

  I woke in the morning more buoyant than I had been in a few days. This was Wednesday, and I was always lighthearted on Wednesdays. Tomorrow was Thursday, which I whimsically called to myself my Day of Grace.

  Tess and I prepared Mr. Bywater’s rather staid breakfast, but I was more exotic in the staff’s repast, layering eggs, wilted spinach, bacon, cream, and a bit of cheese in a piecrust and baking it until it was brown and bubbling. I served slices of this with potatoes and strawberries with fresh cream. I am pleased to say the staff ate every crumb without complaint.

  After breakfast, I had Tess begin preparation for the midday meal while I made lists for the market. The luncheon repast was a cold one—mostly leftover roast and mutton from previous meals—and I left instructions for Mr. Davis to take it up to be served. Tess and I, I said, needed to do quite a lot of shopping to prepare for the coming week, and supper would be an easy affair, as the Bywaters were going out. Mr. Davis agreed, grudgingly, and I took up my shawl and hat, let Tess borrow my light spring coat, and out we went, baskets over our arms.

  I would have to do something about Tess’s clothes, I mused as we walked. She wore a black broadcloth that had belonged to one of the downstairs maids, hastily altered to fit Tess’s thinner figure. She’d need cloth for her own frock, preferably gray, to set her apart from the other maids. The dress she’d worn when she arrived was hardly fit for working in, and she’d want it for her days out.

  “Fridays,” I said as we walked along Mount Street toward Park Lane.

  “Eh?” Tess asked behind me. The street was too thronged for us to walk side by side. “What’s that, Mrs. H.?”

  “Would you like Friday as your day out?” I said over my shoulder. “You cannot have Thursday or Monday, as I leave then, and we cannot both be gone at the same time. On Wednesdays I have too much to do to prepare for Thursday, and on weekends, the family tend to have more visitors, larger suppers to prepare.”

  I heard only silence from Tess, which I found odd. I sidestepped a lad walking a dog and turned to find her staring at me in pure shock. “A day out?” she asked, wide-eyed. “You mean, leave work for a whole day, like you do?”

  “Yes, of course,” I answered. “Every member of the staff has a day out. This is England, not a country in the hinterlands where they work their servants to death.”

  Tess took a few hurried steps to catch my arm and press herself close to me as we walked around a clump of carts. “Aw, you are too good to me, Mrs. Holloway. I don’t deserve it, I don’t.”

  I wanted to be pleased with her gratitude, but I remained brisk. “It is not me being good; it is common practice. Now, shall it be Friday for you? Or Tuesday?”

  “Friday, if ya don’t mind, Mrs. H. That’d do very well for me.”

  “I have to ask Mr. Davis and Mrs. Bywater, of course,” I said. “But I am certain they will agree to my way of thinking.”

  “They will.” Tess rubbed her shoulder against mine. “You can bring anyone round, you can. You’re a dab hand at it.”

  I warmed—Tess could be quite affectionate—but I reminded myself that I could not grow soft with her until I discovered whether she’d betrayed my trust. “Don’t talk nonsense,” I said.

  We arrived at our first destination, a large house on Park Lane, a little south of the Sardinian Embassy, set back from the avenue behind a drive lined with elm trees. Tess looked about in awe as we approached it, and I felt a moment of disquiet. If Tess truly was a thief, I was showing her the way into private residences stuffed with things to steal.

  On the other hand, I did believe that Lady Cynthia’s and Mr. Thanos’s idea was correct—the thieves were stealing very specific things rather than making a random grab of anything valuable. That was the key to the matter, I thought, and as I walked along with Tess at my side, my conviction grew.

  I led Tess around to the back of the house, following a little path that was muddy from last night’s rain. Down a short flight of stairs was the kitchen door.

  I knocked on this, to have the door pulled open by a scullery maid who peered around it in suspicion. She brightened when she saw me and flung the door wide. “Come in, Mrs. Holloway, do. Mrs. Hemming needs some cheering.”

  I walked in through a kitchen that was three times the size of mine. Though the room was below the ground, it wasn’t in as deep a cellar as the Mount Street house’s, and had wide windows to let in abundant light.

  The servants’ hall was screened off from the kitchen by a wall filled with windows—in fact, all the rooms down here had half walls of glass, which did not do much for privacy, but lent a feeling of spacious
ness. The wine cellar and larder were closed off, I knew from previous visits, but only because wine and some food do not benefit from sunlight.

  Mrs. Hemming was not the cook; she was the housekeeper. She rose from the table in the servants’ hall, where she had spread out mending, and came to greet me. The cook of this house did not much like me—she was an aging woman I often heard grumbling that I got above myself. She was not wrong, but she never had a good word to say, and never spoke to me directly.

  Even now, the cook carried on a low-running mumble about servants what thought they were fine ladies, traipsing about of an afternoon when the respectable were working. Tess sent the woman a frown, but fortunately said nothing.

  Mrs. Hemming, neatly attired in a high-necked black gown, a large bunch of keys dangling from her belt, was about forty, with rigidly tamed blond hair pulled back from a rather colorless face.

  She’d been housekeeper in one of the first places I’d worked, before the widowed master, an aging marquess, had married a rather insipid young lady. Mrs. Hemming had given notice after clashing with said young lady at every encounter. I’d been more tolerant, feeling sorry for the chit thrust suddenly into running a wealthy home with no experience. But even I’d had enough when she began to ask for exotic meals such as dormice and ants, and then laughed in my face when I protested. The poor thing had gone into a decline not long after I’d departed, I’d heard. I believe the marquess took her to the warm climes of Italy and never brought her back. The best thing about that post had been Mrs. Hemming, who’d become a friend.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Holloway,” Mrs. Hemming said as she ushered me down the windowed hall to her parlor. “Always pleasant to see you.”

  “This is Tess Parsons,” I said after we’d settled on the comfortable chairs within. “My new assistant. Tess, this is Mrs. Hemming, a wise and capable woman.”

  Mrs. Hemming looked pleased, a small amount of color coming into her cheeks. Her eyes were a deep blue, which helped mitigate her paleness. “I am glad to meet you, Tess. You are fortunate in your mentor. Mrs. Holloway is a most talented cook.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Tess gushed, then looked chagrined. “Oh, was I not supposed to answer? Don’t know the rules yet, do I?”

  Mrs. Hemming’s brows climbed, and I cut in soothingly, “As this is a social visit, it is fine for you to participate in the conversation. Tess is a bit raw,” I said to Mrs. Hemming, “but she is quick and soon will learn polish. I was the same at eighteen.”

  “As were we all.” Mrs. Hemming gave Tess a reassuring nod. “Now, Mrs. Holloway, I had your note. What’s it all about?”

  I had written brief missives to the staff members I wanted to visit this morning—they would all be busy, and springing on them unexpectedly would be rude and might anger their employers.

  “You’ve had a burglary here, haven’t you?” I asked. “Mr. Davis and I are trying to find ways to protect our house, so we thought we’d ask what happened.”

  Tess shot a glance at me, knowing jolly well Mr. Davis and I had discussed no such thing. But she kept her lips tightly together and remained silent.

  Mrs. Hemming shuddered. “Horrible, it’s been, Mrs. Holloway. The master sets such a store on his antiquities collection. He’d been out to Greece, you know, to Athens and other places where they are digging up old pots. Brought them so carefully home and put them in his glass cases. He invites his friends who are collectors over and they gaze at them for hours. No idea why dusty old bits of pottery are so fascinating.”

  “I believe I understand.” I remembered my visit to the British Museum with Grace, the two of us gazing at a miniature Egyptian kitchen full of little clay people baking bread and making beer with great gusto. I’d been enthralled. “It’s like people reaching out from the past, isn’t it? Someone thousands of years ago made that piece, and you are seeing their handiwork.”

  “I suppose.” Mrs. Hemming’s shrug dismissed it—she’d never been romantic. “But what a to-do when some of it went missing. The master forbade any of the staff to leave the house—searched our rooms, if you please.”

  Her outrage was palpable. The balance between master and servant was one of trust—servants saw a household’s most intimate secrets. Our masters trusted us to keep our silence, and we in turn were allowed to get on with our tasks unhindered. When that trust was breached, either way, it made for an uncomfortable, sometimes intolerable, place.

  “But nothing was found,” I said quickly.

  “Of course not.” Mrs. Hemming’s chest lifted in indignation, the black buttons that closed her bodice to her chin sparkling. “Why would the footmen or maids steal his lordship’s pottery? We wouldn’t know what to take—what do we know about Greek vases? Except not to touch them, ever, not even to dust.” She finished with a sniff.

  A maid entered at this juncture, laden with a tray holding a steaming teapot, three cups, and a plate of cakes. Tess moved her hands under her legs as though keeping herself from snatching up the treats. Her eyes rounded in delight as Mrs. Hemming lifted the pot and served us tea, asking first me then Tess how much sugar and cream we took.

  “Who does his lordship invite to view the collection?” I asked as we lifted our cups. Tess had a piece of sponge cake on her plate, which she carefully cut with her fork. She put the tiniest piece into her mouth and chewed and swallowed, smiling all the while. I wondered if she meant to show me she could eat like a lady and not a starving beggar.

  “Quite a number of gentlemen,” Mrs. Hemming said. “Lord Chalminster, who likes Egyptian things, including bits of mummies, if you can credit it. A bishop from Derbyshire—quite a gentleman he is. Old and kind, rather absentminded. Oh yes, and the vicar of Grosvenor Chapel. He and the bishop are old friends. A few archaeological gentlemen his lordship spent time with in Greece come here often—he paid them money to work on a dig and give him the best of what they found. And Sir Evan Godfrey, who avidly collects antiquities but mourns he can’t afford them now that he has a pretty young wife.”

  An interesting cross section of upstairs life, I mused. “Have any of them been burgled as well?”

  “Oh yes. Lord Chalminster and the bishop both have, they say—Lord Chalminster lives next door to Sir Evan Godfrey. The bishop has had things go missing from his house in Derbyshire. I gather he has quite a massive collection from Greece, Egypt, and the Near East.”

  I took a bite of cake as Mrs. Hemming spoke, nothing as dainty as Tess’s. The cake was dry, and the cook had put in too much vanilla, which I suppose she’d done to counteract all the lemon. A sponge cake ought to be light and full of bubbly holes—hence its name—which comes from separating the eggs and beating the whites until one’s arm is stiff. This cake was dense—the cook had either not separated the eggs or she’d not whipped the whites long enough.

  Mrs. Hemming continued. “Sir Evan Godfrey has had paintings stolen, but none of his antiquities. He is in less of a bother—I suppose a brilliant painting by an old master isn’t as important to him as a bit of powdered mummy in a jar.”

  Tess wrinkled her nose as she took another tiny bite of cake. “Must have been a different thief, then.”

  “Perhaps.” Mrs. Hemming returned to her earlier theme. “What I dislike is our master’s suspicions of us when it is clear this is the work of a gang. Her ladyship, mercifully, put her foot down and halted the searching of our things. His lordship, however, is very upset.”

  “I imagine so,” I said in sympathy. “How did the burglar get in? Through a window? The back door?”

  Mrs. Hemming frowned over her teacup. “We don’t know. That is why the master swore it was one of the staff. No broken windows, no forced doors. Lord Chalminster reported the same thing, as did the bishop.”

  “This thief knows his stuff,” Tess said. “Must be an expert at lock picking.”

  “Indeed,” I agreed. Or, as I thought before, they�
�d been let in through the front door as a guest, or the back door as a servant of the guest. Lady Cynthia’s speculation that the thieves were fanatics who wished to return antiquities to their native land went with this idea. The lord who lived in this house invited archaeologists into his private rooms, did he not? They could have secreted items away to smuggle back to their respective countries when they returned there to dig.

  My own idea of what was happening was simpler. Collectors could be mad about their bits and pieces, enough for them to commit crimes for them. I’d worked in a house where the master had collected guns, uniforms, and drums and such from the Napoleonic Wars—French things, not British. He’d scour the markets and make trips to Paris, rejoicing in cheating other collectors out of things that they didn’t realize were valuable, or selling them pieces he knew were fakes. He’d sit in his room with Napoleon’s army’s leavings about him for hours and hours, not eating, not sleeping, doing none of us knew what.

  In my experience, collectors would go to any length to purchase a new item to display in their glass cases—would they stoop to stealing it from their fellow collectors? I thought perhaps they might.

  I finished the cake, as did Tess, though the cook ought to be ashamed to let something like it be served, said a cordial good afternoon to Mrs. Hemming, and took Tess away.

  “Lovely house,” Tess said, walking backward to look at it as we traversed the path next to the drive. “Kitchen was nice. Much bigger than ours.”

  “It isn’t the size of the kitchen but what comes out of it that’s important,” I said. “But yes, more room would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  We continued along Park Lane, a cook and her assistant out to do whatever the wealthy of Mayfair thought we did. I gazed at the house that must be Chalminster’s as we passed it, a grand white mansion towering above the rhododendrons that strove to hide it. He’d been implicated in the last mess I’d helped Daniel investigate—was he to blame for this one?