by Anthony Read
“An excellent reference,” he said in his plummy voice. “He appears to think very highly of you, this Dr Watson.”
“Thank you, sir,” Queenie replied. “I think very highly of him, too. He’s a very kind gentleman.”
“Very well. If Mrs Ford approves, I think we may say the position is yours. Ten pounds a year and all found, the last Sunday in each month free. Starting immediately.”
“Oh, thank heaven for that,” cried Violet. “I won’t have to do no more washing-up or coal heaving!”
Queenie smiled broadly and thanked Mr Harper – but as she looked at the pile of dirty pots and plates in the big sink, she began to wonder just what she had let herself in for. Saving Polly was obviously going to be very hard work.
THE NEW SKIVVY
Violet led Queenie out of the kitchen and up the steps to the grand entrance hall, and then up two more flights of stairs to the second floor. As they reached the second-floor landing, a door opened and a smartly dressed young man in his twenties came out, smoothing back his dark, wavy hair.
“Hello, Violet,” he drawled, stroking his moustache with one finger. “What have we here?”
“This is Victoria, Mr Gerald. The new skivvy.”
“Hmm. I hope this one hasn’t got sticky fingers.” He looked Queenie up and down and nodded. “I dare say she’ll do. Victoria, eh? What do we call you? Vicky?”
Queenie stole a quick glance at Violet and replied, “Everybody calls me Queenie, sir.”
“Ha! Yes – Queenie Victoria – very good. Queenie it shall be, then. Well, Queenie, are you a good girl?”
“I always try to be, sir.”
“Ha, ha!” he laughed. “That’s the spirit.” With that, he winked at Violet and bounded off down the stairs.
Violet looked daggers. “Queenie!” she hissed. “It’s such a common name.”
Queenie shrugged. “It’s what my ma always called me. What did he mean about sticky fingers?”
“Stealing things. They stick to your fingers, see. I hope you don’t take things that don’t belong to you?”
“No, I don’t!”
“The last girl did. She was a bad lot. Helped herself to her ladyship’s jewels.”
“Cor! Fancy that.” Queenie pretended to be surprised. “What happened to her?” she asked.
“She ran off. But don’t you fret, the coppers’ll catch her – and when they do, she’ll be for it, I can tell you.”
Violet stopped outside the next door on the landing. “This is her ladyship’s room,” she told Queenie.
She knocked lightly. When there was no reply, she opened it and stepped inside, beckoning Queenie to follow.
“She must be in the drawing room,” she said. “But you might as well take a peep while we’re here. I look after this room, ’cos I’m her ladyship’s personal maid. All you have to do is sweep the carpet and keep the fire made up. Her ladyship can’t stand being cold. Very warm-blooded, she is.”
Queenie thought Lady Mountjoy’s bedroom was the loveliest room she had ever seen. Oriental silk curtains hung at the windows and the golden-yellow wallpaper was decorated with Japanese scenes, as was the embroidered satin quilt that lay on the bed. In front of one window was a dressing table with a big mirror on top and shiny white satin drapes hanging to the floor. On the dressing table was a box lined in white silk. Its lid was wide open, showing the box to be empty.
“Is that where the jewels were?” Queenie asked.
Violet gave her a quick glance. “What d’you want to know for?”
“Just wondered. Oh, look – somebody’s made a black mark there.”
She pointed to a dirty mark on the white drapes.
“Don’t touch that! The police sergeant said we weren’t to clean it off till the inspector from Scotland Yard had seen it. That’s what Polly did, when she was pinching the jewels. Proves she did it.”
“Right,” said Queenie innocently. “That’s what they call evidence, ain’t it?”
“It is. I saw her in here myself, with coal dust all over her hands from making up the fire, just before the jewels went missing.”
“Yes, but what if…?”
“Never mind ‘what if’. It’s not your place to keep asking questions. Come along, now. Mustn’t keep her ladyship waiting.”
They found Lady Mountjoy in the drawing room on the first floor, standing by one of the long windows looking out onto the street. As the two girls entered, her ladyship turned towards them, the light shining on her hair and turning it into a golden halo. She was twisting a lace handkerchief between her fingers. Queenie thought she must have been using it to dab tears from her large green eyes, for her beautiful face looked troubled. Then she raised her chin and the sad expression vanished.
“Yes, Violet?” she said calmly. “What is it?”
“This is the new girl, milady. Her name’s Vict—”
“Queenie,” Queenie interrupted quickly. “My name’s Queenie, ma’am, er, my lady.”
“I once had a dresser called Queenie, and very good she was too. Well, Queenie, I hope you’ll be happy with us. We have a small staff at the moment, but there’s only myself and my brother to look after. And my stepson, when he’s home for school holidays. So you shouldn’t find the work too hard.”
“No, my lady. I’m sure I won’t.”
“Mrs Ford will tell you your duties, of course. And Violet will show you the ropes. Right, Violet?”
“Yes, milady.”
“The first thing you must do is take Queenie to the draper’s and get her fitted out with a uniform. That’s a very pretty frock she’s wearing, and we don’t want it spoilt by housework, do we?”
Violet shuffled her feet and looked embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, milady,” she said. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“Why ever not?”
“The draper says he won’t give us any more credit.”
“I see.” Lady Mountjoy bit her lip and looked for a moment as though she might cry. Then she raised her chin again defiantly. “I must have overlooked the account. Very well. I shall see to it presently.”
“The last girl left a dress behind, milady. I should think they’re much the same size…”
“Excellent. So, Queenie. You can wear that for the time being – just until we get things sorted out, you understand.”
Violet took Polly through the house and up four flights of stairs, each one narrower and plainer than the last, until they reached the attic at the very top. By then, the thick carpets on the lower floors had given way to lino and thin rugs. Five doors led off the top landing. Violet told Queenie that Mr Harper and Mrs Ford each had one of the bedrooms, and two were boxrooms used for storing things.
“And this one,” she said, opening the final door, “is ours.”
It was a bare room, with shiny brown lino on the floor. The striped wallpaper and the curtains hanging at the single window were faded with age. The furniture consisted of a wardrobe, a washstand with a large water jug and bowl on its marble top, two wooden chairs and two iron beds.
“That’s your bed,” Violet told Queenie. “And this one’s mine. I hope you don’t snore.”
“Not that I know of,” Queenie answered.
“That’s good. ’Cos I like my sleep – ’specially in the mornings. You’ll be getting up first, to clear out the grates and make up the fires. I get an extra half hour. So just make sure you don’t wake me up, or you’ll feel the rough edge of my tongue.”
“Yes, Violet.”
Violet opened the wardrobe. “Now then,” she said, “let’s see what we got here. My things are on this side. And those are Polly’s.”
Two dresses, a long skirt and an outdoor coat hung on the left-hand side. On the other side was a stripy skirt, a threadbare woollen coat and a brown cotton servant’s dress, which Violet lifted out and held up against Queenie.
“I reckon that’ll fit you, more or less,” she said. “And if it don’t, that’s just too
bad.”
“Violet,” Queenie asked as she started to get undressed, “what did you mean when you said the draper’s won’t give her ladyship any more credit?”
“It means, they won’t let her have anything more on tick without paying cash for what she buys.”
“Why not?”
“’Cos she owes ’em too much money already. Now stop asking questions. Get this on and look sharp about it.”
Queenie quickly changed into Polly’s brown dress. It was a bit big for her, but when she tied an apron round her middle it didn’t look too bad.
“Well,” Violet said. “You’ll have to wait for your fairy godmother if you want to go to the ball. But it’ll do for now, I suppose. Hang your own frock in the wardrobe, and you can put your personal things in there.”
She pointed to a tin box at the foot of Queenie’s bed. “There might be some of the last girl’s stuff in it, but I don’t suppose she’ll be coming back, so you might as well have it.”
Queenie stared at Polly’s box. She almost asked if that was where the pearl earring had been found, but stopped herself just in time. That would have given the game away!
“Does it have a lock?” she asked.
“What you want a lock for?” Violet replied sharply. “Who d’you think’s going to steal your things? Me?”
“No,” Queenie stammered. “Course not.”
“Cheeky madam! And anyway, what’ve you got that’s worth stealing?”
“Nothing. I ain’t got nothing.”
“Right. Put this cap on, then, and we can get back to the kitchen. Mrs Ford’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.”
She handed Queenie a white cotton mob-cap and helped her tuck her hair inside it, then she led her downstairs again.
As the girls approached the kitchen, Queenie heard a voice that sounded somehow familiar. A man was standing with his back to the door, talking to Mr Harper and Mrs Ford. He turned round as Queenie and Violet entered the room, and with a shock she realized who it was.
“Ah, Violet,” said Mr Harper. “This is Inspector Lestrade of the detective branch of Scotland Yard. He has come to solve our mystery. Inspector, this is Violet, Lady Mountjoy’s personal maid.”
Lestrade nodded to Violet and craned his neck to get a better view of Queenie, who was trying to hide behind her.
“Violet,” he said. “I’m pleased to see you. I understand from Sergeant Brown’s report that you were the last person to see the jewels before they were purloined.”
“Yes,” Violet replied. “Apart from the thief, that is. Apart from Polly.”
“Quite so. And who is this young lady? Come forward if you please, miss.”
Violet stepped aside and pushed Queenie forward. Queenie pulled the mob-cap down as far as it would go and bobbed a little curtsy with her head lowered. She held her breath, fearful that the inspector would recognize her.
“This is Victoria,” Violet said. “She’s new – only started today.”
“She comes with excellent references,” said Mr Harper. “No need to be shy, girl. Hold your head up, now.”
Queenie reluctantly raised her head and managed a little smile. Lestrade looked at her and frowned slightly, trying to remember where he had seen her before.
“Victoria, eh?” he said, thinking hard, then giving up. “Hmm. Well, since you were not here when the robbery took place, Victoria, I shall not need to question you. You may get on with your work.”
“Starting with that washing-up,” said Mrs Ford, pointing to the pots and dishes piled up in the sink.
“Yes, Mrs Ford,” Queenie answered. She hurried across the room and got to work, pleased that she would be able to listen to what the inspector said.
“I believe that the only persons in the house at the time of the robbery were the servants and the family. Is that correct?” he asked.
“That is so,” Mr Harper told him. “Lady Mountjoy and Mr Gerald, the three of us, and Polly.”
“And no one else could have got in?”
“Not without my knowledge, sir. There are only two doors into the house. Without a key, the front door can only be opened from the inside; and this one leads into the kitchen, where Mrs Ford was busy baking.”
“So she would have seen anyone trying to come in?”
“Without a doubt.”
Lestrade thought this over for a moment, pacing the kitchen.
“And the same applies to anyone trying to get out through here?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said Mrs Ford. “I’d have seen ’em for sure.”
“Which door did Polly use to escape from the house?”
“The front door,” said Violet. “I seen her run down the stairs and across the hall, with the sergeant and constable after her.”
“Very good,” said the inspector. “And was she carrying anything, could you see?”
“Oh, no, sir. She was empty-handed, I’m sure. And running for dear life.”
“Very well. In that case, despite Sergeant Brown’s thorough search, the jewels must still be somewhere in this house. All we have to do is find them, and the case is solved.”
“LADY M AIN’T ALL SHE SEEMS”
For the rest of the day, Queenie was kept very busy by Mrs Ford, washing-up and cleaning in the kitchen and running up and down stairs fetching and carrying until she thought her legs would drop off. She took regular trays of tea to Inspector Lestrade and two detectives, who were searching the house again from top to bottom, so she was able to take note of what they were doing. They did not find anything.
Queenie was in the drawing room making up the fire and cleaning the hearth when the inspector searched it, watched by Lady Mountjoy and her brother, who both looked upset and nervous. Gerald stood by his sister, holding her hand to comfort her as Lestrade pulled books from shelves, opened drawers, peered behind pictures and curtains, tapped on walls to check for secret panels, tinkled a few notes on the grand piano to make sure nothing was resting on the strings, then lifted the lid and looked inside to make doubly sure. Finally, he stood in front of the life-sized oil painting of Lady Mountjoy, dressed in a beautiful ball gown and wearing all her jewels, including the tiara, that hung on one of the walls. He examined it and shook his head.
“I believe we can be certain, my lady, that the jewellery is not in this room,” he said. “It would be quite easy to hide a diamond ring, say, or even a small necklace – but not the tiara.”
“What could the girl have done with it?” Gerald asked.
“That, sir, is the question. And we must also ask if the theft was planned in advance.”
Lady Mountjoy looked doubtful. “I don’t believe Polly was bright enough for that,” she said.
“Then someone must have put her up to it,” said Gerald. “Told her what to do and how to do it.”
“That, sir, is a possibility. But some of these youngsters are sharper than they look, as I have discovered to my cost on several occasions.”
Queenie just managed to stop herself laughing – as she knew Wiggins and the others would do when she told them what the inspector had said. But she kept quiet and hoped that none of the grown-ups would notice she was still there, and listening, as she carried out her tasks.
“Am I correct in assuming that the jewels were normally locked in the safe in the library?” Lestrade asked.
“Yes,” Lady Mountjoy replied. “They were.”
“And you alone had the key?”
“That is correct. I only brought them out when I was going to wear them for special occasions.”
“I see. So anyone wanting to steal them without breaking into the safe would have to do it on such an occasion?”
“Yes.”
“And plan it in advance.”
“Or they could just see them and grab them on an impulse,” Gerald said.
“And then look for a secret hiding place?” Lestrade asked. “I hardly think your maid had time for that, do you?”
At that moment, L
ady Mountjoy caught sight of Queenie.
“Leave that, Queenie,” she told her, “and get back to the kitchen.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The inspector looked round.
“Queenie?” he said. “I thought your name was Victoria?”
“Yes, sir. It is. People call me Queenie, for short, like.”
“Yes, yes,” said Lady Mountjoy impatiently. “Run along, now.”
Queenie picked up the coal bucket and scampered out of the room. Lestrade’s brow creased in thought as he watched her go, then he shrugged and turned back to her ladyship.
It was getting dark by the time Wiggins returned to HQ. When he pushed open the door, he was greeted not by the appetizing aroma of one of Queenie’s stews, but the sour smell of boiled cabbage and turnips.
“Pooh!” he exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. “What a pong.”
“Sorry, Wiggins,” Beaver apologized. “It’s all we could find.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Wiggins. “Ain’t nobody can get stuff out of the shopkeepers like our Queenie. Never mind. Better than nothing, eh?”
He looked around the room. It was remarkably neat and tidy.
“What’s been going on here, then?” he asked.
“Polly’s been cleanin’ up,” said Beaver. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“I had to do something to pass the time,” Polly explained. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? No, course not.”
“And it did need it.”
“We been meaning to have a clean-up for ages, ain’t we, Beav?”
“Have we?” Beaver asked, then yelped as Wiggins kicked his ankle. “Oh, yes. Yes, we have. For ages.”
“But we sort of never got round to it,” Wiggins went on. “Too busy solving crimes.”
“I might not be much of a cook,” Polly went on, “but I’m very good at housework. It’s what I’m used to.”
Wiggins found it hard to understand how anybody could actually like cleaning and tidying. But before he could say so, the door opened and Sparrow came in with a loaf of bread tucked under his arm.
