Snobbery with Violence (8 page)

Later, Kerridge did not get any further with the servants, thanks, he thought, to the perpetual presence of Brum. He got only one thing. A little scullery maid said that the king was to come on a visit but couldn’t now and Brum had snapped at her and sent her from the room.

Kerridge wondered about the king’s proposed visit all the way back to London. Certainly a visit from King Edward, who would arrive with a retinue of servants, guests and hangers-on could mean a crippling amount of money to the unfortunate host, but the earl’s home and his estates showed no signs of penny-pinching. He shook his grey head. To think that the earl would blow up a railway station and a bridge just to put the king off was ridiculous. All Bolshevik sympathizers in London were being rounded up and interrogated. Still, he’d better see this Captain Cathcart and find out what he had to say.

The first motorized taxi cabs were beginning to appear on the streets of London and were regarded with suspicion by most, who preferred the horse-drawn variety. But as Kerridge was driven in the new Scotland Yard police car to Captain Cathcart’s address, he felt like a king. He wished he could take this splendid vehicle home to show his wife.

He had decided to interview the captain alone. He knew people were often intimidated by the sight of a policeman or a detective in the background, taking notes.

At the house in Water Street, Becket announced him and led him into the front room, where the captain was sitting at a desk at the window.

Kerridge’s first impression of the captain was that he was a dangerous man. His brooding saturnine good looks gave the impression of action and power.

Harry welcomed the superintendent and then sat staring at him vacantly.

‘I have come about the bombing of Stacey Magna,’ began Kerridge.

‘Frightful, what?’ commented Harry. He took out a monocle, fixed it in one eye and stared at the detective.

‘Yes, it was indeed frightful. Now—’

‘Caught any of these Bolshevik chappies yet?’

‘No, sir, but we will . . . provided it turns out to be the work of the Bolsheviks. Have you known the Earl of Hadshire for long?’

‘Don’t know. People come and go.’ Harry let the monocle drop and fixed the detective with a vacuous stare.

‘His Majesty was supposed to visit Lord Hadshire, but the visit had to be cancelled.’

‘Pity.’

‘Have you any reason to suppose the earl did not wish this visit?’

Harry laughed, an insolent braying laugh. Then he said, ‘I say, you think old Hadshire crept out during the night and blew up things to keep kingie away?’

‘It is a flight of fancy, I admit,’ said Kerridge. ‘Let’s take it further. The earl employed someone to blow up the bridge and the station.’

Harry grinned. ‘Go on. I’m enjoying this.’

‘It is not a laughing matter, sir,’ said Kerridge severely. ‘It was just fortunate that there was no one on the bridge at the time or in the station.’

‘True, true,’ said Harry. ‘Ask me some more questions.’

‘During your stay at Stacey Court, did you see any suspicious people lurking around?’

‘Only that cousin of Lady Polly’s. What a bore! I nearly fainted in my soup.’

‘So you can tell me nothing to help me?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘What was the reason for your visit?’

Harry glared at him. ‘My dear sir, one goes into the country on many visits to many households. It’s what one does.’

‘I forgot, sir. Of course it is what one does when one does not have to work for a living.’

‘Oh, we aren’t all lilies of the field, y’know. Viscount Hinton has been wheeling a piano-organette around the streets these many years.’

‘But he doesn’t have to. He’s eccentric’

‘What about the House of Lords?’

‘What about it?’ jeered Kerridge. ‘Waste of time, if you ask me. Half the house is absent and the other half s nearly dead.’

‘Dear me, Super, you’re quite the little Bolshevik yourself.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir.’ Kerridge was shocked at his own behaviour. If his injudicious remarks got back to Scotland Yard, he would lose his job. He plodded on with the questioning, reflecting as he did so that the captain was one of the most empty-headed men he had met.

But when he got back to his desk at Scotland Yard, he turned over his conversation with the captain. He had an obscure feeling that he had somehow been irritated and manipulated into betraying his radical views. And then, there had been that odd business of the earl winking at his secretary.

That evening, before going home, he dropped in at the pub in the hope that Posh Cyril might be around, but there was no sign of the footman. He took his leave and bumped into Posh Cyril in the street outside.

‘I want a word with you,’ muttered the superintendent.

‘Walk away and into the alley along there. Be with you in a mo’,’ whispered the footman. ‘Got a friend in the pub and don’t want to be seen with you.’

Kerridge stood impatiently in the alley amongst the dustbins until the footman appeared.

‘I need some information,’ said Kerridge. ‘I want to know about a certain Captain Harry Cathcart. Lives in Water Street, Chelsea.’

‘I’ll find out what I can. Cost you.’

‘Always does,’ said Kerridge gloomily.

Shortly before Rose was due to visit the Marquess of Hedley, her maid, Yardley, gave notice. Lady’s maids prided themselves on the appearance of their employers. Yardley felt her position in life had diminished through Rose’s disgrace. Rose did dress for dinner, but during the day went around in skirts and shirt blouses, or in riding dress.

Lady Polly felt her daughter was going too far when Rose calmly announced that Daisy would be her new lady’s maid.

‘That girl is out of the gutter,’ raged Lady Polly.

‘Daisy is bright and intelligent and a quick learner,’ said Rose. ‘You never talk to her. I will fetch her and you can see for yourself.’

Lady Polly was taken aback when Daisy entered the room. The blonde hair was beginning to grow out and Daisy was dressed neatly and becomingly.

‘So you think you can be a lady’s maid?’ demanded the countess.

‘Yes, my lady. I have learned a great deal, thanks to Lady Rose’s kindness.’

Her voice was soft, with only the slightest Cockney edge.

‘I do not like to think of a girl of your background chaperoning my daughter,’ said Lady Polly, who had the staccato speech of her class, an icy stare put into words.

‘A girl of my background is wise to the ways of men, my lady. I would have protected Lady Rose better had I been with her in London.’

‘And do you know how to sew?’

‘Yes, my lady. I worked as a seamstress in Whitechapel when I wasn’t on the boards.’

The countess’s own lady’s maid, Humphrey, stood behind her mistress’s chair, darting jealous looks at Daisy. She gave a little cough. ‘May I suggest a test, my lady? Your blonde straw hat needs retrimming. I suggest it is given to this person to see how she can work.’

‘Excellent. Fetch it here and give it to the girl.’

*  *  *

Two days later, the refurbished hat was presented to the countess. It was decorated by beautifully made scarlet silk roses. The countess was immensely pleased with it. But Humphrey snorted and said dresses were another thing. What about my lady’s ball-gown, which had a torn hem, and that my lady had said was old-fashioned?

The dress was returned in another two days. The neckline had been slightly lowered and the shoulders decorated with white silk bows. The train had gone and it was now ankle-length.

‘I always have a train,’ complained the countess.

‘Trains are going out of fashion, my lady,’ said Daisy demurely. ‘I could not help noticing that you have very fine ankles, and if you adopt the new style, you will not need to throw the train over your arm when you are dancing or risk it being torn when you are walking about.’

The countess poked her ankles out from beneath the gown and studied them complacently. ‘Very good, Daisy. But you cannot be called Daisy and you cannot be called Levine because it sounds foreign.You will be called Baxter.’

‘That means you can go,’ said Rose when Daisy told her. ‘But I shall not call you Baxter.’

‘I have made an enemy of Humphrey,’ said Daisy. ‘What if she finds out you did all the sewing yourself?’

‘There is no need for her to find out. We have been spending too much time over our books and typing lessons, Daisy. Now you must learn the ways of the lady’s maid. When we get to Hedley’s, you will dine with the housekeeper. Your behaviour must be precise. I allow you too much laxity. While we are at the Hedleys’, you never sit down in my presence or wear a hat in the house. You do not venture an opinion, unless asked for it. And you never even say “Good morning” or “Good night”. We have a little time to bring you up to the mark.

‘I prefer to dress and undress myself now that Yardley is leaving. But this you must never tell a soul or I shall be damned as middle-class. The lady’s maid I had before Yardley left a notebook. I shall find it for you. In it she has written all the recipes for cleaning clothes, hats and shoes. The wash for my hair is quite simple. One pennyworth of borax, half a pint of olive oil and a pint of boiling water.’

She studied Daisy for a moment and then asked, ‘Do you not find your life here dull?’

‘Oh, no, my lady. I like dull. I can’t get enough of dull. And three good meals a day!’

‘Very well, Daisy. There is one thing more. I have over-prided myself on my intelligence but I lack common sense. I made a bad mistake with Blandon.’

‘I’ll tip you off if there’s another masher,’ said Daisy eagerly. ‘Can tell ’em a mile off.’

O blind your eyes and break your heart and back your band away
,

And lose your love and shave your head; but do not go to stay

At the little place in What’sitsname where folks are rich and clever;

The golden and the goodly house, where things grow worse for ever;

There are things you need not know of, though you live and die in vain
,

There are souls more sick of pleasure than you are sick of pain.

G.K. Chesterton,
The Aristocrat

R
ose began to feel apprehensive as her father’s coach bowled along the country roads towards Telby Castle, home of the Marquess of Hedley. Would the other guests shun her? If they do, she thought fiercely, then Daisy and I will simply pack up and go home. There had been no need to buy new clothes for the visit. Lady Polly had pointed out to her daughter that a fortune had already been spent on dresses for the season.

The sky was a clear hard blue and there was a chill in the air. The leaves on the trees were blazing with autumn colours.

A new beginning, thought Rose. Perhaps this is a new beginning. And if not, well, there were jobs in London for women who knew how to type. There were lodging houses for businesswomen at reasonable rates. Whatever happened, she was resolved not to rot in the country for the rest of her life.

She was wearing one of the new corselets which had very slight boning, and had left off the usual padding. She had covered her gown with a heavy cloak before making her goodbyes to her mother, knowing that Lady Polly would have been appalled to learn that her daughter was not steel-corseted into the fashionable hourglass figure and leaning-forward look.

Under her tailored travelling dress she was wearing a silk petticoat with a frou-frou of ruffles from the knee to the hem. Rose, who had considered her mind above fripperies, nonetheless enjoyed the swishing rustling sound the petticoat made when she moved.

Daisy was learning to be a lady’s maid very quickly, but Rose often sensed a naughtiness in her little maid and often wondered how long Daisy would be content to be a servant.

Telby Castle had been built in the latter years of the old queen’s reign. It was a sort of folly with towers and battlements, arrow slits and stained-glass windows. It even had a drawbridge and a moat.

The new building had replaced a Georgian gem of a house with furniture and rooms designed by Robert Adam.

‘Not a good master,’ volunteered Daisy, who had been told she was allowed to speak freely when she was alone with her mistress.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Rose.

‘Didn’t you notice? When we came through Telby Village, it was ever so poor.’

Rose had been brought up like everyone else in England to believe that God put one in one’s appointed position, but surely not to abuse that position, she thought, wondering if she might find the courage to tell the marquess he ought to do something about his tenants. Then she sighed. Such a remark would be considered the height of unfeminine insolence.

She was shown to an apartment in one of the four towers. To her relief, Daisy was allocated a small room off her own bedchamber. When the housekeeper left, Rose said, ‘When you go down to the servants’ hall, you will need to find out which is my bell. Oh, there’s the dressing gong. I wonder who else is of the house party.’

Daisy was rapidly unpacking the trunks. ‘What dress, my lady?’

‘White, I suppose. The moiré with the lace inserts. My pearls, I think. White gloves. The kid shoes with the little bows and those new sequinned evening stockings.’

Daisy helped Rose put her hair up over the pads and fixed it in place after she had dressed. ‘You look really beautiful, my lady. Maybe there’s a handsome gentleman in the party.

‘After my recent experience, I have no interest in men.’

‘Garn!’

‘No, I mean it. Now pick up my stole and fan and follow me to the drawing-room. The second gong has just been sounded. You’d better ring the bell first and get a guide.’

A liveried footmen escorted them down from the tower into an enormous fake baronial hall where fake suits of armour glistened under fake tattered medieval flags.

A butler took over and led them across the hall, opened a heavy carved door and sonorously announced, ‘Lady Rose Summer.’

It seemed to Rose at first that she had entered a room full of staring eyes. Red light from a large fire flickered on monocles and lorgnettes. Then the marchioness came forward. ‘Nice to see you, dear. Pleasant journey?’