The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (45 page)

“I say!” Freddie protested. “That’s hardly fair. We are the best inventors in the world!”

She was not to be deterred. “Perhaps we used to be,” she swept on. “But the French are now … endlessly inventive … and really useful things …”

Bertie opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked vaguely crushed.

“You should tell them about finding Harrison,” Violet glanced at him, then back to Freddie. “And French menservants are excellent too, not just capable of one skill, like ours, but of all manner of things. Bertie never ceases to sing Harrison’s praises.”

“Harrison is English!” Bertie said with umbrage. “Dammit Violet, he is as English as steak and kidney pudding!”

“But trained in France!” she retorted instantly. “That makes all the difference. His mind is French.”

“Balderdash!” He was growing pink in the face. “He speaks the language, because he spent time there. That was where we found him. But he was more than happy to return home again with us … his home. He made that very plain, at least to me.”

“I never heard him say that!”

Pamela hid a smile behind her napkin, pretending to sneeze.

“You don’t listen” Bertie muttered.

“What did you say?” Violet looked at him sharply.

“He said you don’t—” Freddie began.

Pamela kicked him under the table. He winced and opened his eyes very wide.

Pamela smiled charmingly. “He said he won’t miss it,” she lied without blinking. “I presume he meant that Harrison won’t miss France, when he has been with you for a while. After all, you have adopted so many French ways, haven’t you? And you have a French maid yourself, so he can always speak the language, if he chooses.”

Violet looked confounded for a moment. She knew something had passed her by, but she was not quite sure what.

Pamela rose to her feet. “Shall we go for a stroll in the garden?” she suggested. “There is a clear sky and a full moon. I think it would be very beautiful.”

Freddie sighed with relief. Bertie’s face broke into a smile. Violet was obliged to agree, more so, civility demanded it.

*

The following morning Brodie woke Pamela with a hot cup of tea, and drew the curtains to a brilliant spring day, with light and shadow chasing each other across the land. A huge aspen, green with leaf, shivered in the breeze and the garden glistened from overnight rain. Pamela’s clothes were ready, since she had decided the previous evening what she would wear. After a few exchanges of pleasantries Brodie left to run the bath, and came face to face with Colette on the landing, looking efficient and very pretty, and to Brodie’s eyes, a trifle smug.

She looked even more pleased with herself two hours later when Brodie encountered her in the kitchen. She had just come in from the back door and, glancing towards it, Brodie saw a nice looking, if rather foreign, young man in the yard, somewhere between the coal chute and the rubbish bins. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as though undecided whether to leave or return, but Colette did not look back, and indeed she flushed with colour as she caught Brodie’s eye. But there was no way to know if it was annoyance or embarrassment. Brodie thought the former.

A junior housemaid, a girl of about twelve, passed by with a bucket full of damp tea leaves for cleaning the carpet. They were excellent for picking up the dust. She nodded to Brodie respectfully, and walked past Colette as if she had not seen her. Brodie assumed she was another victim of the superiority of all things French. What did the French clean their carpets with? She had heard they did not drink tea! Coffee grounds would hardly serve. The very thought of it was unpleasant.

The cook was giving orders for the day’s menus. She was a buxom woman with a face which atfirst glance seemed benign. But Brodie knew her well enough to be aware that a fierce temper lurked behind the wide, blue eyes and generous mouth. At the moment it was drawn tight as she caught Colette’s smirk at the mention of custard for the suet pudding. “Yes?” she said challengingly.

Colette shrugged. “In France we ’ave more of the fruit and less of the suet,” she said distinctly, but without looking at anyone. “It is lighter, you understand? Better for the digestion, and of course for the form.” She was petite herself, beautifully curved, and moved almost like a dancer on a stage. Brodie felt a little squat and clumsy beside her. “Although you could be right,” Colette went in with a delicate little shiver. “After all, the climate, it is so damp! Maybe you need all the suet fat to keep you warm.” And without allowing time for anyone to think of a retaliation, she swept out, giving her skirts a little flick as she turned the corner.

“Oh!” the cook let out a snort of exasperation. “That girl! I swear if she comes in here one more time and tells me how good French cooking is, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll not be responsible!”

The kitchen maid muttered her agreement and heartfelt support.

Stockwell arrived looking portentous. It was his job to keep the entire household in order, and domestic difficulties were his to deal with. He had anticipated trouble in his address to the servants in general, in this morning’s prayers before breakfast, but it appeared that might prove insufficient. He should have known the cook by now, but habit and duty were too strong. “I am sure you will always be responsible, Mrs Wimpole,” he said smoothly. “You are the last person to let us down by behaving less than perfectly.” He straightened his shoulders even further. “We must not allow other nationalities to think we do not know how to conduct ourselves … even if they do not.”

Mrs Wimpole snorted again and banged her wooden spoon so hard on the kitchen table she all but broke it. The scullery-maid dropped a string of onions and gave a yelp.

“We all have our own difficulties to bear,” Stockwell said sententiously.

“Leastways Mr ’Arrison in’t French,” the bootboy said venomously, looking at Stockwell as boldly as he dared. “And no visitin’ General in’t makin’ a machine wot’il take away yer job from yer.” He looked thoroughly unhappy and frightened, his blue eyes wide, his blond hair standing slightly on end where the housekeeper had cut it rather badly – when Stockwell had been absent, up in London with Freddie.

“It won’t take your job, Willie,” Brodie said comfortingly. “I don’t suppose for a moment it works and, even if it did, do you imagine any gentleman would use it himself?”

“Mr Stockwell is all-fired keen on it, Miss,” Willie said doubtfully. “ ’im or Mr ’Arrison and the General is out there in the stables playin’ wif it every chance they gets.”

“They are assembling it, Willie,” Stockwell broke in. “That is entirely different.”

“I don’t see no difference,” Willie replied, but he did look rather more hopeful.

“Of course there is a difference,” Brodie reassured him. “In fact there is no relation. Putting it together is invention – a very suitable occupation for a gentleman, keeping him out of the house and harmlessly busy. Operating it every day to clean shoes would be work, and entirely unsuitable. Whoever heard of a gentleman cleaning his own boots?”

Willie was almost mollified. There was only one last hurdle to clear.

“Wot if ’e ’specs Mr Stockwell ter use it, seein’ as it’s a machine, an invention, like, and Mr Stockwell’s clever, an is ’is butler, an’ ’e don’t keep a separate valet?”

Stockwell stiffened.

“Butlers don’t clean boots,” Brodie pronounced without hesitation. “Regardless of how clever they are.”

“Oh … well I s’pose it’s alright then.”

“Of course it’s all right,” Brodie said briskly. “There is no reason whatever for you to worry.”

*

After a late and excellent breakfast of the sort Bertie Welch-Smith most enjoyed – eggs, bacon, sausages, kidneys, crisp-fried potatoes and tomatoes, followed by toast and sharp, dark Dundee marmalade and several cups of strong Ceylon tea, all of which he had sorely missed in France – he and Freddie went out to the stables to tinker with the machine.

“Ah!” Bertie said, with satisfaction, patting his stomach. “Can’t tell you, old chap, how I missed a decent breakfast in France. Don’t mistake me, food’s very good, and all that, but I do like a proper cup of tea in the morning. Don’t care for coffee much, what? And I like a little real marmalade, some of the stuff you can taste, not all these damn pastries that fall to bits in your hand.”

“Quite,” Freddie agreed. He had never been to France, but he did not approve in principle. There weren’t many people he disliked. One had to be either dishonest or unkind to offend Freddie; but he did dislike Violet Welch-Smith, although he would not have dreamed of letting Bertie see that. Bertie was both his guest and his friend, and therefore sacred on both counts.

They strolled side by side in the sun towards the stables and the marvellous machine.

“And then you must come and see my magnolias,” Freddie said hopefully. “I’ve got some purple ones which really are very fine, if I say so myself.”

“Certainly, old boy,” Bertie agreed. “Delighted!” He did not know what a magnolia was, but that was irrelevant. Freddie was a good fellow.

*

Brodie busied herself about her duties. There was delicate personal laundry to be done. There was a spot of candlewax on the gown Pamela had worn the previous evening, and she must take it to the ironing room and press it between blotting paper with a warm iron. She would have to remove the pink with a little colourless alcohol. Gin was best. It was a tedious job, but it was the only way. Then naturally there would be a great deal of other ironing to do. A lady’s maid’s accomplishments were many, but Pamela very seldom desired to be read to or otherwise entertained. She always found more than sufficient to occupy herself. Anyway, she was obliged to accompany Violet, and listen continuously to her endless account of her sojourn in France, and its sophisticated pleasures.

Just before midday, Brodie was walking through the hall towards the conservatory to deliver a message, when she saw a newspaper lying on the table near the umbrella stand. It was the local newspaper, and it had obviously been read and cast aside because it was open at the centre page. She glanced at it and her eye was caught by an advertisement for an exhibition of modern inventions, to be held in the town. Apparently it was most remarkable for the variety and ingeniousness of the machines. In fact, in two days’ time the French Ambassador himself was going to open the exhibition formally. In the meantime, it was possible for local people to attend a preview on the following afternoon, if they should so wish.

Brodie was not interested in machines. On the whole, she considered them inferior to a mixture of industry and a little common sense. But perhaps she should keep abreast of ideas, even if only to know what they were, and ease the minds of poor souls like the bootboy.

Tomorrow was her afternoon off. There was really very little for her to do here. All but the most urgent of jobs could wait until she returned home. It would be a pleasant diversion from having to be civil to Colette. The matter was decided. She made a mental note of the time and the place, and continued to the conservatory on her errand.

Stockwell also saw the newspaper, but the copy that caught his eye was the one that Freddie had read and cast away, folded where he had finished it. Stockwell bent to tidy it quite automatically. Books and papers out of alignment, pictures crooked, odd socks, a smear on a glass, all scraped his sensibilities. As he folded the papers neatly, his eye fell on the advertisement for an exhibition of the latest inventions to be held in the town hall, preview possible tomorrow, for local persons with a scientific interest. Stockwell most certainly had a scientific interest. He was eager to acquaint himself with all things modern, and to keep up with the latest challenges and conquests of the intelligent man.

If Mr Dagliesh would permit it, he would make a brief sortie into the town and observe what was on display. The household would take care of itself quite adequately between, say, two o’clock and half-past four tomorrow afternoon. He would be home again in plenty of time, to make sure that everyone did their duty at dinner. There was no need to mention it to anyone except Mr Dagliesh. Mrs Wimpole would be about her own skills in the kitchen, the footmen did not need to know anything except when he would return, and it was not a suitable matter to discuss with Miss Brodie. After all, scientific inventions were hardly women’s business.

*

The evening was long, and punctuated with moments of definite unease. Violet Welch-Smith kept repeating recipes for food that was supposed to be remarkably good for the health, which embarrassed her husband, though not greatly. He was too rapt in his satisfaction with his boot polishing machine, which Harrison had assured him was now perfect. Freddie endeavoured not to listen, simply to make agreeable noises every time Violet stopped talking long enough. Pamela kept the peace as well as she could – and her temper as well as she thought possible.

Brodie had the curious experience of seeing Colette’s admirer again. It was just after ten in the evening and she was coming back from fetching a petticoat she had inadvertently left in the ironing room, when she saw Colette standing in the passageway with her back to the light, and not a foot away from her was the man Brodie had seen her with before. This time he was facing the light and she saw his features quite distinctly. He was very dark with fine brows and a slightly aquiline nose. She judged he would normally be a very pleasant looking man, but at this moment his expression was one of earnestness bordering upon anger, and he was whispering fiercely to Colette, something which seemed not to please her at all.

“Auguste, c’est impossible!” she said furiously.

Brodie did not speak French, but the meaning of that phrase was clear enough, as was Colette’s defiant stance, hands on hips, chin raised, shoulders stiff.

Something must have distracted Auguste – perhaps the light reflecting on Brodie’s face or the faintest of rustles as the fabric of her dress brushed against the wall. He turned and left so quickly, melting into the shadows of the passageway back to the door, that, had she not seen the look on Colette’s face, she might have supposed he had been a figment of her imagination and not a real person at all.