Death Below Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  Mrs. Bowen shrieked, tearing herself from me and rushing at him in panic. I said swiftly, “Mr. Davis—no! We mustn’t touch anything.”

  Mr. Davis turned to us, his handsome face bewildered. He was washed and shaved, his hair freshly pomaded with a new part in the middle. He blinked at me then at Mrs. Bowen, who’d halted a foot from the door and hugged her arms around herself, as though fearing to touch the brass doorknob.

  “Let me in,” she said to me in a near whisper, though she too had a key to this room. “We must lay her out, must do right by her.”

  “Not yet,” I said firmly. I wanted Daniel to look at Sinead, the larder, and the rest of the rooms below stairs if necessary, before we brought in the constable. If we went inside and mucked about, I feared we’d ruin vital information.

  Mrs. Bowen’s cheeks were wet with tears, but her voice became steadier, the Welsh fading again. “We must do so at once, Mrs. Holloway. Ellen—Sinead—was one of us. We must put her somewhere and not let her lie in the larder. It isn’t dignified.”

  “Someone killed her, Mrs. Bowen,” I returned, my tone harsh. “We must wait so that we can discover who.”

  Mr. Davis’s eyes widened in shock. “Killed? What are you saying? That Ellen was killed?” He looked back and forth between me and Mrs. Bowen, his mouth falling open as he took in our anxious and upset countenances. His cultured accent deserted him as well, and his common London upbringing shone through. “What the devil are you on about, Mrs. H.? Ellen was never killed.”

  “She was indeed.” A lump swelled in my throat, making speech difficult. “She was struck down, and she is dead.”

  Mrs. Bowen fumbled with her keys, her hands trembling mightily, hence why she’d begged me to open the door for her. “I must go to her. I must . . .” She continued to clank the keys, as though she could not remember which fit the door.

  I put a stilling hand on her arm. “Leave her be. Please.”

  Mr. Davis looked at me in agitation. “If anyone killed her it were a passing housebreaker.” He pressed one hand over his other fist, as though scrubbing it. “Stands to reason. He tried his hand at robbing the place; Ellen caught him. Poor little thing. No need to keep her locked away.”

  “Would a cracksman come to the larder?” I asked, waving vaguely at the house around us. “There are plenty of valuables upstairs—silver, statuary, paintings. Why bother with the kitchen?”

  “The wine cellar,” Mr. Davis said with conviction. “And much of the silver is stored down here. Ellen heard him, came to investigate, and he killed her and dragged her into the larder to hide her. Nothing more to it than that.”

  Mrs. Bowen bit back another sob and rubbed her hands over her arms as though terribly chilled.

  “Has anything gone from the butler’s pantry?” I asked, trying to remain practical. “Or the wine cellar?”

  Mr. Davis shook his head. “Not that I’ve seen. Though I’ve not done an inventory this morning.”

  Perhaps Mr. Davis was right, and this was a simple burglary gone wrong. The would-be thief had struck out and then run off once he realized Sinead was dead. The explanation was uncomplicated and likely the right one—perhaps I was seeing intrigue where none existed.

  Mr. Timmons in the attic probably had nothing to do with this unless he’d been the burglar’s accomplice and let the man into the house. However, getting himself run down and breaking his arm would be a severe price to pay to find a way inside. I couldn’t imagine he’d done that on purpose. No, Mr. Timmons had merely gone home in the night, once the laudanum had worn off, wanting to be in his own home with his wife to tend him.

  The burglar was an easy solution, one that I could see Mr. Davis and even Mrs. Bowen wanted to accept. One that I knew in my bones was completely wrong.

  I at last relented and opened the door for Mrs. Bowen, admonishing her not to touch anything. I needn’t have worried, however, because when I peeled back the tablecloth and Mrs. Bowen saw Sinead, she only stood in place, her hands together, shaking her head, crying silently.

  “Shut the door,” Mr. Davis said curtly once he’d taken a look. “Mrs. Bowen, you need a cup of tea. Mrs. Holloway, the family will be wanting their breakfast. You tend to that. I’ll break the news to the master and send for a constable.”

  The gossipy Mr. Davis was now ready to take charge, at last behaving like the head of staff he was. I let out a breath and nodded, knowing we could not keep the death quiet any longer. Even so, I vowed to bring Daniel here before the constables saw Sinead and drew their conclusions.

  I covered her body again, locked the larder door, and returned to the kitchen. Mr. Davis took Mrs. Bowen off to her parlor, speaking soothingly to her all the way. It was true that Lord Rankin and his family would want their meal on time—the death of a kitchen maid, who was nobody in their world, could not be allowed to disrupt the routine of the house upstairs.

  The kettle I’d put on was boiling now, and I poured the water into a teapot into which I’d scooped tea, automatically measuring out exactly one teaspoon per cup plus one for the pot. After that, I threw on a shawl and went out through the scullery and up the outside stairs to the street, frantically looking for any sign of James—the one person I knew would be able to find Daniel.

  I hurried from Mount Street around the corner to Park Street and thence to the mews that ran between Mount Street and Upper Grosvenor Street, where I’d seen Daniel disappear the day before, but I never saw him or James. I continued through the mews, where grooms brushed horses and stared hard at me, wondering what a cook was doing hastening through their world. I emerged onto South Audley Street at its end and went back around to Mount Street, realizing my errand was futile.

  I hurried, wanting to be there when the larder was opened for the constables so I could tell all later to Daniel—if I ever saw the blasted man again. I had no idea where Daniel lived, and so I could not send for him. He only turned up when it pleased him to shock the life out of me, then he’d vanish for weeks at a time.

  Lord Rankin might know how to find him, as Daniel had been a visitor in his own house, but I knew Daniel did not want me to betray my association with him. Otherwise, he’d have greeted me last night or made some sign that he knew me. There was no shame in recognizing another man’s cook. No, Daniel was playing some sort of game with Lord Rankin, and he’d not thank me for rushing to the master and demanding he summon his previous night’s visitor.

  I returned to the house and the kitchen, ready to throw together a meal with the ingredients I had in the cupboards there, but I found myself trembling so hard I had to stop to support myself on the kitchen table’s sturdy top.

  Sinead was dead—the cheerful, pretty young woman at the brink of her life. Gone forever, her life taken by some person who’d thought so little of her he’d simply struck her down because she was in the way. I’d told her she reminded me of myself—I could imagine such a terrible thing happening to me at that age, and I could imagine it happening to the much younger girl in my life, the one for whose sake I’d taken this post at all.

  For a time I held on to the table, my eyes blurring, my breath burning my lungs. I was angry at the house for going on as though nothing happened, for expecting to go on. Sinead was nothing to those upstairs, less even than a mouse behind the skirting board. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bowen went to pieces, while Mr. Davis did his best to comfort her—I could still hear his voice down the passage.

  When I could stand upright again, I poured the tea. Mr. Davis returned to the kitchen to splash a dollop of the master’s best brandy, fetched from the wine cellar, into each of our cups. He told me he’d carry Mrs. Bowen’s back to her parlor and then go up and tell Lord Rankin. I watched Mr. Davis straighten into his butler’s persona as he went down the passage, and imagined he’d convey the news of Sinead’s death in a cool, apologetic tone, never mind how real his own distress had been.

  The br
andy-laced tea revived me somewhat, enough to sort out a makeshift breakfast for the family—sausage and eggs with toast made from yesterday’s bread—and a quick hash of these with potatoes for the staff.

  Once I put the breakfast on the dumbwaiter to be cranked up to the dining room, Mr. Davis sought me out again. “He wants to see you,” he said, rather nervously. “His nibs. His lordship, that is.”

  “See me?” I asked in surprise. “Why?”

  Davis only shrugged, letting his butler’s persona slide away. “Couldn’t tell ya. He weren’t too happy his kitchen maid got herself killed, though I would like to have seen him be a little more upset. Maybe he wants to hear from you how you found her.”

  Lord Rankin was that sort of man, I decided, liking to have his finger on everything that went on in his household. “And the police?” I asked. I wanted to run out again and look for James or Daniel, and having to rush upstairs at Lord Rankin’s bidding first vexed me.

  “Footman went to fetch a constable. I imagine he’ll be back soon.”

  Best I got it over with, then. I put aside my apron, smoothed my hair, and climbed the stairs, my heart heavy.

  When I reached the dining room, however, Lord Rankin did not have any interest in my tale of Sinead. Instead, he tried to sack me.

  5

  Lord Rankin was seated at the head of the table in the dining room, a luxurious chamber with soaring ceilings, white-painted panels, and light blue silk wallpaper. A pretty room, preserved in the classical style of the last century, frozen in time before the ostentation of this century had all but obliterated such elegance.

  The breakfast I’d prepared along with coffee and tea reposed on the table, a steaming cup at Lord Rankin’s elbow. Most of the rest of him was hidden by the open spread of the Times.

  Lady Cynthia sat on one long side of the table, far from Lord Rankin. She’d resumed her man’s dress, today a frock coat and gray and white checked waistcoat, with a gold watch fob dangling from her pocket. The clothes sat well on her figure, and I wondered if she’d been fitted for them, and if so, what the tailor who’d made them thought. I suppose if she paid well enough, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  She, like Rankin, had a newspaper in front of her face, this one the Telegraph. Cynthia lowered it when I came in, folding it neatly to give me her attention.

  Lord Rankin, on the other hand, continued reading, letting me remain halfway between door and table until he deigned to notice me. He was lord and master here and made certain with every passing second that I knew it.

  At last Lord Rankin closed the newspaper, flapped it once to straighten its pages, and folded it in half to lay on the table. No doubt a footman would retrieve it for his valet to press in case Lord Rankin wished to read more later.

  “Mrs. Holloway.” Lord Rankin fixed me with his sharp stare. “I dislike my household to be disrupted. You arrived yesterday and have disrupted it several times already, once by bringing up the coffee when you had no business to, and second by racing through the house causing all sorts of fuss this morning. My wife was awakened by you and her maid having a discussion outside her door, and her maid had to give her a tonic. Likewise I hear it was your idea to bring a person inside my house yesterday after Lady Cynthia’s appalling accident, one who has vanished into the mist, taking God knows what with him. Therefore, you will return to your agency and look for another position.”

  I froze in place, shock rendering me immobile. While I thoroughly disapproved of Lord Rankin’s behavior toward the female staff and knew Daniel’s presence in his study could mean nothing good, I did not yet want to leave. Not only was this house well situated, where I could easily reach the part of London I needed to, I wanted to make certain Sinead was done well by, that Mrs. Bowen was all right, that whoever had killed Sinead was caught. There was far too much going on here for me to simply depart.

  Also, Lord Rankin had no business dismissing me. The domestic tasks were the purveyance of the lady of the house or, in her absence, the housekeeper. I assumed Lady Rankin was still in bed if she’d taken a tonic—likely laudanum—but a genteel lady would not be awake and up this early in any case. Any other day I would send a tray up to the mistress via her maid when she called for it. I wondered if Lady Rankin knew at all that her husband was sending me off.

  “I promise you, your lordship, there will be no more trouble,” I said quickly.

  Lord Rankin’s gaze became icy. “No, there shall not be, because you will not be here. When I give an order to one of my staff, I do not expect it to be countermanded by another, nor do I expect that member of staff to decide who comes into my house without consulting me or my wife.” Lady Cynthia had been beside me when I’d recommended we bring Mr. Timmons inside, but presumably, she did not count in Lord Rankin’s eyes. “Please pack your things and go. You will be paid for your one day.”

  I remained rooted in place, both chilled and outraged, but I had no room to argue, and I knew it. This was Lord Rankin’s house—he owned it outright; it wasn’t part of the entail, according to Mr. Davis. He was at perfect liberty to decide what persons did and did not live in it or work in it. My home was a lodging in the Tottenham Court Road, at least when a room was available there. I had no power here except over my lord’s and lady’s digestions.

  If Lord Rankin dismissed me, the agency might decide to take me from their register—their reputation was at stake as much as mine every time I took a position or was dismissed from such.

  I was working my way around to telling him I’d give notice instead—a less risky way to depart—when Lady Cynthia drawled, “I say, Rankin, it’s too bad of you. She’s a dashed decent cook, and it’s not her fault someone tried to rob the place and clouted the maid over the head. More the fault of your doors and windows than anything else.”

  Lady Cynthia hadn’t eaten much of my food last night, and what I’d cooked this morning had been very plain, so she hadn’t actually tasted much of what I could do, but I had no intention of arguing with her. I simply stood and looked virtuous.

  Lord Rankin turned an interesting shade of red. He could hardly explain to Lady Cynthia that he didn’t trust me because I’d seen Daniel in his study—at least, I assumed this was what his anger was about. He only moved the freezing gaze from me to her.

  “You caused that intruder to be brought inside when you ran him down, Cynthia,” he said. “If you’d have killed him, you’d be in Newgate this very hour. I posit that you are responsible for the girl’s murder.”

  Instead of being cowed, Lady Cynthia snorted. “You think Timmons killed her? The man was bashed up—couldn’t have hurt a fly. Hardly my fault he stepped in front of me, was it? We did the charitable thing by bringing him home and fixing him up.”

  She seemed to have recovered her remorse about hurting Timmons. Lord Rankin was nearly purple now, but his voice remained cold. “You will no longer be allowed near the rig or the horses,” he managed to say.

  Cynthia shot me a cheerful look. “That’s all right. I’ll take the omnibus. And anyway, you can’t dismiss Mrs. Holloway. Not behind Em’s back—Emily told me she liked her. Said she was a damned fine cook, served better food last night than Em’s had in years. I refuse to explain to my sister why you sacked a perfectly good cook and Em has to begin the search all over again.”

  Lord Rankin obviously hadn’t thought of this. From his look, the idea of telling his frail wife he’d turned me out was not a happy one. Perhaps delicate Lady Rankin had more power than I realized.

  Lord Rankin jerked his paper from the table, crumpling it irreparably in the process. “Go back to your duties, Mrs. Holloway, and we’ll say no more about it.”

  Relief washed through me. I would not have to return to the agency to try to explain what had happened, to beg them to keep me on. I would have to make certain that Lord Rankin did not ask for any more maids to visit him after supper, but I could take steps
to prevent that.

  I curtsied the best I could, and Lord Rankin lifted the newspaper as a barrier between himself and the world. Cynthia gave me a wink, but I made myself keep my face neutral as I skimmed out of the room, still a cook and still employed.

  • • •

  By the time I made my hasty way below stairs again, the constable had arrived, with him a policeman in plain clothes, a serviceable suit. Mr. Davis was with the two men in the servants’ hall, giving the constable and suited gentleman the frosty gaze of a butler of a fine household, put out because his duties had been interrupted. Policemen, the look said, were a necessary evil and to be barely tolerated.

  Beyond, through the kitchen to the scullery, I saw a man in a long coat—Mr. Davis whispered to me as I rushed in that he was the coroner. A violent death meant the body was examined as soon as possible, and Lord Rankin had the influence to make certain it was done immediately.

  “What was she doing down here?” the constable, a thin man with thinner hair slicked back from a high forehead, was asking Davis. He had a notebook and pencil, and held the pencil’s tip to the page, peering suspiciously over it at Davis before switching his gaze to me. “She worked for you, eh? What were you doing that you’d find her so quick?”

  I looked straight back at him, lifting my chin as I strove to catch my breath. “I was coming to prepare breakfast for the family and the servants. As I do every day.”

  The man in the suit, whoever he was, only watched me with unnerving light brown eyes while the constable scribbled my answer into his notebook.

  “Next of kin?” the constable went on, pencil poised once more.

  I had to admit I had no idea. Mrs. Bowen had said she was “motherless,” but as Mrs. Bowen was still shut in her parlor I could not ask her at the moment. Mr. Davis did not know either.

  “She was Irish,” I said. “That is hardly helpful, I’m certain. You cannot run the length and breadth of that country asking who has a daughter or sister called Sinead. There are plenty of Irish in England as well.”