Murder in the Servants' Hall

by Addison, Margaret

  There had been a time, years ago, when she had hoped for more. Housekeepers and butlers married all the time, she’d told herself, so why shouldn’t she and Mr Mason? It had seemed the logical extension of their professional partnership. Only Mr Mason didn’t appear to think so. He had given her no sign, uttered no warm or tender words. For a while, she had been content to admire him from afar. As the years progressed, she had made her own tentative and hesitant advances. They had been gently, but effectively, declined. It became obvious, even to her own lovelorn heart, that he did not feel the same way about her as she did about him. Initially, the realisation had left her distraught. In time, she had come to accept the situation, had made do with the platonic companionship that he did offer her. But unrequited though her love might be, her heart still ached and burned only for him. There had never been anyone else. In her own way, she had grudgingly made do with loving him in a quiet, unobtrusive manner.

  ‘They’re not much more than children, Pearl and Edna,’ the butler said at last. ‘It is a pity it was them that found her. It near breaks my heart to know they saw what they did.’

  ‘They had no reason to be in the servants’ hall that time of day,’ replied the housekeeper, herself close to tears. ‘It should have been me that found her, Mr Mason.’

  ‘Far better if it had been me, Mrs Field.’ He leaned back heavily in his armchair. ‘I don’t mind telling you that I never thought something like this would happen in a place where I was butler. I feel I’ve let them all down, the family and the servants.’

  ‘No more did I, Mr Mason,’ said Mrs Field, deciding not to comment on his feelings of responsibility. It would only prolong his despondent mood, and the police would be here soon. She didn’t want them to see him like this. She leaned towards him in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I never liked Miss Cooper, no I never. Thought rather a lot of herself, she did. A bit of a looker, as you might say, and didn’t she know it. There’ll be a man involved in this, you mark my words. I’ve been giving it a bit of thought, so I have. How it could have happened, I mean. I reckon she let him in, don’t you? Waited for us all to retire to bed. She must have been one of the last up, what with the mistress entertaining. She waits for the coast to be clear and then lets him in as bold as brass. They must have had an argument and he done her in. I say, Mr Mason,’ she tried to get his attention, for he was staring into the distance, ‘don’t you think I’m right?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ replied the butler gravely. The air of desolation hung about him like a cloak. ‘I cannot tell you how much I should like to believe that the murderer came from outside. A mythical young man as you describe, Mrs Field, or a tramp perhaps … what a relief it would be to believe that such a man existed and that he gave Miss Cooper the fatal blow.’

  ‘But that’s how it must have happened, Mr Mason,’ the housekeeper said, a note of urgency in her voice. Her bottom lip was trembling. She had stopped what she was doing so that her cup was paused halfway to her mouth. Next her hand shook, and for a moment it looked as if she might spill her tea. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that the murderer was someone in this house? How could you think such a thing?’

  ‘Because I know it to be true.’

  The harshness of the words hung in the air. The housekeeper, for her part, felt as if she had been hit squarely in the face.

  ‘How?’ she demanded. ‘How could you possibly know such a thing?’ She felt the anger rise up within her. Why must he pour cold water on the version of events she had created in her mind, the only scenario that was bearable? She took a deep breath in an attempt to quell her resentment. She hoped vehemently that he would not say as much to the police.

  ‘Because Miss Cooper would not have been in a position to let a stranger into the house, even if she had had a mind to. No,’ the butler raised a hand as the housekeeper made to protest, ‘hear me out, if you please, Mrs Field. It really is quite simple. She did not have a key.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Field. ‘The key to the servants’ entrance is always kept on the hook beside the door.’

  ‘It certainly used to be,’ agreed Mason. ‘But, since the disappearance of madam’s diamond necklace, I have been in the habit of removing it each night lest the thief should seek an opportunity to escape with his spoils.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said the housekeeper, thinking rapidly. ‘Perhaps she chose instead to go through the main house and to let him in through one of the French windows. I admit it would take some nerve, but I don’t think you would have found Miss Cooper wanting there.’

  ‘I’m afraid that would not have been possible, either. You see, Mrs Field, I also took the precaution of locking the doors into the main parts of the house. I did not want to risk another theft.’ The butler bowed his head. ‘I am sure you understand what that means. No one could get in to the servants’ quarters and –’

  ‘No one could get out.’ The housekeeper stifled a sob. ‘You are saying it was one of us?’

  ‘Exactly, Mrs Field. Miss Cooper’s murderer must have been one of the servants.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Somewhere in the depths of her lethargy and despair, Millicent was reminded of her duties as hostess. In truth, it was the minute Rose had re-entered the room in that hideous maid’s dress of hers. No, Millicent reflected, she was being a little uncharitable. There was nothing wrong with the outfit itself save that it was a little old-fashioned, even by Millicent’s standards. But to know, as she did now, that the girl was about to marry into the British aristocracy … well, it seemed a little ridiculous that she should still be wearing that unflattering ensemble. Rather to her surprise, she noticed Rose had returned the spectacles to sit on her nose, which had the effect of altering her appearance considerably. For a moment, a little part of Millicent wondered whether she had been dreaming. Perhaps this girl really was Lavinia’s lady’s maid and Rose Simpson was still at Sedgwick Court, making the final arrangements for her forthcoming marriage. So much of the events of this morning had seemed unreal. Therefore, would it be so very surprising if she had conjured up Rose Simpson’s presence in her house, a figment of an over active or exhausted imagination?

  ‘I must ask Mrs Field to prepare you a room,’ she said, addressing Rose. ‘There’s no reason for you to stay in the servants’ quarters now. The theft of my necklace is the last thing on anyone’s mind after … after what’s happened. Lavinia said she would join me for breakfast in my room. You will too, won’t you? I’ll just ring for another plate. And do please call me Millicent.’

  ‘No,’ said Rose rather abruptly.

  ‘Oh?’ Millicent was taken aback. Perhaps the events of the morning had all been a dream after all.

  ‘No,’ repeated Rose hurriedly. ‘Please don’t do that, Mrs Grayson-Smith.’ She rushed over to Millicent and clasped her hand in an effort to secure the woman’s full attention. ‘That’s why I’m here, why I came back. I’ve come to ask you to keep my identity a secret, please. From the other servants, I mean.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ Millicent withdrew her hand from Rose’s and looked at it rather as if it had been contaminated. ‘Surely I should at least tell Mason and Mrs Field?’

  ‘No, I don’t want you to do that. The situation has changed. Don’t you see? We are no longer discussing a missing necklace. We are now talking of murder.’ Rose paused to look in the mirror and adjust her spectacles. ‘It will give me an advantage to remain as a servant.’

  ‘An advantage?’

  ‘Yes, in trying to solve the case,’ explained Rose. ‘Of course, I shall be obliged to tell the police who I am.’ She sighed. ‘It’s unfortunate, but hopefully I can persuade them to be discreet.’

  ‘You are going to try and find the murderer?’ said Millicent slowly, her face pale. ‘Do you think that wise? Won’t it be dangerous? Hadn’t you much better leave it to the police?’

  ‘Oh, she couldn’t possibly do that,’ excl
aimed Lavinia. Unobserved by either woman, she had entered the room quietly and had evidently overheard the latter part of Millicent’s speech. ‘Rose has rather a thing for murders, as you know, and she’s frightfully good at solving them.’

  ‘I … I don’t know,’ Millicent said rather hesitantly. ‘That’s to say, I might forget. I will probably call you Rose or Miss Simpson or even your ladyship, in front of the servants by mistake. I’m afraid it’s the sort of thing I might do. I have a tendency to get rather nervous, you see.’

  Lavinia made a face and opened her mouth to speak, no doubt a disparaging remark forming itself on her lips. Rose intervened hurriedly.

  ‘You needn’t worry about that. I’m going back to the servants’ hall now. I’ve been gone too long as it is. There is no reason why you need see me again until … until this business is all over. In fact, I shall go out of my way to ensure that you don’t. One of the housemaids can attend to you.’

  ‘I … I don’t know,’ repeated Millicent. ‘It makes everything so complicated, more complicated than it is already, I mean. And what should I say to Edwin? When is he coming home, do you know?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid,’ said Rose. ‘You will need to ask Mason. It was he who telephoned Mr Grayson-Smith.’ She gave Lavinia an imploring stare.

  ‘I will see what I can do,’ Lavinia’s answering look seemed to say. She patted Millicent’s arm absentmindedly in what she considered to be a reassuring gesture. Millicent appeared not to be of the same view, for she withdrew from her into the bedcovers.

  ‘Now, I need to telephone Cedric,’ Rose said, smiling at the spectacle. ‘He will need to know what’s happened. If nothing else, we will probably be prolonging our stay.’

  She made to go to the door.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Lavinia said, half rising. ‘Not if you want the servants to think you’re my lady’s maid, that is. I know what you will be like, whispering sweet nothings and giving the game away. No,’ she held up her hand as Rose made to protest. ‘I’ll telephone Ceddie and tell him what’s happened. It will be all I can do to stop him coming down here. If he hears your voice, there will be no hope. And he’d be absolutely hopeless at pretending that you’re just my lady’s maid. He could never act, poor lamb, even when we were children. You should have seen him when he pretended to be St George attacking the dragon –’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Rose, rather dejectedly. ‘I suppose you are right. It wouldn’t be very sensible.’

  It had been the one bright spark in the whole of this affair, she thought, an excuse to speak to Cedric. Yet Lavinia’s reasoning was sound. Much as she may try, Rose could not fault it. How could she possibly talk to Cedric without casting off her trappings as a maid and being herself? Oh, to have him here now, helping her to solve the case as he had done on previous occasions. He had considered himself Watson to her Holmes, but in doing so he had done himself down. His very presence inspired her and fuelled her imagination. And how much more bearable everything would be to have him here. Instead, she must contend with a difficult Millicent on one hand and the hierarchy of the servants’ hall on the other. Suddenly the whole ludicrousness of the situation occurred to her. Here she was, on the eve of her wedding, embroiled in a murder investigation that had very little to do with her. Really, there was nothing to prevent her from leaving and returning to Sedgwick …

  But, even as these very thoughts played out in her mind, she knew that there was something that kept her here. It had nothing to do with upholding her reputation as an amateur sleuth. That meant very little to anyone but Lavinia, and only to her as a means of explaining why her brother, one of the most eligible men in England, had seen fit to choose a shop girl for his bride. The real reason she could not contemplate leaving had to do with the diamond necklace or, more precisely, her investigation into its disappearance. For at the back of her mind lurked a little, but persistent, voice, nagging at her, whispering in her ear that had she not been there raking up the dust in the servants’ hall, encouraging gossip and prying into secrets that were none of her concern, the lady’s maid might still be alive today.

  ‘So, what’s the local inspector like? Do you know him, Millicent? Is he any good?’

  Lavinia’s words roused Rose from her musings with a jolt.

  ‘The local inspector?’ Rose queried, before Millicent had a chance to answer Lavinia’s question. ‘Won’t they be calling in Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Over the death of a lady’s maid? Well, of course not,’ Lavinia said, openly derisive. ‘Really, Rose, what were you thinking? It is hardly likely to be the most complicated of cases. The woman looked the sort to have a sweetheart. I think we’ll find that the murderer was a jealous or rejected lover.’ She beamed. ‘You’ll probably have it all solved by teatime, Rose.’ Lavinia turned her attention to focus on Millicent. ‘Rose probably hoped it would be one of her friends from Scotland Yard. The rude Inspector Bramwell, perhaps, or the young and rather dashing Inspector Deacon …’

  Rose blushed. Mention of Inspector Deacon brought back with it recollections of the last time she had seen the man in question. It had been at the conclusion of the last murder inquiry in which she had found herself, an investigation into the murder that had occurred at Renard’s dress shop. Inspector Deacon, who was already known to her from previous cases, had been the officer in charge of the investigation. He had not welcomed her help due to fears for her safety, being of the view that the murderer was very likely to be someone she considered a friend or acquaintance. Her cheeks flushed crimson. Goodness knows what he would think now, she thought, if he could see her dressed up like this and pretending to be a servant. It was almost a relief to know that she would not be required to explain to him the reasoning behind her disguise.

  Her thoughts drifted to memories of Madame Renard’s little flat. She remembered her very last conversation with the inspector. The scene itself flooded back into her mind. They had been standing in the makeshift kitchen-cum-bathroom, an area partitioned off from the main room by a curtain. They had been washing up and drying the tea things. A cup and a saucer, that had been all that had been left to do. Inspector Deacon had been waiting for an excuse to talk to her. He had had something to say to her, something important. And she had panicked because she had known that once it was said, it could not be unsaid. There had been a brief moment … and then Cedric had arrived and told Inspector Deacon about their engagement …

  Rose made her way quickly back to the servants’ quarters. She flew down the steep flights of stairs, her feet tapping loudly on the wooden boards so that the noise echoed within the confined space. Yet, she had seen and heard Agnes run up and down these very steps so quietly as to make hardly a sound. Looking down at her feet, she realised that the girl must have trodden on what remained of the old, dull linoleum, which was so worn in places as to be almost non-existent. The same linoleum, though in better condition, continued down into the passage, leading to the servants’ hall. Rose took a moment to pause and study its dull brown and cream design. She saw that the small pattern evident on the stairs had given way to a more elaborate design of leaves and flowers, bordered by a bold design of thick plaited rope. The overall illusion was that the floor was covered by a long linoleum rug.

  It was while engaged in this activity that Mrs Field came upon her, her stiff skirts bustling as she walked.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Miss Denning. We were wondering where you’d got to. Mr Mason and I are requiring a word, if you please.’

  Similar to the butler before her, Rose found herself expertly manoeuvred into the housekeeper’s sitting room. Mr Mason, it appeared, was already in occupation, clutching a lukewarm cup of tea in one hand and a saucer in the other.

  ‘Ah, Miss Denning.’ He rose from the old armchair and discarded the china on a convenient occasional table. ‘I understand from Mrs Field that you are appraised of the … eh … exact nature of Miss Cooper’s death?’

  ‘Yes. Edna told me. Poor girl, she was
very frightened.’

  ‘That girl needs to learn when to hold her tongue!’ said Mrs Field crossly. ‘Gossiping to visiting servants like that –’

  ‘She was in shock,’ said Rose rather abruptly. ‘She needed someone to talk to.’

  ‘That’s as may be –’ began the housekeeper before she was quickly interrupted by the butler.

  ‘I am sure Miss Denning can appreciate that this is a particularly nasty business,’ said Mr Mason, ‘and that, as such, it requires delicate handling.’ He began to pace the room, considerably hindered in his progress by both the lack of space and the abundance of worn furniture. ‘It’s an awful business, but we, as senior servants, have a responsibility to the staff. We must ensure that they are not unduly upset and that the house continues to operate as smoothly and efficiently as possible.’

  ‘That is all very well,’ said Rose, finding herself annoyed by what she took to be the butler’s rather pompous attitude, ‘but a murder has been committed and the police are likely to want to interview all the servants. The staff will need to be told the truth.’

  She cast a glance around the sitting room with its shabby but genteel furniture. It looked worn, very like the butler and housekeeper themselves, all trying desperately to keep up appearances. It seemed to her a losing battle, the sagging seats, the faded velvet, the old rug, threadbare in places, Mr Mason and Mrs Field, their faces lined and a ghastly shade of grey …