‘They will have to know sooner or later,’ Rose said, rather more brusquely than she had intended. ‘They’ll guess as much when the police start questioning them. I can understand, Mr Mason, why you withheld that a murder had been committed until after they had got used to the idea that Miss Cooper was dead, but this … this is far too serious. They might be in danger.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Field. ‘It stands to reason that the murderer wanted to kill Miss Cooper, and Miss Cooper alone. Why should anyone else be in peril? And why can’t the killer be someone we don’t know, someone from outside? Who says –?’
‘I’ve told her,’ Mason said. He had adopted the familiar stance of putting his hand to his forehead. ‘I’ve told her about the keys.’
‘Now, why did you want to go and do a thing like that, Mr Mason?’ cried the housekeeper. She put a handkerchief to her eyes and sniffed. ‘We could have kept it to ourselves, you and me. I’d never have breathed a word, you know I wouldn’t, not without your say so. Oh lor’, Mr Mason, what have you done?’
‘It’s no good, Mrs Field, the police have got to be told the truth, and there’s an end to it. Goodness knows, I wanted to say something just now. I wanted to warn him, really I did, give him a chance to escape.’ The butler himself seemed close to tears, certainly his face was ashen and he had given way to a stoop. ‘But my duty is to the master and it’s to justice. Lord knows I’ve tried to do my best by the boy, but there’s no helping some folk. You’ve said as much yourself, Mrs Field, he’s a bad ‘un, that’s what you said.’
‘He’s that,’ agreed the housekeeper. She appeared to Rose to have regained a little of her composure. Her eyes were still moist and the hand that held the handkerchief shook, but the voice that spoke was steady, if resigned. In a tone that was dull and emotionless, and scarcely above a whisper, she said: ‘I suppose if anyone deserves to hang, it’s him.’
Chapter Seventeen
Inspector Connor realised as soon as he introduced his nephew to his own sergeant, that the two of them wouldn’t get on. Or, perhaps to be more precise, that Sergeant Harris would take an instant, and quite irrational, dislike to Sergeant Perkins. For Charlie was a pleasant and affable enough young chap, though his uncle said so himself and probably shouldn’t. Sergeant Harris, in comparison, was considerably senior in terms of age, somewhat set in his ways and had an inbred distrust of what he called foreigners, which to all intents and purposes included Londoners. Of course, Inspector Connor sighed to himself, it did not help matters that his nephew did not look the part of a Scotland Yard detective. True, it was a relief that he was not putting on airs and graces which the solid and reliable Sergeant Harris would have despised and taken umbrage at, but nor did he exactly look like what he purported to be. They had been so quick to abandon their breakfast and make for the scene of the crime that Charlie had not delayed in stopping a moment to change his clothes. He had come as he was, dressed for a day in the country. And Sergeant Harris was staring at him now, openly derisive at his choice of outfit, consisting as it did of pullover, tweed jacket and flannels. All Inspector Connor could say to himself was thank goodness he was wearing a tie, even if it was a horrid little knitted affair.
‘A Scotland Yard detective, you say?’ Sergeant Harris pointedly looked Charlie up and down. ‘Well I never? And is this what passes for professional dress in London?’
‘Of course not,’ laughed Sergeant Perkins. ‘My presence here is strictly unofficial, Sergeant, I can assure you. To the best of my knowledge Scotland Yard’s not been called in. I’m here on holiday and have merely decided to tag along as you might say. Hope you don’t object? I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.’
Sergeant Harris grunted but said nothing, a somewhat sour look on his rather ugly face. His jowl was heavy and fleshy and his eyes had a tendency to look downcast and runny even when he was in a jovial mood. His appearance reminded Sergeant Perkins rather aptly of a bloodhound, and the young man was obliged to turn away slightly to hide his grin.
They were standing in the drive of Crossing Manor. Sergeant Harris, efficient and dedicated to his job in his own way, had arrived at the house a little earlier than the others and had set to carrying out the preliminary inquiries that the errant Constable Jones had so neglected. On hearing the car, he had appeared at the door and come hurrying down the drive to greet his superior. Sergeant Perkin’s emergence from the car had taken him aback, as had Inspector Connor’s introduction of the young man as his nephew.
The poor chap’s jealous, chuckled Sergeant Perkins. It’s bad enough to find out I’m his inspector’s kin, but to discover I’m a Scotland Yard detective as well. That just about takes the biscuit as far as he’s concerned.
Sergeant Harris led them into the house, very purposefully walking beside the inspector and leaving Sergeant Perkins to dawdle behind. This provided the young man with an opportunity to look around him and take in the grandeur of the house, made all the more surprising and impressive by its uninspiring exterior, which had fully prepared him to expect the worst. But it was soon apparent that whatever the outside of the house might be lacking, it was more than made up for by the interior. For this included rich and ornate furnishings of Venetian brocade and heavy velvets, and a great oak staircase which reared up from the entrance hall. At the top of the stairs was a balcony encasing the landing, on the walls of which an impressive collection of old portraits hung and seemed, from their size and elevated position, to bear down on the visitors like sentinels. For a moment he thought one of the old faces had actually moved. It was of course just his imagination, or a trick of the light. Yet, he fancied he’d caught a quick glimpse of something retreating back into the shadows. As he progressed further into the house, he caught exciting peeks into the rooms that led off the entrance hall. Some had walls of highly polished wood panelling, others housed grand fireplaces of veined marble. Sergeant Perkins soaked up the atmosphere which wealth had made possible, something new and fine and opulent drawing his attention with every tilt of his head, so that he found himself mesmerised by the experience and a little over-awed. He therefore listened with only half an ear to what Sergeant Harris was saying, particularly as the conversation was directed very obviously to his uncle rather than to himself.
‘I’ve had a look at the corpse and had a word with the butler. He’s of the old school type, knows his duty and wants to protect the family’s reputation, as you might expect in a place like this. He’s had a nasty scare all right, but he’s not about to lose his head.’
‘Good,’ said the inspector. ‘Let’s hope the rest of the staff follow suit.’
‘Oh, I doubt that, sir,’ replied Sergeant Harris rather smugly. ‘T’was a young girl who found the deceased. Not much more than a child, the scullery maid. She’s in an awful state. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet. But I’ve heard her sobbing fit to burst. There’s talk of sending for the doctor to give her a sedative, though I’ve said we’d like to have a quick word with her first. If all else fails, it seems she’s talked to the kitchen maid.’
‘All right,’ said Inspector Connor. ‘Now, have they given us the use of a room? The library? Very good. Come with me both of you. Harris, you can give us the particulars of this case as you see them. And then I’d like to view the body. I suppose we’d also better have a word with the lady of the house.’
‘I believe she’s still dressing, sir,’ said Sergeant Harris.
‘Good. It was really only out of courtesy. I’d rather interview the servants first. We’ll start with that respectable butler of yours.’ The inspector made his way towards the library. ‘But before we do anything, you’ll need to tell us what you know about this business, Harris.’ He hovered for a moment at the entrance to the room. ‘I say, any chance of a cup of tea? My breakfast was rather rushed this morning, to say the least.’
As soon as the library door shut behind the policemen, Rose emerged from her hiding place. She had been loitering on the landing, on the
pretext of holding a bit of lace up to the light to see if it required mending, standing a little way from the balcony, keen to catch a glimpse of the inspector as soon as he arrived. For she had been unable to get the thought out of her head that she would know as soon as she laid eyes upon him, by his general demeanour and build, whether he was the sort of man who’d be agreeable to the proposal that her true identity remain a secret from the servants. It was illogical, she knew, and, to make matters worse, her first glimpse of the man had not been promising, for he bore a striking resemblance to Inspector Bramwell, a policeman who had harboured an aversion to any type of amateur detective.
Rose had recognised the young man in country dress as someone she knew, though at first she could not place him. It was only when he lifted his head to stare up at the old portraits that she had known him to be Sergeant Perkins. The realisation had taken her quite by surprise, for hadn’t Lavinia laughed at the idea that Scotland Yard would be brought in to investigate the death of a domestic? Her astonishment had the effect of dulling her senses and preventing her from reacting immediately. For while she could hope for no better advocate of her detective abilities than Sergeant Perkins, to have him acknowledge her and call out her name in the open environment of the entrance hall was the last thing that she desired. It was true that Mason appeared to be elsewhere and there was no sign of the footman or a maid lingering covertly in the shadows to overhear any exclamation of recognition, but who knew who might be situated out of sight behind a half closed door or concealed on the servants’ staircase?
After what seemed like quite a few moments, her wits had returned, and she had taken a step or two backwards into the shadows until she was all but hidden from view. Though Sergeant Perkins had visibly started, which might indicate he was aware of a presence above, she was tolerably confident that he had not recognised her. Certainly he had not called out to her, nor drawn her presence to the attention of the other policemen.
Rose stole down the great staircase as quickly and quietly as she could. The rich pile of the carpet under her feet contrasted sharply with the old wooden boards covered in deteriorated linoleum that she had become accustomed to in this house. It was also the first opportunity she had had to study the grand hall, her duties since her arrival at Crossing Manor having been confined to the servants’ quarters and Lavinia’s bedroom. She did not, however, pause for a moment to take in her fine surroundings. For there was an urgency about her task. Curiosity could not be allowed to hinder her steps. While she had been hovering in the darkness with bated breath lest her identity be revealed, she had made up her mind what to do. She would go straight to the library and make herself known to the policemen.
Resolute and determined in her purpose, she had just reached the penultimate stair, when the library door opened and someone came out. It was Mason. He wore an agitated look, which turned to surprise when he saw her perched guiltily on the stair. He took a step back, drew himself up to his full height and gave her a hard, penetrating stare. Rose shrank from such a look. She did not doubt for a minute that she looked mortified. She had been caught in the act and her cheeks flushed crimson.
‘Miss Denning, what are you doing using the main staircase?’
‘I … I was getting a book from the library, Mr Mason. Her ladyship thought she had left her book on the table.’
‘I am afraid that is quite out of the question. The police are now in possession of the library and are not to be disturbed under any circumstances.’ He permitted a frown to crease his brow and a tut-tutting sound to emit from his throat. ‘Servants are required to use the back stairs at all times, Miss Denning. I know you are relatively new to service, but really!’ He proceeded to adopt something of a schoolmaster manner, as if he were addressing a wayward child. ‘The main staircase is for the sole use of the family and their guests. Except of course when it is being cleaned by the housemaids. But they are careful not to be seen by the family and to spend as little time upon it as possible.’
‘Yes, Mr Mason.’ Rose lowered her eyes and hoped she appeared suitably contrite.
‘Have you seen Albert?’ asked the butler, changing the subject and looking about him. ‘I thought he’d be here in the hall. The policemen require refreshments –’
‘I’ll go and tell the kitchen,’ said Rose, eager to redeem herself in the butler’s eyes and divert any suspicion that he might have concerning her purpose for being on the stairs.
She made her way to the servants’ quarters by way of the back stairs, and waited while Edna boiled the kettle. The kitchen maid was regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, but the kitchen appeared to be the new haven of the displaced servants and Rose had no opportunity to speak to her in private. All the time she stood there waiting, Rose’s mind was racing. It had not occurred to her before how stifling and confining the rules of staff etiquette would be. While remaining in the guise of a servant, she must be seen to adhere to them. Had she been Rose Simpson and not Daisy Denning, then she would have been quite at liberty to venture into the library without being challenged. Certainly she would not have been rebuked by Mason and scolded for using the wrong stairs. Now, however, it appeared that accomplishing her mission was going to prove quite a feat.
She must have daydreamed for she was brought to by the chink of china as the cups and saucers were arranged on the tray. The teapot, with its boiling water, was added, as was a milk jug and sugar bowl. Edna, she noticed, was looking about her for a convenient footman or parlour maid to take in the tray. Before the girl had a chance to hail anyone, Rose grabbed the tray from her.
‘Ssh! I’ll take it in.’
‘Mr Mason won’t like that,’ whispered the kitchen maid, a worried look on her face. ‘It’s a footman’s duty or a parlour maid’s. He’ll be ever so cross. He likes things to be done proper, does our Mr Mason.’
‘Well, that is just too bad,’ muttered Rose. ‘If questioned, I’ll say I couldn’t find Albert. He’s always sneaking outside to smoke. You see, I need an excuse to get into the library. I must speak to the policemen, Edna, tell them who I am.’
Rose had spoken so softly that her voice was barely audible, even to her listener. Even so, she looked around quickly, anxious in case their exchange had been overheard. To her relief, everyone seemed too engrossed in their own tasks or conversations to pay her much heed.
Rose staggered up the servants’ stairs with the laden tray. Negotiating the steps was more difficult than she had imagined, so confined and dark was the space. At one point she almost slipped. Certainly she could not help some of the tea slopping on to the saucers and the tray. By the time she had emerged in the hall, she was thinking how deft the maids and footman must be. To her relief the hall appeared to be deserted. Quickly she put the tray down on one of the occasional tables that littered the entrance hall and mopped at the spilt tea with her handkerchief as best she could. The result was rather slipshod, but she could not afford to waste any more time. Any moment now, a servant could appear and take the tray from her and the opportunity to appraise Sergeant Perkins of the charade she was participating in would be lost.
She tapped on the library door and stood impatiently before it, holding the tray in front of her. To her dismay, the door was opened by the ever present Mason, who stared at her aghast.
‘Albert couldn’t be found and I wanted to make myself useful,’ she mumbled hurriedly.
She had intended to hold her head up high and catch Sergeant Perkins’ eye as soon as she entered the room. Now, however, this was the furthest thing from her mind. With the butler still in the room and eyeing her suspiciously, she must conceal her identity at all costs. She bowed her head and prayed that the old-fashioned spectacles were sufficient to disguise her appearance. Because her head was bent over the tray, her view was obscured, and she could only imagine the reaction to her arrival in the room. In her mind’s eye she saw Sergeant Perkins staring at her, mouth open. Any moment now he would surely call out her name.
/> She scurried over to a table conveniently placed at the other side of the room, as far removed from the policemen as possible. With her back to them, and with trembling hands, she proceeded to pour out the tea, all the time straining her ears to hear the welcome sound of the door opening and closing behind the butler. It was quite possible of course that he might choose to remain until she had finished her task so that they could go out of the room together. It would provide him with another opportunity to scold her. She only hoped that he had better, and more pressing, things to do with his time.
As if in answer to her prayers, she heard the door open and close softly. She stole a glance around the room. The butler had gone. The only inhabitants now were herself and the three policemen.
‘Ah, tea, just what we need,’ Inspector Connor was saying. ‘Just leave it there please, and we will help ourselves. No need for you to wait on us –’
The inspector broke off from what he was saying. For a most astonishing spectacle was playing out before him. The maid, having abandoned the tea things, had leapt across the room in the least decorous of fashions, drawn a chair up to the desk and dropped herself into it with a heartfelt sigh. Before any of them could utter a word, she had discarded her spectacles, which she had then thrown carelessly on to the desk. The bowed head had looked up, but he found that it was not at him she was staring or addressing her attention. For some reason, his nephew had caught her interest and, by the look of him, she his.
‘Oh, Sergeant Perkins,’ said the maid. ’Thank goodness. You don’t know how difficult it has been to get here. But I’ve managed it at last.’ She smiled sweetly at his vague, bewildered face. ‘You do recognise me, don’t you?’
Chapter Eighteen
For a moment, no one said a word. It was so quiet in the library that the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was the only sound in the room, loud and intrusive. Rose sat there impatiently, and for the first time a little nervously, waiting for the spell to be broken and for Sergeant Perkins to acknowledge her in his usual amicable way. She imagined that it would be a matter of only a few seconds before his face erupted into its characteristic grin, or an excited exclamation of recognition leapt from his lips. However, the young man remained oddly silent, as he peered at her closely and the time ticked by. She felt awkward and self-conscious, and disinclined to make an announcement of her own, though the prolonged silence seemed to necessitate it. The other two policemen showed various degrees of confusion and astonishment at her initial outburst, which was hardly surprising, a young woman in maid’s uniform tumbling into the room and assuming a degree of intimacy with one of its inhabitants. After a minute, this display of emotions was joined by something akin to a sneer on Sergeant Harris’s jowly face, as if he found the whole situation highly amusing. Particularly so, because it appeared to be to the detriment of Sergeant Perkins. Conversely, Inspector Connor’s complexion became red and angry, his manner indignant, as if he himself were embarrassed by a faux pas. His jaw had dropped as he had witnessed Rose’s rather unorthodox behaviour. Now, having recovered a little from his initial surprise, it was obvious, even to the most casual observer, that he wished to get matters back on to an even keel. The interruption had been highly irregular and he had found it displeasing. He would not permit it to cast a lasting shadow over his investigation.
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