Murder in the Servants' Hall

by Addison, Margaret

  ‘Charlie, do you know this young woman?’ he demanded sharply.

  For all his talk about referring to each other by police rank, the surprise seemed to have taken the wind out of his sails. Sergeant Perkins was once again his young nephew, the very same boy whom had so often in his childhood been up to mischief.

  ‘Er … yes, Uncle, I think I do.’ Even so, Sergeant Perkins sounded rather uncertain, as if it was only an impression he had, rather than a certainty he felt.

  ‘Got something of a record, have you, miss?’ enquired Sergeant Harris. ‘Enjoyed some time in prison, I daresay?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ retorted Rose.

  It was not lost on her that the older sergeant was apparently rather enjoying the discomfort of the other two policemen. Rose found that this, coupled with his assumption that she must have a criminal record, adversely coloured her view of him. She did not delude herself that he would regard her more favourably once she made known her true identity. If anything, she rather thought he might think worse of her.

  ‘Look here, Miss … em …’ began the inspector, pausing to look down at the list of names on the table in front of him.

  ‘Denning,’ volunteered Rose. ‘Though, of course, that’s not my real name.’

  ‘It’s like that, is it, miss?’ This was from Sergeant Harris, who stared at her smugly.

  ‘No,’ said Rose firmly. She might have been tempted to say more, certainly to give the sergeant a withering stare, if the other sergeant had not chosen that very moment to awaken from his stupor and become animated.

  ‘Oh, I say!’ Enlightenment finally dawned on Sergeant Perkins. ‘Is that really you, Miss Simpson? Surely not?’ All the while he had been looking at her keenly, as if he feared his eyes were playing tricks on him. Now he thumped the table with the palm of his hand and laughed. ‘I must say, you had me fooled.’

  ‘I don’t blame you at all for not knowing me when I first came into the room.’ Rose smiled at him. ‘I can hardly recognise myself when I look in the mirror.’

  ‘Sergeant Perkins, will you kindly explain how you know this young lady,’ said Inspector Connor. His humour had not improved during the pleasant exchange between his nephew and the maid. If anything, he had become more irritated.

  ‘Perhaps she’s your young lady?’ began Sergeant Harris, clearly enjoying the situation.

  ‘No,’ said Sergeant Perkins blushing furiously. ‘I know Miss Simpson in an official capacity. She is by way of being a private detective and –’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Sergeant Harris loudly.

  The noise, a vocal emission of disgust, seemed to rumble around the room and linger there. That he held that particular occupation in very low esteem was beyond doubt. Indeed, he was regarding Rose even now in a most objectionable way, much in the manner as if she were something unpleasant that had got stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and which he was trying desperately to scrape off. Her dislike of the man intensified, not least because she felt he was trying to do Sergeant Perkins down in the inspector’s eyes.

  ‘A private detective?’ began Inspector Connor, gulping hard and looking considerably displeased by the revelation.

  ‘No,’ said Rose firmly. ‘Really, I am no such thing. At best something of an amateur sleuth. You see, it’s not my occupation. I don’t get paid a penny for it.’

  ‘I see,’ said the inspector, though the expression on his face suggested otherwise. Rather than try to fathom out what the girl meant, it was apparent that he had decided instead to clutch at the facts. ‘Answer me this, young lady, if you please. Are you, or are you not, lady’s maid to Lady Lavinia Sedgwick?’

  ‘Yes … no. That’s to say that I am pretending to be Lavinia’s lady’s maid –’

  ‘That’s no way to refer to your mistress,’ said Inspector Connor curtly.

  He spoke more brusquely than he had intended. It was an opportunity for him to assert his authority on a situation that all the while he felt was running away from him. Lost in a mire of confusion, he grasped at anything that he could take a hold of.

  ‘I don’t see why,’ replied Rose rather primly. ‘Lavinia is by way of being a friend of mine. Why, in a few days’ time she will become my sister-in-law.’

  ‘Oh?’

  This involuntary interjection was from Sergeant Harris. His unpleasant face glowed as the others turned to look at him. His colour heightened. It was obvious he was annoyed that he had been unable to stop himself from voicing his interest in developments.

  ‘Yes. Miss Simpson is about to marry the Earl of Belvedere,’ answered Sergeant Perkins rather smugly. Now that he had mastered his surprise, he found that he was rather enjoying developments and, in particular, Sergeant Harris’ obvious discomfort. ‘He’s Lady Lavinia’s brother, don’t you know? I say,’ he continued, addressing Rose, ‘perhaps I should start practising and refer to you as your ladyship.’

  ‘Yes, doesn’t it sound grand?’ Rose laughed.

  She looked about her, very aware that the other two policemen did not share their amusement. Now that she had established her identity, it was time to conclude matters as quickly as possible. She had spent too long sitting in the library. Any moment now, the butler might return and there were things she needed to say before she was banished to the servants’ quarters.

  ‘I didn’t know Scotland Yard had been called in,’ she began tentatively. She regarded Sergeant Perkins’ attire rather dubiously. It seemed to her that his dress was as much at odds as her own.

  ‘Oh, I’m not here officially,’ Sergeant Perkins said hurriedly. ‘The inspector here is my uncle. I thought I’d just tag along.’

  ‘Well, I’m very glad you did. It’s nice to see a friendly face.’

  ‘Miss Simpson has made quite a name for herself at Scotland Yard, Uncle,’ Sergeant Perkins said, addressing the inspector, keen to put things right. ‘We hold her in very high esteem there, we do. That’s to say, I, myself, Inspector Deacon and even old Inspector Bramwell who has quite a thing against amateur detectives as a rule. Quite a favourite of ours, she is. Why, one or two of the murder cases we’ve investigated might never have been solved if it had not been for Miss Simpson, least not so quickly anyhow.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Sergeant Harris, sounding very sceptical.

  ‘What’s brought you here, Miss Simpson?’ asked the inspector wearily. It was obvious that he had had enough of the games and intrigue and had decided to cut to the chase. This young woman was delaying his investigation and he wanted to put a stop to it. ‘I assume you didn’t know that a murder was going to be committed?’

  ‘No, of course not, Inspector. I was investigating the disappearance of a diamond necklace belonging to Mrs Grayson-Smith.

  ‘Oh, is that so?’ The inspector looked faintly interested.

  ‘Any reason, miss, why you had to do that dressed up as a servant?’ asked Sergeant Harris. ‘I mean to say, what with you becoming a countess any day now, so we’re told.’

  The look which he gave Rose suggested that he was far from convinced of the truth of Sergeant Perkins’ claim regarding her forthcoming elevation in society. Sorely tempted to be outspoken and put him in his place, Rose, after a moment’s reflection, considered it more prudent to pretend to be oblivious to his scepticism. She reminded herself that she would require the cooperation of all the policemen, not just Sergeant Perkins, if she wished to keep her identity a secret from the servants. How easy it would be for Sergeant Harris to let her name slip from his lips as if in error.

  ‘Mrs Grayson-Smith was of the opinion that her necklace had been stolen by one of her servants. Having obtained the facts, I am also of that view.’

  Rose got up from her seat and began to pace the room. It might well have been assumed by the others that her legs had become stiff due to her sedentary position. The reality, however, was that she was very much afraid that Mason would return to the library at any moment. To find her still there when she had clearly finished pouring the tea was one
thing, but to discover her seated and in animated discourse with the policemen was quite another.

  ‘I didn’t think the servants would be very forthcoming with their answers if I were to interview them as Rose Simpson,’ she continued. ‘Mrs Grayson-Smith had already tried and failed, you see, as had the butler and the housekeeper. To disguise myself as a servant seemed the best way to ascertain the truth.’

  ‘Well, you certainly had me fooled.’ This was from Sergeant Perkins, who was grinning at her warmly.

  ‘Any luck?’ This, a sharp interjection from Sergeant Harris.

  ‘I’ve made some progress,’ said Rose carefully. ‘I’ve narrowed down the possible suspects, one of whom was the deceased.’

  ‘Ah! Now we are getting somewhere,’ said the inspector.

  Inspector Connor sounded relieved. To the senior policeman, the conversation thus far had seemed to veer off on a strange tangent. Now it was winding its way back to the matter in hand. It was just possible that this young woman before him, decked out as a maid but purporting to be someone rather more grand, might be in possession of some information that would help with his murder investigation, rather than divert his attention away to lesser, trivial matters.

  ‘There has been no mention of a theft of a diamond necklace that I can tell,’ said Sergeant Harris rather brusquely, stubbornly holding on to his initial view that Rose was nothing more than a nuisance. ‘When did this happen? I am assuming Mrs Grayson-Smith reported the matter to the police?’

  ‘A few days ago. And … no … well, no … she didn’t report the theft. She wanted to make the minimum of fuss, you see. I think she thought the necklace might just reappear of its own accord.’

  Sergeant Harris raised his eyebrows and gave Rose the most cynical of looks. She knew that she was making the most awful mess of things. It was a simple case of explaining why she was there. But she could not help fluster and falter. Really, the man was most disconcerting. It was as if he were willing her to fail and look ridiculous.

  ‘She wished for discreet enquiries to be made,’ Rose said, pulling herself together. ‘Before she went to the police, I mean. Why, she hadn’t even told her husband of the disappearance of the necklace. She wanted to tread carefully before she went about accusing his servants of theft.’

  ‘Worth a lot, was it, this necklace?’ asked Sergeant Harris. He sniffed disparagingly.

  ‘Yes, a small fortune, I believe. Look here,’ said Rose, turning her attention to the inspector, ‘I may be wrong, but it seems to me that there is a strong possibility that the theft and the murder are connected. Oh, I know,’ she put her hand up, as the inspector made to protest, ‘that they are two very different crimes. But it does seem rather a coincidence, don’t you think, that they should occur within days of each other?’

  ‘Possibly. Possibly not,’ said Sergeant Harris.

  The large bulk of the man seemed to tower above her, forcing his opinions on the room so strongly that even if the inspector were tempted to believe her, or even give her the benefit of the doubt, then Sergeant Harris’ very presence in the room would squash such an inclination. Rose appealed to Sergeant Perkins, standing in the shadows in his inappropriate dress, careful not to overstep the mark, yet eager also to make an impression. Whether or not the two sergeants were aware of it, they were both vying for the inspector’s attention, she thought; the nephew in an amiable, pleasant way, Sergeant Harris in an aggressive and offensive manner. She had thought herself to be in luck when she had recognised Sergeant Perkins in the hall. Now she wondered whether her association with him would diminish her standing in the other policemen’s eyes. It was clear that the inspector did not wish to appear to his subordinate to be giving his nephew unfair favour and Sergeant Harris on principle was inclined to dislike anyone associated with Sergeant Perkins.

  Sergeant Perkins stepped forward in response to her silent appeal.

  ‘We will certainly bear it in mind, Miss Simpson. I say, are you suggesting that we may find the necklace hidden among the deceased’s possessions?’

  ‘It is possible, though I think it highly unlikely. It’s more probable that the murderer has it. It may well be the reason Cooper was murdered, to procure the necklace, I mean.’

  ‘We will instigate a thorough search of all the rooms, beginning with the servants’ quarters,’ said the inspector. ‘Sergeant Perkins, perhaps you could oversee that? Good. Now, Miss Simpson, what are you intending to do?’ He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Once you have given us a statement, I think it advisable for you to leave Crossing Manor.’ He coughed decisively as Rose made to protest. Even the two sergeants looked surprised. ‘It is not something I would recommend under normal circumstances. But you cannot remain here in disguise. And once your true identity becomes known … well … I do not think it will be feasible for you to stay here as a guest. I would rather you leave and the servants not know that they have been spied upon. It will make them resentful and uncooperative when we come to interview them.’

  No,’ said Rose. ‘I wish to stay. And I should like to keep up my disguise. Only Lavinia and Mrs Grayson-Smith know who I really am … oh, and Edna of course, but she won’t breathe a word.’

  ‘That is quite out of the question,’ began Inspector Connor.

  ‘It needn’t be,’ said Rose. ‘Don’t you see? I feel responsible. If I hadn’t been here investigating the theft of the necklace, this murder may never have happened.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Sergeant Harris.

  ‘Miss Simpson, I hardly think you should consider yourself to blame –’ began Sergeant Perkins gallantly.

  ‘I cannot possibly leave now,’ Rose continued doggedly. ‘If nothing else, don’t you see what an advantage it could be for you to have me remain here in disguise? I could find things out that you couldn’t possibly. Gossip among servants and all that.’

  ‘It would be highly irregular and far too dangerous,’ replied the inspector.

  ‘Only if my true identity becomes known. They all believe I’m Lavinia’s lady’s maid. No one suspects me of being anyone else. Really, I’m quite safe.’

  ‘Miss Simpson is a one for danger, Uncle,’ said Sergeant Perkins. ‘She won’t be told. You should have heard Inspector Deacon on the subject. He talked to her until he was quite blue in the face, he did.’ He grinned at Rose. ‘You showed him, though, didn’t you, miss? I reckon you can look after yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I think I can.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Inspector Connor with certain misgivings.

  ‘I will be very careful, Inspector, I promise.’

  The inspector had been thinking as much about the unwelcome presence of an amateur detective in their midst as to her safety if she were to persist with her subterfuge. It was enough that he had his nephew there in an unofficial capacity. And look how well Sergeant Harris had taken that! He stole a glance at his subordinate, who was not bothering to hide the glare upon his face. Even so, the inspector’s mind started working, an independence and strength of character coming to the fore that until that moment had seemed lacking. He was not a man to be dictated to by an underling, not even one as belligerent as Sergeant Harris.

  He reminded himself also that his nephew was there at his invitation. It was also true that it was unlikely that he could deter the girl from following her chosen course of action now that she had put her mind to it. She was a stubborn one, he could see that. Of course, he could denounce her in front of the staff, though caution forbade him to do so. If what Charlie said was correct, and he had no reason to suspect otherwise, indeed the girl had corroborated his claim, she was on the verge of marrying into the British aristocracy. In which case his own superiors would wish him to tread carefully. There was no use being heavy-handed for the sake of it. Besides, there might be certain advantages in having an accomplice in the servants’ hall. He had a strange feeling about this case. He had only been in the house a little time, but the servants would close ranks, he felt sure of
it. They would prefer that some things stay hidden …

  ‘Righto, that settles it,’ said Rose cheerfully.

  Even to her own ears, it was a rather ludicrous statement to make. Matters had very clearly not been concluded, yet she tore from the room before the inspector, deep in thought, could say anything to the contrary. As she hurried to the safety of the kitchen through the green baize door and down the servants’ staircase, the sound of her footsteps echoing loudly on the wood, she was very aware that the situation was not as she had envisaged. In her mind’s eye, as soon as she had spotted Sergeant Perkins in the hall, she had imagined her presence would be welcomed, if not with outstretched arms, at least tolerated. She had fully intended to sit down and tell the policemen all she knew. In particular, Mason’s theory about the keys. It would add support to her argument to remain in disguise. Now, however, she realised that to do so would jeopardise her position. Two of the policemen were not particularly agreeable to her involvement in the case, indeed, one of them was openly hostile. She must give them no cause to dismiss her proposal. It was far better to leave the library before the inspector had the opportunity to voice his opposition. She thought it unlikely that he had been swayed by her argument. Indeed, had he not said as much? He was uneasy about her subterfuge. But until Inspector Connor forbade her outright she would remain here in her servant disguise. She would stay in the shadows, watchful and alert, waiting for the murderer to make an error or reveal himself in the mistaken belief that she was of little threat or consequence.