Murder in the Servants' Hall

by Addison, Margaret

  ‘It is indeed, Edna,’ said Rose. ‘It’s just the sort of thing I want to know.’

  ‘Well, you’d never guess, miss.’ Edna bent forward, her face lowered. ‘It was the copper saucepan.’

  ‘Not the one that held the soup?’ Rose made a face.

  ‘None other,’ said Edna triumphantly, a gleam in her eye.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ asked Rose.

  She had availed herself of some of the soup from that very receptacle the previous evening. She felt a tightening in her throat and an inclination to retch which she fought stoutly. It would not do to succumb to a feeling of nausea. In front of the two young girls before her she must appear strong and above such things.

  ‘Yes. It was the saucepan all right,’ said Edna, grinning in spite of herself. ‘It was on the table. The shine from the copper caught the light and drew my attention to it. And then I saw the smear of blood.’ She shivered. ‘It was horrible.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ said Rose rallying. ‘Do you remember anything else? Something unexpected or which struck you as odd, for instance?’

  ‘Well, now that you mention it, there was something,’ said Edna. ‘It didn’t strike me at the time, but now that I think about it, it was a little strange.’

  ‘Oh? And what was that?’

  ‘Miss Cooper had on her black dress, as you’d expect. The one with the lace at the neck. Honiton lace, she always said it was, but Pearl and me, we never believed her.’

  ‘But you said there was something odd?’ pressed Rose.

  All the while she had been listening for footsteps, and now her ears had detected them dim and faint at the other end of the corridor. Perhaps Edna had heard them too because she turned towards the open door and looked into the passage furtively.

  ‘She was wearing her coat,’ said Edna, scarcely above a whisper. ‘It wasn’t done up, which was how I could still see the dress, but she was wearing it all right.’

  Before Rose had a chance to react to such news, the footsteps had quickened and become louder. In a moment, Agnes was in the doorway, holding on to the doorframe. She was in something of a dishevelled state. Some of her hair had come down from her bun so that it poked out untidily beneath her maid’s cap. It was her eyes, however, that drew their attention. They were red and puffy and her lip trembled. To some extent she resembled Pearl. But she had not been the one to find the murdered woman, Rose reminded herself. And Agnes had merely been admonished by the housekeeper for smoking and spoiling the washing. It was something which was probably a regular occurrence. Hadn’t Pearl said as much? Why then had it produced such a dramatic response from the girl? As she looked on, it occurred to Rose that the girl had been crying about something else entirely.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ‘Well now, it’s Mason, isn’t it?’ Inspector Connor, his voice somewhat gruff, appraised the man standing before him.

  The old type of servant, he would have said, the sort that was hard to get these days. They weren’t made the same way they were before, not since the war. For a moment he was almost tempted to chuckle, for his brief, instinctive summing up had little to do with his own thoughts. Instead, it had been based on the observations of his old maiden aunt. The very words she would have uttered had come to his mind almost as if she had been there to utter them herself. So instilled in him was her assessment and views of servants that he found it difficult to view them objectively. With a concerted effort, he tried to rid his thoughts of all but his own perceptions.

  That Mason was the same man who had attended on them following their arrival at Crossing Manor hardly registered with the inspector, for then the butler had been no more to him than a servant in a house that was evidently full of them. It had nothing to do with Mason’s station in life, or the class from which he came. Had he been a member of the landed gentry, he would have been of little more interest to the policeman. It was only now that the butler was both a witness and a potential suspect in his investigation that he was worthy of note in the inspector’s eye. He had been elevated to a level of importance in the policeman’s mind that he had not held before. Putting his maiden aunt and her distinctive views firmly from his mind, Inspector Connor set to evaluating the man thoroughly, making no pretence at doing otherwise.

  It was difficult to determine whether Mason, his face impressively impassive under such scrutiny, would have been relieved to know that he had made a favourable impression. In the inspector’s own words, he had ‘passed muster,’ based purely on the man’s ability to stand upright and adopt a manner that was at once deferential without being annoyingly subservient. Of course, the inspector thought, it was a pity about the man’s chest. Pigeon chested, they called it, if he wasn’t mistaken, the breastbone protruding forward as it did in an almost comic fashion. He resisted the temptation to smile, even as the thought came to him suddenly that the butler looked as if he were wearing a corset, so severe was his deformity. Such an uncharitable observation was swiftly followed on its heels by one of pity, for the inspector was of a sympathetic disposition by nature.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Straight backed, despite the offending chest, Mason stood with his head held firmly aloft, his figure tall and lean, his expression attentive, without being inquisitive.

  ‘Been butler here long?’ enquired the inspector. It seemed fitting to him to adopt a chatty manner, to tempt the man to deviate from his natural propensity for being reserved.

  ‘Twenty-nine years, sir, almost to the day.’

  ‘Indeed? Well, I never. I daresay there’s not much you don’t know about this place?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘I suppose a house this size requires a great deal of management?’ There was the faintest inclination of the butler’s head. ‘To make sure everything runs properly and efficiently and all that?’ persisted the inspector.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The two words were said blandly and without sentiment. It occurred to the inspector that the man must spend his days uttering them.

  ‘Have to ensure there are no bad eggs and all that to spoil the broth?’

  This was met with silence and a fixed, glazed expression appeared on the butler’s face. The inspector tried again, deciding that the best course of action was to be more direct.

  ‘A man in your position needs to keep an eye on things. Needs to make sure everyone is pulling their weight, no one sneaking out for a cigarette when their services are required, that sort of thing.’

  The inspector spoke in such a tone of voice as to imply that what he was saying was a given fact rather than a question.

  ‘I pride myself in thinking that not much occurs at Crossing Manor without my knowledge.’ Mason permitted himself to incline his head very slightly, and for a smile to hover for the briefest moment across his distinguished face.

  ‘Would that include murder?’ Sergeant Harris interjected sharply before the inspector could follow the same line of questioning at a more leisurely pace. His superior inwardly cursed the man for his impatience. The butler had showed signs of thawing. Now he would close up again, with the shutters put back in place. As if in adherence to the inspector’s prediction, the butler paled slightly, but he did not falter. No word of horror escaped his lips. Instead, he said politely, but firmly: ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You pride yourself on knowing your staff well though?’ persisted Sergeant Harris, not to be outdone. ‘I wager you know which one would be more likely than another to do a young woman to death?’

  He was met with an icy silence. A moment or two elapsed before Mason deigned to give a reply. Pointedly looking the sergeant in the eye, he said: ‘I cannot believe that anyone here at Crossing Manor is capable of such an act, certainly no one among the staff.’

  ‘Oh? Are you suggesting that we should look further afield? Among the family, perhaps, or the guests?’ Sergeant Harris’ manner was impertinent. Inspector Connor looked away, somewhat embarrassed by what he perceived to be his subordinate’s unnecessarily aggressive stance. The butler, ho
wever, remained silent, looking fixedly ahead of him as if he were focused on something in the middle distance.

  ‘You see our problem though, Mason, don’t you?’ said Sergeant Perkins gently, entering the conversation for the first time. ‘The murder occurred in the servants’ hall and by your own admission the outside doors and the doors from the servants’ quarters to the main house were locked. I understand you told Sergeant Harris that when he arrived?’ The butler nodded. ‘Well then, it stands to reason that the deceased must have been killed by a servant. You do see that, don’t you? There is no other explanation.’

  He looked at the man kindly. Unlike Sergeant Harris, he was of a sufficiently sensitive disposition that he could sense the servant’s distress. What they were telling him, the man knew already.

  ‘I say, I suppose there’s no chance you could have overlooked fastening one of the doors or windows?’ Sergeant Perkins felt compelled to ask. ‘One of the shutters to the window in the scullery, perhaps?’

  ‘No, sir, all were locked and barred. I’m very particular, I am, when doing my rounds. I try every door and window in turn after I’ve closed and locked them, just to make sure that they’re fast.’

  ‘Is it usual to lock the doors into the main house?’ asked the inspector, a little sharply. ‘What would happen if there were to be a fire?’

  The butler swallowed hard, but said nothing. It was obvious, even to the most casual observer that he was trying to concoct a suitable reply.

  ‘Ah, if I were a betting man I’d say you only started doing that since the theft of the necklace,’ said Sergeant Harris. He was watching the butler closely and smiled when he perceived his remark had had an impact.

  ‘The theft of the –?’ Mason did not finish his sentence and a note of something akin to both surprise and fear revealed itself in the butler’s voice. That he had been taken greatly unawares by the suggestion was obvious.

  Sergeant Perkins, watching on, fumed inwardly at the callous disregard shown by his fellow sergeant. By revealing their hand so early on in the investigation, they were risking Rose’s exposure. The matter of the theft should not have been raised, at least not until after they had interviewed Millicent Grayson-Smith. It would have appeared quite natural to all for the mistress of the house to refer to the disappearance of her diamond necklace during the course of her interview. However, for Sergeant Harris to have mentioned it now before anyone had been interviewed and no report of the theft had been made to the police …

  Looking across at his uncle, it was clear that Inspector Connor was of the same opinion. He was glancing at the butler nervously, as if he wondered what was going through the man’s mind. Even Sergeant Harris looked as if he had realised his mistake. His face had reddened and he appeared unusually interested in studying a particular spot on the floor, as if it provided a very significant clue. At length, he raised his head as if about to speak. However, before he could say anything further, the inspector, arguably not before time, seized the reins and took command of the situation by thumping his fist on the table. For a moment it looked as if his cup and saucer might go flying; certainly the china made a disquieting, rattling sound.

  ‘Look here, Mason. From what you have just told us, it must be as clear to you as it is to us that we are looking for a murderer from within the servants. You’re a wise sort of a chap, I can see that, and you have a sense of duty both to the family and to the law. Now,’ he paused and raised a hand as the butler made to protest, ‘I know this is a rum old business. It’s never nice to be forced to accept something which is highly unpalatable. But there it is, I’m afraid. And who other is better placed than yourself to suggest a culprit?’

  ‘I can suggest no one, sir,’ said Mason stubbornly. His face was white and, for the first time, his gaze was averted, so that he stared at a spot on the wall a little above the inspector’s left shoulder.

  He won’t look us in the eye, thought Sergeant Perkins. He has some one in mind, all right, but he won’t let on.

  ‘Your loyalty to your staff does you credit,’ began Inspector Connor. ‘But it’ll do no good. Trying to protect the guilty party, I mean. It’ll all come out in the end; it always does. Now, let’s take this fellow Albert Bettering. The chap’s got something of a criminal record, I believe, as I’m sure you’re aware. I wouldn’t have thought it usual myself for a chap like him to be employed in a place like this. Too many temptations for one thing, and I can’t see Grayson-Smith accepting it. He’s just the sort of man who’d be most particular about his staff, I’d have thought.’

  ‘Just youthful high spirits,’ the butler said rather weakly. ‘He’s a good fellow, Albert is. He has the makings of a fine footman.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Sergeant Harris sounded his usual sceptical self.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mason firmly, though his face flushed crimson.

  ‘Not a relative of yours by any chance?’ suggested Sergeant Harris.

  It was a lucky shot, but all three policemen saw at once that it had hit home. Gone was the professional façade. Instead Mason’s face seemed to crumble. Certainly there was a marked twitching of the eye, and one hand was clenched, the knuckle showing white.

  ‘He’s my sister’s son.’ He said slowly. His voice was quiet and dull. If they had not seen the outward signs, they would have been forgiven for believing the voice lacked emotion.

  ‘Ah, I thought as much,’ said Sergeant Harris, a smug look on his face. ‘Grayson-Smith doesn’t know about your nephew’s criminal past. Vouched for him, did you?’

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ Mason mumbled, his voice scarce above a whisper, almost as if he were talking to himself. Sergeant Perkins was of the opinion that the man lacked conviction, as if the words that sprang from his lips were not of his own choosing.

  There was a strong possibility that the interview would falter and come to an end almost of its own accord, before the routine questions had been quite dealt with. Inspector Connor, keen to resume his original line of questioning which had focused on more mundane matters, cleared his throat and rustled the papers before him to signify a shift in the form of questions to be asked.

  ‘Well, there you have it, sir,’ said Sergeant Harris as the door closed behind the retreating form of Mason. ‘Clear as day, it is. The butler’s nephew did it. The uncle as good as said as much.’

  ‘The butler has his suspicions certainly,’ said the inspector more cautiously. ‘At the very least he knows it looks bad for the boy. And even if the lad didn’t kill the lady’s maid, he more than likely stole the necklace.’

  ‘No doubt about that,’ agreed his sergeant, ‘not when you take into account his record. Been in trouble with the law ever since he was in long trousers.’

  ‘I wonder if Miss Simpson is right,’ pondered Sergeant Perkins aloud. ‘That there is a connection between the two crimes, I mean.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sergeant Harris grunted somewhat reluctantly. ‘Though our Miss Simpson’s just using it as an excuse to keep on snooping.’

  ‘Right,’ said Inspector Connor quickly. The topic of Rose’s rather contentious role in the investigation was not one he wished to pursue. He did not want the discussion to disintegrate into an argument. ‘Look back through your notes, Harris, there’s a good chap, and remind us what the butler had to say for himself. If you remember, I missed some of the interview because I had to take that telephone call from the Chief Constable. I’m not saying I missed anything of importance, but I can’t be too sure. No need to go through all of it, mind. I know the bare bones of it. Mason did his rounds as usual. Left everything locked and barred and shipshape, according to his account, and we’ve no reason as yet to doubt it.’

  ‘If anything, quite the reverse,’ said Sergeant Perkins, keen not to be excluded from the conversation. ‘It would have been in his interests to be vague. To protect his nephew, I mean.’

  Sergeant Harris raised his eyebrows, as if to suggest that the interruption was unwelcome, or even that he was a little bored
by it.

  ‘What I’m trying to say,’ continued Sergeant Perkins, aware that his uncle’s eyes were upon him, ‘is that he could just as easily have said that he was not certain. He could have left a margin of doubt, said his attention had been diverted, that type of thing.’

  ‘The man’s an honest sort, doesn’t like to tell a lie,’ said the inspector, ‘not if he can help it. You can see that as soon as you set eyes on the man. It doesn’t come natural to him, not like it does to some.’

  ‘That nephew of his, for instance?’ This contribution was from Sergeant Harris.

  ‘Quite. Now, let’s get back to this butler fellow,’ said the inspector, keen not to be diverted from his purpose. ‘He must have been one of the last persons to have seen Miss Cooper alive.’ He began to pace the room in a thoughtful fashion. ‘Now, whichever way you look at it, he couldn’t retire to bed until the last servant had returned to the servants’ quarters, on account of his having to lock the doors to the main house behind them. Five doors in all, there are, one opening out on to the entrance hall and two on either end of each landing, opening out from the servants’ staircases.’

  ‘According to his statement, sir,’ said Sergeant Harris, flicking through the pages of his notebook until he had found the relevant note, ‘the deceased was the last to return last night from doing her duties in the main part of the house. Yes … here we are. The footman, our friend Albert, had brought down the coffee tray from the drawing room and gone outside into the kitchen courtyard for a smoke. The housekeeper didn’t hold with smoking in the servants’ hall. Thought it encouraged the maids to take up the habit. Averse to it, she was. Sounds like a bit of a martinet, if you ask me. So the fellow had to go out into the cold. Mason waited from him to return and locked the door behind him directly he had come back inside. The butler says his nephew then went straight to bed, though that’s not to say he didn’t come downstairs again.’