by Anne Perry
You must tell Jack when next he calls.
If there is anything else, I shall tell you as soon as I hear it.
Your loving sister, Charlotte
Emily held the paper with tingling fingers. Her hands were numb and already her mind was racing. The woman in cerise! And the lady’s maid who had seen her in the York house in the middle of the night was now dead.
But they would never get beneath the smooth, supremely disciplined surface of the Yorks’ facade by going for the odd afternoon tea, or walking round the Winter Exhibition and exchanging a few slight confidences on fashion or gossip. Pitt had disturbed something much deeper than an old burglary, or the question of Veronica’s suitability to become the wife of Julian Danver. This was something of such passion and horror that even three years later it could erupt without warning into violence-and now, it seemed quite possible, murder.
They must get closer, much closer-in fact, they must get inside the Yorks’ home.
But how?
An idea occurred to her, but it was preposterous! It would never work. To start with, she would not be able to carry it off; she was sure to be found out immediately. They would know.
How would they know? It would be difficult-of course, it would-she would have to behave entirely differently, alter her appearance, her face, her hair, even her hands and her voice. An Englishwoman’s background could be identified by her voice the moment she spoke; no servant had those rounded vowels, the precise consonants, even if the grammar had been meticulously copied. But Veronica York would be needing a new lady’s maid, someone who would be there all the time, in the unguarded moments, someone who would see everything, as only those who are invisible can. And domestic servants are invisible.
Knowing it was absurd, Emily went on planning how it might be done. She had had a lady’s maid all her life-first her mother’s, then her own-and she knew the duties by heart. Some she would certainly not be very good at; she had never really tried to iron, but surely she could learn? She was rather good at doing hair; she and Charlotte had played at doing each other’s before they had been allowed to wear their hair up. She was adequate with a needle; there could not be all that much difference between embroidering and mending.
The difficulty-and the danger-would be in altering her manner so that she passed for a servant. What was the worst that could happen if she were discovered?
She would be dismissed, of course, but that hardly mattered. They would think she was a well-bred girl who had fallen into some sort of disgrace that necessitated taking a menial position. They would almost certainly assume she had had an illegitimate child, that was the kind of disgrace women fell into. It would be a humiliation, but a brief one. If they ever met her again as Lady Ashworth they would be unlikely to recognize her, because it would never occur to them that it was she; if it did, she could brazen it out. She would look daggers at them and suggest they had lost their wits to make such an offensive and tasteless suggestion.
As a lady’s maid she would not meet any guests to the house; she would never be asked to wait at table, or answer the door. Perhaps the idea was not so absurd after all. They would never discover who had murdered Robert York if they continued as they were. They were playing at it, touching the fringes, knowing there was a terrible passion under the conventional surface, but only throwing around guesses as to what it was, and whom it had pushed into murder. Inside the York house she could learn infinitely more.
She shivered suddenly, thinking of the danger. Being dismissed as a fallen woman would be nothing, a brief embarrassment. But if by some horrendous mischance they did recognize her as Emily Ashworth, they would assume she had taken leave of her senses, that George’s death had robbed her of her sanity. The scandal would be appalling! But there was no reason why that should happen.
No, the real danger was from the person who had already killed Robert York, and possibly Dulcie, killed her simply because she had seen or heard something. Emily would have to be exquisitely careful! She must pretend to be stupid, and innocent, and she must always, always guard her tongue.
The alternative was to give up-to go on sitting here in black, either alone or talking polite rubbish to the few people who called on her, until Caroline arranged some wretched committees for her to be righteous on. She would get nothing but secondhand reports from Charlotte. She would not contribute anything at all herself. Even Jack would be bored with her soon.
By the time Jack called at midmorning she had made the decision. Thank goodness she had not sent that wretched letter to Aunt Vespasia. She was going to need her help. She would call on her that afternoon.
“I’m going to the Yorks’,” she announced as soon as Jack came in.
“I don’t think you can do that, Emily,” he said with a slight frown.
“Oh, not socially!” She waved her hand, dismissing the notion. “Their lady’s maid saw Aunt Addie’s woman in cerise at the Yorks’ house as well, in the middle of the night. She told Thomas-and now she’s dead!”
“The maid?”
“Yes, of course the maid!” Emily said impatiently. “The woman in cerise has vanished, and she must have something to do with treason, and almost certainly Robert York’s murder. We must find out all we can, and we shan’t do that by calling for tea now and then.”
“What else? We can hardly walk in and start interrogating them,” Jack pointed out.
“Even if we could, that wouldn’t do any good.” Emily was excited now. Whatever Jack said it was not going to put her off. For the first time since George’s death she was going to do something totally outrageous, which he would certainly have forbidden, and she was glad there was no one who could command her obedience. “We must be subtle,” she continued. “We must observe them when they have no idea, and little by little they may betray themselves.”
He was at a loss to understand, and with delight she dropped her bombshell.
“I am going to take the position of lady’s maid! I shall write one reference myself, and get another from Great-aunt Vespasia.”
He was stunned. “Good God! You can’t! Emily, you can’t go as a servant!”
“Why not?”
The first minute spark of humor lit in his eyes. “You wouldn’t know how, for a start,” he said.
“I would!” Her chin came up, and she knew she must look and sound ridiculous. “For goodness’ sake, Jack, I’ve had a very good lady’s maid for years. I know perfectly well what she does, and I can do it myself in a pinch. I certainly had to learn how when I was a girl.”
He started to laugh, and at any other time she would have thought it a delightful sound, full of joy and vitality. Now she heard derision in his laughter, and it was extremely provoking.
“I’m not saying it will be easy!” she said sharply. “I am not used to having people tell me what to do, and I shan’t like being at someone else’s beck and call, but I can do it! It will be something of a change from sitting here all day doing nothing at all!”
“Emily, they’ll find you out!” His laughter vanished as it dawned on him that she might be serious.
“Oh no they won’t! I shall be a model of good behavior.”
Disbelief was written all over his face.
“Charlotte has got away with being Miss Barnaby,” she carried on determinedly. “And I’m a far better liar than she is. I shall go this afternoon, otherwise I may be too late. I have written myself a glowing reference, and I shall obtain another from Aunt Vespasia. I have already telephoned her- did I tell you I have acquired a telephone? It’s a wonderful thing; I don’t know why I didn’t get one before-and she is expecting me this afternoon. She will write an introductory letter for me if I ask her.” She was not at all sure that Aunt Vespasia would do anything of the sort, but she would do all she could to persuade her.
Now he looked really concerned. “But Emily, think of the danger! If what you are supposing is true, then someone murdered the maid. If they have even a suspicion of you, you could end
up the same way! Leave it to Thomas.”
She swung round on him immediately. “And what do you suggest he do? Go as a footman? He wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to get on, apart from the fact that they know him already and that he is with the police. From what Charlotte says, his superiors aren’t interested in Robert York’s death. All they want to do is make sure Veronica is suitable to marry Julian Danver!”
“Oh come on!” Jack turned sideways in the chair opposite her. “That’s what they said, but it’s obviously an excuse. They don’t care in the least what Veronica does, if she’s discreet about it. And if she weren’t they’d know without anyone’s finding out for them. They’re suspicious about York’s death and whether Veronica had a lover or not, and if he or even Veronica herself murdered Robert. They are just too devious to have said so outright.”
She stared at him. “Are they? What about treason? What about the woman in cerise?”
He thought for a moment. “Well, that could have been Veronica herself after an assignation with Julian Danver, if they were lovers then.”
“Then it was Julian who killed Robert York?”
“Possibly. The fact that he’s an agreeable fellow is irrelevant. Some of the worst cads I’ve known have been charming, as long as you didn’t stand in their way. Or it could have been Harriet leading a double life, with Felix Asherson. She’s obviously in love with him.”
“Charlotte didn’t tell you that!”
“My dear girl, she didn’t need to! Do you think I’m a complete fool? I’ve seen too many flirtations not to know when a woman’s in love. She was polite, she pretended he was a friend and of no romantic interest. She avoided his eyes, and looked at him when he was turned away. She was so careful it must matter to her very much.”
She had had no idea he was so perceptive. It came as a sobering surprise, puncturing her confidence.
“Indeed,” she said coldly. “And of course you are never mistaken-you can read women just like that!” She tried to snap her fingers and failed to make the sharp sound she wished, producing instead only a faint thump. “Hellfire!” she said under her breath. “Well anyway, I am going to the Yorks’. There is something hideously wrong in that house, and I shall discover what it is.”
“Emily, please.” His voice changed completely, the lightness vanished. “If they catch you out in the least thing they may well realize why you are really there! If they pushed one maid out of the window they won’t hesitate to get rid of you, too!”
“They can’t push two maids out of the window,” she said with chill reason. “Eyebrows would be raised, even at the Honorable Piers York!”
“It doesn’t have to be a window,” he said, getting angry himself. “It could be the stairs, or a ladder. They could push you under a carriage wheel, or it might be something you ate. Or you could simply disappear, along with a couple of good pieces of the family silver. Emily, for God’s sake, use a little sense!”
“I am bored to screaming with using sense!” She turned round fiercely and glared at him. “I have worn black, seen no one, and been sensible for six months, and I am beginning to feel as if it was me they buried! I am going to the Yorks’ to be a maid and discover who murdered Robert York, and why. Now, if you wish to come to Great-aunt Vespasia’s with me, you are welcome. Otherwise, will you please excuse me, because I have work to do. I am telling my own staff that I am going to stay with my sister for a while. Of course I shall tell Charlotte the truth. If you want to help, that will be very nice; if not, if you prefer to disassociate yourself, I shall understand completely. Playing detective is not for everyone,” she finished with immense condescension.
“If I don’t help, Charlotte will be left high and dry,” he pointed out with a slight smile.
She had forgotten that. She was obliged to climb down, but it was hard to do it gracefully.
“Then I hope you will feel able to continue.” She did not look at him. “We must keep in touch with the Danvers; they are certainly part of it.”
“Does Charlotte know about this-plan of yours?”
“Not yet.”
He drew in breath to comment, then let it out again in a sigh. Seeing men behave like fools was one thing, but he was not accustomed to this behavior in women. He had to readjust his thinking, but Jack was adaptable and had remarkably few prejudices. “I’ll work out a way to keep in touch with you,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Don’t forget, most houses don’t allow maids to have ‘followers.’ And they’ll comment on letters, maybe even read them if they suspect it’s an admirer.”
She stopped. She had not thought of that. But it was too late to withdraw now. “I’ll be careful,” she conceded. “I’ll say it is my mother or something.”
“And how will you account for the fact that your mother lives in Bloomsbury?” he asked.
“I. .” At last she faced him.
“You haven’t thought,” he said candidly.
For a moment she blessed him for not being patronizing. If he had been gentle it would have been the last straw. She remembered her own early days of social aspiration, the constant struggle to keep up, to say the right thing, to please the right people. Those born to acceptance can never understand the feeling. That was one of the things she and Jack shared, a sense of being outside, accepted as long as they charmed and amused, but not by right. He had felt the sting of unconscious superiority too often to practice it himself.
He was waiting for her to flare up; instead Emily was reminded of how much she liked him. He had said nothing of the risk to her social position.
“No,” she agreed with a small smile, quite calmly. “I would be obliged if you would help me sort out such details. I shall have to say my sister is in service, if they ask me. There are plenty of residential servants in Bloomsbury.”
“Then she must have the same surname. What are you going to call yourself?”
“Er, Amelia.”
“Amelia what?”
“Anything. I can’t use Pitt, they might remember it from Thomas. I once had a maid called Gibson; I’ll use her name.”
“Then you’ll have to remember to write to Charlotte as Miss Gibson too. I’ll tell her.”
“Thank you, Jack. I really am very obliged.”
He grinned suddenly. “I should think so!”
“You are going to do what?” Great-aunt Vespasia’s silver eyebrows arched high above her hooded eyes. She was seated in her spare, elegant withdrawing room, dressed in mulberry silk with a pink fichu at the neck that was fastened with a seed pearl star. She looked frailer than before, thinner, since George’s death. But some of the fire had come back into her glance, and her back was as straight as ever.
“I’m going to go to the Yorks’ as a lady’s maid,” Emily repeated. She swallowed hard and met Aunt Vespasia’s eyes.
And Vespasia stared unflinchingly back at her. “Are you? You won’t like it, my dear. Your duties will be the least part of your burden; even obedience will be less irksome to you than assuming an air of meekness and respect towards the sort of people you normally treat as equals, whatever your private thoughts may be. And do remember, that goes for the housekeeper and the butler as well, not just the mistress.”
Emily could not dare to think of it or her nerve would desert her. A small timorous voice inside her wished Aunt Vespasia would come up with some unanswerable reason why she could not possibly go. She knew she had been unfair to Jack; he had been concerned for her, that was all. She would have been hurt if he had not objected to the plan.
“I know,” she admitted. “I expect it to be difficult. I may not even last very long, but this way, I can learn things about the Yorks that years of visiting couldn’t achieve. People forget servants; they think of them as furniture. I know. I do it myself.”
“Yes,” Aunt Vespasia agreed dryly. “I daresay your own maid’s opinion of you might be a salutary thing for you to learn, if you ever get above yourself. No one knows your vanity, nor your frailtie
s, quite like a maid. But remember, my dear, for precisely that reason one trusts a maid. If you break that trust, do not expect to be forgiven. I do not imagine Loretta York is a forgiving woman.”
“You know her?”
“Only in the way everyone in Society knows everyone else. She is not my generation. Now, you will need some plain stuff dresses and some caps and aprons, some petticoats without lace, a night shift, and some ordinary black boots. I am sure one of my maids will be near enough to your size. And a plain box to carry them in. If you do this highly bizarre thing, you had at least better do it properly.”
“Yes, Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said with a sinking heart. “Thank you.”
Late that afternoon, without perfume or the merest rouge to heighten her pale color and clad in a dowdy brown dress and a brown hat, Emily alit from the public omnibus carrying a borrowed and much used box. She walked to number two Hanover Close to present herself at the servants’ entrance. She had in her reticule, also borrowed, two letters of recommendation, one from herself and the other from Great-aunt Vespasia. She had been preceded by a call on the new telephone, which Aunt Vespasia delighted in, to announce her coming. After all, there was no point in applying for this position if it were already filled. Aunt Vespasia had learned that it had not been filled, although there were applicants in mind. The elder Mrs. York was very particular, even though the maid was actually to serve her daughter-in-law. Still, she was mistress of the house, and would say who worked in it and who did not.
Aunt Vespasia had asked after Mrs. York’s health, then proceeded to commiserate with her about the distress and inconvenience of losing a maid in such circumstances. She had remarked that her own lady’s maid, Amelia Gibson, who had served her most satisfactorily, was now, in Aunt Vespasia’s declining years and semiretirement from Society, really more than she required, and was consequently looking for a new position. She was a girl of reliable family, long known to Vespasia, who had also been in the service of her great-niece, Lady Ashworth, whose accompanying testimonial would bear witness. Vespasia hoped that Mrs. York might find Amelia of satisfactory skill and disposition. Vespasia would vouch for her character.