The Maid’s Secret

by Emily Organ

  “We both worked on the Lizzie Dixie case. And the St Giles murders,” said James.

  “You look rather young, Inspector,” said Mr Conway. “You are an experienced fellow, though, I presume?”

  James told him about the recent cases he had worked on, and mentioned that both his father and grandfather had been in the police force. I listened intently to his voice and felt privileged that I already knew the information he was imparting. However, I felt it wise to feign indifference by examining the ink stains on my fingers.

  “Jolly good,” said the proprietor when James had finished. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you’re made of, young man.”

  “We’ve just explained the nature of your investigation to Miss Green,” said Mr Sherman. “Are you all prepared?”

  “Yes, I think so,” replied James. “Glenville is a rather intriguing character. I can’t say I like the man, but I’m impressed by his rise from factory boy to owner of Blundell’s.”

  Mr Conway snorted. “I don’t see what there is to be impressed about. The man’s a criminal.”

  “That’s what we need to prove, isn’t it, Mr Conway?” said James.

  “He is a criminal. Everyone knows it, but the evidence required to convict him in a court of law continues to evade us.”

  “If his working practices are in contravention of the Factory Code, surely it should be easy to prosecute him?” I said.

  “Exactly, woman,” replied Mr Conway. “But it doesn’t seem to happen. This is precisely why we need to find out who’s helping him. Someone with influence is looking out for the man.”

  “May I ask again what I shall be required to do?” I said. “Will Inspector Blakely keep me informed about his work in order for me to write about it?”

  “More than that,” said Mr Sherman. “Much more than that. We plan to attempt something we have never tried before. Do you recall your colleague, Edgar Fish, working undercover for us down in St Giles earlier this year? That was a great success.”

  “But he returned covered in lice!” I replied.

  “A hazard of the occupation, I’m afraid. He entertained our readers with a great number of tales from the slums, and that’s what matters.”

  “You wish me to work undercover?”

  “Exactly, Miss Green. And don’t worry, there won’t be any lice. The Glenvilles are advertising for a governess, and you are well placed to fill the role.” He gave me a rare smile. “What do you make of that, Miss Green?”

  I stared at him and wondered whether I had heard him correctly.

  “A governess?”

  All three men looked at me.

  “A governess looking after children?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s what governesses do,” replied Mr Sherman. “You have something of a governess about you, Miss Green. You’re well educated and I’ve no doubt you possess a nurturing streak. Most women do.”

  “No, not a governess. It’s impossible, I could never do such a thing. I have no idea how to do the job.”

  “It’s just teaching children letters and numbers. And a bit of French. You know French, don’t you, Miss Green?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Sherman, but I refuse to work in the Glenville household as a governess. I understand why you wish to carry out this investigation, but I would be too busy with the children to pay any attention to what was going on in the household.”

  Mr Sherman suddenly appeared less cheerful. “It wouldn’t be for long, Miss Green. A matter of weeks.”

  I turned to James. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

  “Not even for a few weeks?” he asked.

  “That’s the problem!” I replied. “Those poor children would grow accustomed to me, and then I would have to leave them. It’s not fair on them. They require a proper governess, not a news reporter pretending to be one. I don’t object to working undercover, but I simply couldn’t deceive the children. It wouldn’t be fair. They shouldn’t be caught up in this investigation.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Miss Green has a point,” said James eventually. “I don’t intend to argue with her any further on this matter. I know that when her mind is made up about something there is little use in trying to change it.”

  Mr Sherman sighed. “Miss Green, it’s not sporting to disobey an order.”

  “I understand, sir. I take pride in my work and am happy to do what is required of me. But involving the Glenville children in my undercover work is too much to ask of me, I’m afraid.”

  “Never mind, Blakely,” said Mr Conway. “You’ll just have to do what you can. I will still pay you what we agreed.”

  My mind whirled as I searched for an alternative answer. Mr Glenville was clearly an unpleasant man, and we had been presented with an opportunity to uncover his misdeeds. Without my help on the inside, James would likely find the task much more difficult.

  “What about a maid’s position?” I asked.

  Mr Sherman’s bushy eyebrows met above his nose as he frowned. “You’re no maid, Miss Green. You’re of a different class.”

  “I should be willing to try.”

  “You’d be completely unconvincing. You don’t even speak like a maid.”

  “I’m sure that I could act the part.”

  “You have no experience of service.”

  “Mr Sherman, a moment ago you thought I would be a suitable governess despite my having no experience whatsoever. A maid would be easier, surely? I could come up with a story to explain my background. Perhaps my family was middle class but fell on hard times. Service was the only work I could find at the time, and then I realised that I enjoyed it.”

  “It’s vaguely plausible, I suppose,” wheezed Mr Conway. “Are the Glenvilles currently looking for a maid?”

  “Perhaps, Miss Green, you could call at the house and enquire,” said Mr Sherman. “It would be the first test to discover whether you’d be convincing in the role or not.”

  “I’m happy to try. What would I do about a reference?”

  “My aunt, Mrs Fothergill, said she was happy to declare that you were in service to her as a governess. I can ask her to stipulate that you worked for her as a maid for some years.”

  “Thank you.” I paused to think over what I was agreeing to. “It all seems rather deceitful, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s what we call undercover journalism, Miss Green! This line of work is particularly popular in America. Americans tend to know what they’re doing, I keep my ears pricked at all times for interesting developments from across the Atlantic.”

  “Quite right, too,” added Mr Conway. “Inspector Blakely, do you think this woman could pass for a maid?”

  James smiled at me. “I think she has a good chance, sir. Miss Green is a very determined lady.”

  “Jolly good,” said Mr Conway. “In that case, let’s get on with it.”

  He began to rise out of his chair and we all rose to our feet.

  “In the meantime, Miss Green, it might be an idea to ask your own maid for some advice on how to do chores,” said Mr Sherman.

  “I don’t have one, sir.”

  “You don’t? Then how on earth are you to understand the duties of a maid?”

  “To be honest, sir, I have no idea.”

  Chapter 4

  “Are you playing a prank on me, Miss Green?”

  “I wish I were, Mrs Garnett.”

  My landlady’s eyes were wide with disbelief, the whites contrasting starkly with her dark skin. One of her hands held a feather duster, which was poised over the table in the hallway. “So you’re telling me you’re going to get a job as a maid?”

  “It’s an undercover job.”

  “I don’t even understand what that means. I was talking to my niece about you last week.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I used you as an example of what happens to a woman when she isn’t married. Once a spinster reaches a certain age, she has a tendency to undertake all manner of escapades. It’s
what happens when there’s no husband about.”

  “It’s my profession, Mrs Garnett. I’m a news reporter. The matter of whether I have a husband or not is irrelevant.”

  “But now you’re going to be a housemaid! What do you know about being in service?” She sucked her lip disapprovingly.

  “That’s why I’m asking for your help. You were in service once, weren’t you?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  I estimated that Mrs Garnett was around the age of fifty. She had come to London from British West Africa and had been widowed following the death of her husband, a circus performer called Hercules Garnett.

  “I wouldn’t go back to those days,” she continued. “The hours were long and the work was hard. A lady such as yourself wouldn’t understand what it’s like to have a job.”

  “But I have a job.”

  “I mean a proper job. Servants work sixteen hours a day. When I worked for Lord Brinsley, I was the first to rise and the last into bed. I got up at six o’clock and cleaned the grates, prepared the fires and emptied the slops. Then I swept the carpets and dusted the whole house.”

  “You must have been extremely busy, Mrs Garnett.”

  “That was before I even ate my breakfast! I had to wake the household, and while they breakfasted I made the beds and filled the coal boxes. And there was the carrying of water up and down the stairs. There was always somebody asking for water. And I washed the front steps and blackened the grates. Have you ever blackened a grate? Or cleaned silver?”

  I shook my head.

  “Have you ever waited at table before?”

  “It’s probably quite straightforward, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what you think.” She pointed her feather duster at me. “And mind that if there’s no butler or footman, you’ll be the one answering the door. I also used to take all the deliveries at the back door because the kitchen maid was lazy. Lady Brinsley had me running errands to the post office, and taking messages to her friends. And she and her daughters were always ringing their bells! Five storeys that house was, and I can’t tell you how many times I climbed up and down those stairs each day answering bells. I wore the soles out on three pairs of shoes. I don’t think you have a clue what you’re letting yourself in for.”

  “I think I’m getting some idea now.”

  Although I didn’t doubt that service was hard work, I also knew that Mrs Garnett had a tendency to exaggerate.

  “And you want me to teach you everything you need to know about becoming a maid? Everything I learnt from ten years in service?”

  “Yes please, Mrs Garnett.”

  She sucked her lip again. “I always said you were one button short, Miss Green, and once again you’ve proved me right.”

  I climbed the stairs up to my attic room, where Tiger was waiting at the window. I pulled up the sash and she jumped onto my writing desk with a miaow. As I stroked her, I felt a pang of sadness that I would be away from her for several weeks while I worked undercover.

  “I’ll ask Mrs Garnett to look after you,” I said.

  Tiger stopped purring and jumped off my desk, as if offended by the suggestion. It was true that my landlady barely tolerated the roof cat who had turned up at my window six years previously, begging to be let in from the cold.

  I lit the paraffin lamp and sat at my desk, looking out over the city as dusk fell. Lights twinkled in windows, and plumes of smoke and steam rose up from Moorgate station.

  Could I really fool a household into thinking that I was a maid? What if I happened to be found out?

  Although I enjoyed adventure, the thought of this undercover assignment made me rather nervous.

  A pile of my father’s letters and diaries sat on my desk, waiting to be transcribed into my book about his life. He had been a renowned plant-hunter, but had gone missing during an expedition in Colombia nine years previously. My progress on the book had stalled while I deliberated over the extent to which I should edit his adventures. Although he had done a lot of good work in bringing new plant specimens to England, I had been particularly perturbed to read about a massacre of natives, which he had carried out in self-defence. I kept reminding myself that he had only done it because he had been attacked and had no other way of saving his life and the lives of his companions, but I still couldn’t reconcile such action with the memories I had of my father as a gentle and docile man.

  His last known location had been the Tequendama Falls near Bogota in Colombia. Mr Edwards, a clerk at the British Library, had helpfully provided me with some more information about the falls, and had also drawn a detailed map of the area. But all the books and maps in the library could shed no light on my father’s fate.

  Could my book about his life ever be complete without a proper ending?

  It seemed a shame to spend so much time compiling the records of his travels without ever knowing what had actually happened to him.

  My sister, Eliza, and I assumed that our father had died, but I felt the chapter could never be properly closed without discovering his final resting place.

  An expedition had been sent to locate my father in the March of 1876. Among my father’s papers I had saved a cutting from The Times, which read:

  Explorer Mr. Isaac Fox-Stirling sails from Liverpool tomorrow on the steamer Bolivar to the United States of Colombia. The purpose of his mission is to establish the whereabouts of the plant-hunter, Mr. Frederick Brinsley Green, who has not been seen since the March of 1875. Mr. Fox-Stirling is a seasoned explorer, and he told our reporter that he was confident Mr Green could be found.

  He said: “The jungle is a large place and it is relatively easy to lose contact with the outside world. I remain hopeful that we will find our esteemed friend, Mr. F. B. Green, safe and well.”

  Mr. Green has made a good number of trips to South America and has transported many exotic plants back to the shores of Britannia. At the time of his disappearance, Mr. Green had been collecting orchid specimens on behalf of Kew Gardens.

  Mr. G. W. Brice of Kew Gardens spoke to our reporter: “Although it is not unknown for illness or misfortune to befall one of our brave plant-hunters, it is unusual for one of our men to disappear without trace. With the generous patronage of private individuals, we hope that our mission will offer a successful outcome.”

  Mr. Fox-Stirling plans to proceed up the River Magdalena in a steam launch to Honda. From there, he will strike out in a south-easterly direction to Bogota, and from thence along the River Funza to the Falls of Tequendama, where Mr. Green was last seen. The cost of the expedition has been generously borne by the famed actress, Mrs Lizzie Dixie, a friend of Mr. Green’s daughter, Miss Penelope Green.

  Mr. Fox-Stirling is to speak at a dinner held in his honour at The Athenaeum this evening. He is at the present time employed by Wilde Nurseries, on whose behalf he has made many journeys to the South American continent.

  Isaac Fox-Stirling had returned later that year with various sketches he had found in a deserted hut. There was no doubt that the sketches had been drawn by my father, but sadly there had been no trace of the man himself. Now that I was working on the book, I wished to meet with Mr Fox-Stirling. I hoped that he was still working for Wilde Nurseries, which I knew was located close to the Botanical Gardens in Chelsea.

  I loosened my stays and pulled on an old overcoat for warmth. Then I boiled some coffee and wrote a short letter to Mr Fox-Stirling to request a meeting.

  Chapter 5

  The following afternoon I sat beneath the great dome of the reading room and read an article written by the social reformer, Dorothea Heale, about the Blundell & Co vinegar factory.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Green. Busy researching a new topic, I see,” a man’s voice whispered close to my shoulder.

  I turned to see olive-green eyes staring at me through spectacle lenses. They belonged to the reading room clerk.

  “Hello, Mr Edwards.” I felt a prickle of irritation at being disturbed. “Yes, I ha
ve a new story to work on.”

  “Dorothea Heale, eh?” He peered at the article on my desk. “She’s an interesting woman, I believe. She has a lot to say.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And how’s the book coming along?”

  “Slowly, Mr Edwards. Slowly.”

  “I trust that the map I drew for you is useful?”

  “It is, thank you.”

  His eyes remained on mine and I felt my toes curl in my boots as I realised that he was about to mention the note which he had sent me a few weeks previously.

  Mr Edwards pushed his hair away from his spectacles and cleared his throat. His uneasiness made me distinctly uncomfortable.

  “There is something which I have yet to receive an acknowledgement from you about,” he ventured. “Perhaps you have forgotten it. In fact, it’s extremely likely that you have, as you’re so busy.” He gestured toward the papers on my desk. “Yes, you have probably forgotten about it altogether, I imagine.”

  His note was still sitting in the biscuit tin on my writing desk back at my lodgings. I had been at a loss as to what to say in reply.

  “I haven’t forgotten about it, Mr Edwards. I must apologise for the delay in responding to you.”

  “No matter, there is no need to apologise. Can I ask if you would be amenable to the arrangement which I have suggested in it?”

  His voice was so quiet that I could barely hear it, and his face was flushed red. He was clearly finding the situation so unbearable that I began to wonder why he had instigated it in the first place.

  “Do not worry about offending me with a no,” he continued. “I would rather hear a no than not know anything at all. If that makes sense, which I’m not sure it does.”

  His green eyes were wide and earnest, and he seemed to be putting himself through so much discomfort that I felt I should give him the answer he desired.

  How could I turn him away now?

  I cursed myself for not having replied sooner and allowing the situation to escalate to this.

  “Yes, I would be amenable, Mr Edwards.”