The Maid’s Secret

by Emily Organ

  “Thank you, Mr Perrin, I shall fetch some this afternoon. In fact, I should like to step out of the house for a short while. It is rather stifling in here, isn’t it?”

  “You may also want to give the maid some Cobbold’s Remedy,” said Mr Perrin, nodding over at Maisie.

  The poor girl sat at the table, pale and trembling. Her food sat entirely untouched in front of her.

  “Come on, Maisie, you need your strength!” said the housekeeper encouragingly.

  “I can’t. It won’t stay down.”

  “A household is reliant on its staff, Maisie. If you don’t eat, you won’t be able to do your work. And then what will become of everyone?”

  “Maybe Maisie could try to eat something later,” I suggested. “It can be difficult when your stomach feels knotted up.”

  Mrs Craughton sighed and stood to her feet. “I’ll leave you be. I’m off to the pharmacy to buy the remedy. What’s it called again?”

  “Dr Cobbold’s.”

  “It will put everyone right again, I’m sure.”

  The Wyndhams and Lombards were permitted to leave after Inspector Trotter had spoken to them. While Mrs Craughton was out at the pharmacy, I escaped to my room, sat down at the dressing table and hurriedly wrote the article Mr Sherman had requested.

  The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Glenville, Miss Sophia Glenville, died tragically at her home in Hyde Park Gate yesterday evening. Doctor Dalglish, who attended to the young woman, stated that she had been poisoned by potassium of cyanide. It is speculated that a malicious person deliberately placed the fatal poison into Miss Glenville’s glass of Pommery champagne while she was celebrating the occasion of her eighteenth birthday.

  Inspector Herbert Trotter of T Division is currently investigating Miss Glenville’s death, and serious foul play is suspected. No arrests have yet been made, but Inspector Trotter is interviewing all guests who were present at Miss Glenville’s birthday celebration on the night of her death.

  Mr. Alexander Glenville owns the Blundell & Co vinegar factory in Vauxhall and the Archdale vinegar factory in Bermondsey. His late daughter was engaged to be married to Master Dudley Lombard, the son of Mr. Ralph Lombard, who owns the Lombard gin distillery in Vauxhall.

  I also wrote a note to my editor:

  I assume Mr. Conway’s investigation into Mr. Glenville’s business dealings is now concluded. I will give the housekeeper notice of my resignation and return to the office either tomorrow or Tuesday.

  I folded the two pieces of paper into an envelope, sealed it and hid it on top of my wardrobe, ready for the messenger boy to collect it. I couldn’t yet think of an excuse to give Mrs Craughton if she asked me what the lad had come to collect. I sensed this would be a good opportunity to return the key to her office. I made my way downstairs, but was disappointed to find that the door was locked.

  Further along the corridor, the door to the library opened and Inspector Trotter’s head peered out.

  “It’s Florence Parker, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Can you step in here and answer some questions, please?”

  Chapter 22

  I followed the inspector into the library, where he had arranged his papers into neat piles on the mahogany table. The ghost twins stared down at me through a haze of pipe smoke. I sat at the table and wondered whether I should be truthful with the inspector about who I was. If I was honest, there was a danger that the rest of the household would soon discover the truth. Then what would happen? The atmosphere in the house was difficult enough as it was.

  I decided to keep my cover for a day or two longer. Then I would explain to the inspector and the Glenvilles who I truly was. And I would leave.

  Inspector Trotter sat opposite me, fidgeting for a moment with his pen and the pot of ink, and then his pipe. He reached for the teapot.

  “Oh dear, it’s gone cold. Please could you fetch me some more once we’re finished here, Florence?”

  I nodded.

  “Right then, here we go.” He leafed through his notebook to find a blank page. “So your name is Miss Florence Parker?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  He must have detected the lack of certainty in my voice, as his brow furrowed slightly and he looked at me more closely. I was lying to a police officer, and it felt as though I was doing something terribly wrong.

  “And this is a question I must ask everyone, I’m afraid. What is your age?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “And you live here at this address. Mrs Craughton tells me you are a new member of staff here. Where did you live previously?”

  I was about to reply with my Milton Street address, but just managed to correct myself to the address of my supposed previous employer in time.

  “Berkeley Square.”

  “And the house number there?”

  “I think it was number twenty. The home of Mrs Fothergill.” I felt a cold perspiration under my arms. I would have been much more comfortable had I confessed to the inspector who I really was.

  “And I understand that you were present when Miss Sophia met her unfortunate end.” His lisp meant that he especially struggled with the words ‘Miss Sophia’.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And can you give me your account of what you saw that evening, Florence?”

  I told him what I could remember. He listened intently, puffing on his pipe and writing in his notebook. I noticed that his handwriting style was rather slow and laborious. I wondered why detectives didn’t have to learn shorthand, as journalists did.

  “And as you witnessed the distressing spectacle, Florence, what were your thoughts regarding the cause of Miss Sophia’s death?”

  “I didn’t have the first clue. I could see that she was struggling to breathe. I thought she was choking for a moment, as she didn’t seem able to get any air. I imagined that perhaps she had a sudden complication with her lungs or heart. I had never seen her unwell before. I couldn’t believe it when the doctor said she had been poisoned with cyanide. I cannot understand how someone could have poisoned her, or why they should want to do so! She had never caused anyone any harm.”

  “Bear with me while I write this down. Oh, darn it! My nib has broken.”

  I waited impatiently as the inspector found another pen and painstakingly filled it with ink.

  “There we go. Now, where were we? Ah yes. I think you pre-empted my next question, which is: are you aware of anyone who might bear animosity towards Miss Sophia?”

  “I barely knew her. I have only been here for a week, so I’m sure other members of the household would be able to tell you more than I can. I witnessed some bickering in the family, but it struck me as entirely normal familial behaviour. She was a young woman with modern ideas, and as such it would inevitably bring her into conflict with her loved ones from time to time. But they spoke fondly of her to me, and Mr Glenville was rather proud of her intelligence. He told me she had inherited many of his traits.”

  “I must say you’re rather well-spoken for a maid, Florence.”

  “Am I?” I felt a surge of heat rush up to my face. “I had a good upbringing, Inspector. My parents sent me to school.”

  He nodded and returned to his notebook. I wiped my damp palms on my apron and prayed that our interview would soon be concluded.

  “Have you had many dealings with Miss Sophia over the past week?”

  “Not many. I waited table while she was dining with her family.”

  “So mealtimes were the only times you encountered Miss Sophia during the past week?”

  “Yes.”

  “And on each occasion there were other members of the household present?”

  “Yes, both family and staff.”

  “And yesterday evening Miss Sophia seemed her usual self?”

  “She did.”

  “How would you describe her mood?”

  “If I were to speak honestly, I would say that she had looked rather bored at
times. I don’t think she was the sort of girl who enjoyed parties very much. But she seemed to have a pleasant enough evening. Until—”

  “Did you see anyone interfere with her glass of champagne?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think that could have been a possibility?”

  “I suppose it could have been, but I didn’t witness anyone do it. That’s why I’m so surprised. I suppose if someone was determined to poison her, they would have found a way without drawing attention to themselves.”

  “This nib is rather scratchy.” He held up his pen and examined it closely. “Pens simply aren’t up to the task these days, are they? I’m sure they stain your fingers far more than they used to. Now, what did I have in mind to ask next?”

  As he leafed through his notebook, I decided there was something rather amateurish about his conduct. I began to doubt that he was capable of catching Miss Sophia’s murderer.

  “Ah yes, here we are!” he said. “Who was Miss Sophia sitting closest to in the drawing room?”

  “Master Lombard and Master Glenville.”

  “And who did you see sitting on the chair upon which the empty packet of cyanide was found?”

  “I remember Viscount Wyndham sitting there, Inspector. And then there was some confusion while Miss Sophia...” I felt my throat tighten. “…As she struggled to breathe. We were all moving about the room, and I think by that stage many of us were standing. When I give it some thought, however, I can recall that Mary Lombard was sitting on that same chair by the time the doctor arrived.”

  There was another long pause as he wrote this down, tutting intermittently at the ink splashes from his pen.

  “Is my account similar to the others you’ve heard so far, Inspector?” I asked.

  “Fairly similar, yes.” He dipped his pen into the ink pot and examined the nib again.

  “And what will happen once you’ve interviewed everyone in the house? Presumably, one or more will give a false account. How do you decide who’s telling the truth, Inspector?”

  He looked up and smiled condescendingly. “That’s the skill of a detective’s work, Florence.”

  I had my doubts that Inspector Trotter was a skilled detective.

  “Where did the murderer obtain the cyanide?” I asked. “Do you know if any such substance is kept in this house? I haven’t come across any myself. And what if the murderer is one of the Wyndhams or the Lombards? They have left the house now, and could easily make their escape!”

  Inspector Trotter removed his pipe from his mouth. “You have a lively mind.”

  “I’m sorry. I have an inquisitive nature.” I stopped talking, aware that I was in danger of letting slip who I really was.

  “Thank you, Florence. That will be all. Have you anything else you would like to tell me about?”

  “That is all, Inspector. I’ve only been here a short while, so I have very little information to enlighten you with, I’m afraid. I only knew Miss Sophia briefly, but she was an extremely pleasant and likeable young lady who had a bright future ahead of her, and I… Oh, wait.”

  “What is it?”

  I realised I had forgotten to tell Inspector Trotter about my encounter with Sophia on the servants’ staircase. I described the incident to him, and he listened with a great deal of interest.

  “Now this is rather intriguing,” he said. “Miss Sophia didn’t tell you where she’d been, or with whom?”

  “No. I wanted to ask, but I didn’t feel it was my place to do so. I certainly wish I had now. And I also wish I had mentioned it to Mr and Mrs Glenville. She made me promise not to tell them.”

  I realised her parents would most likely find out about the secret meeting now and would be angry with me for not having mentioned it.

  “And you think this was something she did regularly?”

  “That was the impression she gave. I can’t say I’m right, however, as she didn’t specifically mention that she had done so before.”

  The inspector sat back in his chair and inspected the bowl of his pipe. This was clearly new information to him. Was I the only person to know that Sophia had done such a thing?

  “I must add something else which happened after I encountered Miss Sophia on the servants’ staircase.”

  I told the inspector about the footsteps I’d heard, and the opening and closing of Maisie’s door.

  “Hmm. Also interesting,” he said as he laboriously wrote it down. “And from the way Miss Sophia spoke with you that evening, do you think it’s fair to assume that she had no wish to marry Master Lombard?”

  “She seemed quite angry and upset at the mention of his name. I assumed at the time that she had just met with a man she truly loved.”

  “And you have no idea as to his identity?”

  “None. She mentioned that she might be willing to tell me more in the future, but we never found a chance to have another conversation on the matter.”

  “So you think it would be fair to say that Miss Sophia was unhappy about her engagement to Master Lombard?”

  “Her demeanour certainly suggested that to me.”

  “So it seems we have a young woman who appeared happy to those around her, but in reality harboured animosity towards the man who was to be her husband,” said the inspector, his attention fixed on his notebook.

  Then he looked up at me. “Did Miss Sophia explain why she didn’t wish to marry Master Lombard?”

  “Not at all. She refused to be drawn on the subject.”

  “Interesting. Very interesting. Thank you for your time, Florence. You’ve been most helpful. You are free to leave.”

  Chapter 23

  I went to fetch Inspector Trotter some more tea, and when I returned to the library I could hear voices through the closed door.

  “You have witnessed arguments between Miss Sophia and her brother and sister, Mr Perrin?” asked the inspector.

  “I have, sir.”

  “Can you elaborate any further?”

  “I would describe the arguments as little more than squabbling, sir. Quite natural, and not unusual among young people.”

  “So the arguments in the family didn’t concern you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did Miss Sophia argue much with her parents?”

  “She squabbled with them as well, sir. The cause of the argument was usually a trivial matter. Miss Sophia was an opinionated young woman.”

  “So you had no concerns about Miss Sophia or her family before her death?”

  “No sir. Only one incident springs to mind.”

  “And what was that, Mr Perrin?”

  “Miss Sophia ran away from home.”

  “Did she, indeed? When?”

  “It was Monday the eighteenth of February.”

  “You have a good memory for dates, Mr Perrin. How long was Miss Sophia absent from the family home?”

  I heard footsteps on the tiled corridor, so I reluctantly knocked on the door to take the tea tray in. Neither the inspector nor Mr Perrin said anything further while I was in the room.

  The footsteps I had heard in the corridor belonged to Mrs Glenville. I caught up with her at the foot of the stairs. She was dressed from head to toe in black crepe. The change in her face was quite alarming. Her eyes had a haunted look to them, and her cheeks were white and sunken.

  “My lady,” I said. “Are you quite well?”

  “No, I’m not at all well,” she replied in a distracted manner.

  She didn’t look at me, but instead gazed up at the grandfather clock.

  “It hasn’t stopped,” she said. “Perrin told me he’d stopped it.”

  The time on the clock was incorrect, but I could hear it ticking.

  “Mr Perrin is with the inspector at the moment, my lady. As soon as he’s finished I’ll ask him to stop the clock.”

  “Would you?” Her eyes finally rested on me. “Thank you, Flo. I know I can rely on you.”

  I forced a smile. “It’s no problem, my lady. I
s there anything I can get you?”

  I felt the need to guide her to a chair and sit her down. She looked so frail and unsteady on her feet.

  “No. I thought I would go and sit in the conservatory for a while. I don’t like to leave her, but I feel the need to have a change of air.”

  “That sounds like a sensible idea, my lady. I’m so sorry about Miss Sophia. In the short time I knew her, I could tell she was an intelligent young woman with an exciting future ahead of her. I am sure the inspector will do all he can to find the culprit. I still can’t believe this has happened.”

  “I feel like I’ve died too, Flo.”

  “I can understand that feeling,” I replied.

  “Can you?” She looked at me, her eyes earnest. “Have you also lost a loved one?”

  “Yes. My father died nine years ago.” I prayed that she wouldn’t ask me his name. I would have to invent one if she did.

  She looked down at the black handkerchief she was twisting around her fingers. “I’m sorry to hear that. Was he a good man?”

  “He was.” I felt unsure of my reply. What made a man good? Was a man who had carried out a massacre of natives in Colombia a good man?

  “To lose a child is...” she trailed off. “I lost two as infants, of course, and that was unbearable. But this feels different. Sophia was a young woman. I had pictured a life for her, but now it’s gone. And needlessly!”

  The knuckles of her hand turned white as she clenched the handkerchief in her fist. “Who did it, Flo? Who killed my daughter?”

  “I wish I knew, my lady. The detective will find it out, I’m sure.”

  “It was one of the guests yesterday evening, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose it must have been, but I cannot understand why.”

  “And neither can I! The thought that anyone in our household should intend to poison another person here is unfathomable. It simply doesn’t make sense. These things don’t happen to families like ours. They happen to other people. That’s what I had always thought. Who could have brought cyanide into our home? And how?”