Lord Richard swept his hand through his hair. “No, no, Upshaw. Your sentiments are appreciated, but I need you here. With this Bill coming up, I must have my notes in order.”
Upshaw’s long face became even longer with anguish. “If nothing else, I could, perhaps identify the … the deceased.”
Lady Pat sat up and looked at Upshaw. “Mr. Upshaw,” she said severely, “I was not aware that you even knew Mary Ann. The nursery staff do not usually mix with the rest of the servants.”
Upshaw’s pale cheeks were slightly stained with red. “I … occasionally met Mary Ann when she went walking with Miss Alicia,” he confessed. “Under the circumstances, I could not pursue the acquaintance, but I always considered her a … an attractive young person.”
“A positive identification would be useful,” MacRae admitted.
Lord Richard swept his hands through his hair again and looked helplessly at the papers on his desk. “But my speech … the Bill …”
Upshaw shuffled papers around on Lord Richard’s desk. “These are the cuttings from the Pall Mall Gazette. These are the statements of the witnesses in the Magistrate’s Court. These are your notes from our discussion last week.”
Lord Richard nodded. “Good, Upshaw. Now, while you are in Brighton, you must look in at the hotels, and find out if any of the members have checked into the Old Ship or the Crown. And if they have, you must speak to them, and get them up here in time for the vote.”
“And if—when—we find Miss Marbury?” Mr. Dodgson asked.
“Keep her safe, that’s all that I ask,” Lord Richard said.
“Very well, Lord Richard.” Inspector MacRae touched his hat in salute. Dr. Doyle followed Upshaw into the hall.
Mr. Dodgson remained behind for a moment. “Lord Richard,” he said, his voice trembling in agony, “I cannot help but think that this is all my fault. If I had been more prompt … if I had not misread the letter …”
Lady Pat reached over and patted his hand. He shyly withdrew from her touch.
Lord Richard got up and walked around to pat his old tutor’s shoulder. “No one could have foreseen this,” he told him miserably.
“Someone arranged that I should be involved in the business,” Mr. Dodgson said. “Undoubtedly, they thought that I would retreat to Eastbourne when I could not find the child. They were wrong. I promise you, Lord Richard, that I shall do all in my power to see that your daughter is returned to you safely.”
“You must wire me as soon as she is found,” Lord Richard insisted.
“Of course.” Farnham had appeared to escort the three men to the door. Outside, Grosvenor Square had returned to its normal drowsy aspect. The cab that had brought Inspector MacRae to May-fair had long since departed.
“Victoria Station, gentlemen,” Mr. Dodgson said, striding toward the rumble of traffic on Regent Street. “We must find Miss Marbury before it is too late!”
CHAPTER 10
Alicia Marbury had spent a restless and disturbing night. The room, while hot and stuffy during the daylight hours, lost heat with astonishing rapidity once the sun set, and her camisole and drawers were no protection against the chill. She had been fed a platter of bread and cheese and a cup of very milky tea, brought to her by Kitty, while the Madam looked on. There had been no time for more than a quick smile between the girls. “No talking there!” ordered the Madam, and that was that.
Alicia had been left alone, in the dark, in this very strange house, sitting on the bare mattress in her drawers and camisole, listening to the noises outside and in. From the street came a faint rumbling, as if heavy carts were being hauled over the cobblestones. Then there were strains of far-off laughter that seemed to come through the bare floorboards. Alicia struggled against the call of nature, but eventually used the chamberpot provided for her comfort. The result added an overpowering aroma to the stuffy room. She could not sleep but fell into a sort of doze, from which she was jolted into consciousness when she heard a slam, as if a door had been shut.
Morning brought little relief. When she could see clearly again, Alicia decided to examine her prison more carefully, for any means of escape. The bed could be moved, she decided, but not by her; it was far too heavy. The doorjamb was lined with strips of carpeting, a sinister thought: Was it to muffle the screams of terror emanating from this room? The hooks on the wall were even more suggestive. They were just shoulder-high to Alicia; what, or who, were they meant to hold?
Alicia shouted: “Hey! Someone come up and take this pot away!”
No one answered. For the first time in her life, no one responded when she called. Even at Waltham someone answered her, although it might well be to tell her to stop bawling.
“I know someone’s there!” Alicia shouted again.
From the door came a stifled snort. “I hears you,” whispered the unseen friend behind the door.
“Kitty? Is that you? Where is everyone?” Alicia ran to the door and tried to see through the keyhole.
“I’ve got to lay the breakfast and scrub up after, then get the pots,” Kitty said.
“What about mine?” Alicia complained. “I had to use it and it smells awful!”
“Dunno,” Kitty whispered. “ ’Ere comes the Madam.”
A heavy tread announced the arrival of Madge Gurney. Alicia heard the sound of a slap, a muffled “Ow!” from Kitty, and a patter of scampering feet.
“You’ll stay put!” the Madam grunted. Alicia heard her stamping down the stairs, and a fierce resolve grew within her. Somehow, some way, she was going to get away from here! Her only difficulty seemed to be in finding a workable plan of attack.
Attack! That was what Grandpapa Kinsale had said when he came to visit them in London, to hear Uncle Ned’s speech in the House. He had told her all about the Crimea, and how he had led the charge. “Attack! That’s what we did at Balaclava. Attack and damn the consequences!”
Uncle Ned had said something about the consequences being a whole regiment destroyed, but Alicia could still see the fierce look on her grandpapa’s face and the light of battle in his eyes. Grandpapa Kinsale had attacked! So would she, as soon as they opened the door again.
Downstairs, the table had been set for the six young women (aged eleven to fifteen) residing in Miss Harmon’s establishment. One by one they straggled downstairs, weary with their previous night’s labors. One by one they took their seats, waited patiently as Miss Harmon took hers, and, at her signal, began to spoon up their porridge.
Miss Harmon glanced at Mrs. Gurney and raised an eyebrow. The older woman jerked her head in silent call for a conference. Miss Harmon set aside her spoon and joined her partner in crime at the door to the pantry.
“She’s awake,” the older woman informed her. “Does she get breakfast?”
“We don’t want her to think herself ill used,” Miss Harmon murmured. “But just enough to keep her quiet. Porridge, milk.”
“Any word from Mrs. J.?”
“The message should have reached him by now,” Miss Harmon said, a slight smile curling her lips. “We’ll know by tonight. According to the Guv’nor, the Gazette writes what Marbury tells them. If he sends his resignation letter in by noon, it’ll just make the Sunday editions.”
“You think he will?”
Miss Harmon stared over the heads of her charges. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “He loves the girl, no doubt, but he’s a man of principle. He won’t give up so easily.”
“The Guv’nor thinks he will.”
“The Guv’nor doesn’t know him as well …”
“Ahh!” Madge breathed, a sly leer of understanding forming in her eyes. “So ’e’s the one …”
“That’s none of your concern,” Miss Harmon snapped out. “If Marbury doesn’t comply with our wishes, then …”
“Then—what do we do?”
“There’s always Monsieur LeBrun. An English girl, red hair, guaranteed virgin, and a peer’s niece? She’ll go for five hundred pounds at least.�
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Madge sniggered, then a thought overtook her and she looked worried. “What if Marbury calls in the coppers?”
Miss Harmon’s smile deepened. “Then he will wish he had not.” She looked at her little charges again. They had finished their porridge and were staring back at their teacher, their mentor, their employer.
“Young ladies,” she said. “Go upstairs and get dressed. We will go walking this morning, on the Esplanade.”
“Now?” whined the tallest, the dark beauty who liked to call herself Victoria, because she said she was the Queen of the House.
“Now,” Miss Harmon ordered. “Gentlemen do not like fat, lazy girls. Besides, you must be seen in the right places. Wear proper shoes. Stockings with no holes. Clean linens. Wash your faces and necks.” Each order brought another groan.
“The gentlemen like me already,” plump Gertie said, shaking her blond ringlets. “Why do I have to go walking out in the hot sun?”
“Because I wish the gentlemen to know we are here,” Miss Harmon said flatly. As the girls grumbled their way upstairs back to their bedrooms, Miss Harmon nodded to her confederate. “What if he does call in the police? This is a modest house; we don’t have rough trade, and gentlemen of quality find their little satisfactions here. We have a working relationship with the Council. Mr. Carstairs assured Mrs. J. that he has made arrangements with the local constabulary. No, Madge, I don’t think we’ll be bothered by the police. Just wait until I’ve got the rest of the girls out of here. They talk, and I don’t want anyone to know about our latest arrival—at least, not yet.”
It took the better part of an hour before the six young women of Miss Harmon’s establishment were dressed to their mentor’s satisfaction.
“Susanne, you must not permit your underchemise to show. Helen, you have a ladder in your stocking. Gentlemen do not like young ladies who are not properly dressed.”
“Me sister don’t spiff up like this,” Helen said sulkily.
“Your sister’s on the streets,” Victoria snapped back. “She only gets a shilling a time. I get a pound,” she added with great satisfaction.
“And you will get more, if you do as I tell you,” Miss Harmon said. “I shall give you each half a crown to spend when we get to the Esplanada. Remember, the gentlemen are always watching.”
The line of well-dressed young women marched down King Street, pretending not to hear the admiring cries and catcalls that followed them until they turned the corner into North Street and were gone.
Madge shrugged and went back to the kitchen, where Kitty was hauling a bucket of water from the outside pump. With a grunt of exasperation, the Madam dumped a ladleful of porridge into a bowl, and poured milk into a mug. The truncated breakfast was shoved at Kitty, who put it on one of the trays that usually went up to the dining room.
“Get this up to the new ’un,” the Madam ordered.
“Door’s locked,” Kitty reminded her.
“I’ll be right behind yer.”
With the bowl of porridge and the mug of lukewarm milk on the tray, Kitty climbed the stairs from the kitchen to the front hall, then slogged up the front stairs to the upper story, trudged down the hall to the back of the house, and approached the concealed door in the back wall. As far as anyone could see, that wall ended in a decorated panel, depicting a plump cupid floating above a rustic couple. Only a small keyhole betrayed the existence of something behind the panel: a final flight of stairs that led to the attic room kept for Very Special Girls. Kitty waited for Madam to produce her key and open the secret door, then inched up the steep stairs, conscious of Madge Gurney’s heavy hand behind her.
The Madam turned the key in the lock. The door flew in, and a howling banshee flew out.
The tray flew out of Kitty’s hands. The milk spilled onto the bare wooden stairs. The Madam, thrown offbalance, braced herself against the wall of the stairwell with one hand and caught Alicia by her camisole with the other.
Alicia thrashed around wildly, yelling, scratching and clawing whatever she could find. Kitty shrank back, unsure of which combatant to assist. Madge found her footing, grabbed Alicia, and twined one hand into the girl’s flying red curls.
Alicia shrieked again, this time in pain, and she was thrown back into the bedroom. Madge’s little eyes glittered with malice.
“Feisty, are we? Well, we have ways of taking care of feisty little girls here, missy!” She gasped and coughed, conscious of the line of scratches on her cheeks where Alicia had left her mark.
“You don’t dare harm me,” Alicia retorted. “If you do, my papa won’t pay any ransom.”
“Your pa’s going to do exactly as he’s told!” the Madam shot back at her. “And you just spilled good porridge on the floor. Now you get to eat it, off the floor!”
“I won’t!” Alicia shouted.
“You won’t get nought else!” Mrs. Gurney loomed over her.
Kitty crept into the room. “I’ll help clean it up,” she offered.
“That you will not,” the Madam declared. “You take the pots and do ’em right this time. Missy here can ’elp yer, and earn ’er porridge like everyone else in this world!”
She stamped downstairs, hauling Kitty and Alicia with her. Alicia waited for the moment when that tight grip on her arm would be relaxed. Then she could bolt out. The Madam shook her fiercely and said,
“Don’t even think it, missy. Where d’ye think you’ll go, in your drawers?”
Alicia’s face reddened. Of course, she had to get some clothes! Her pretty new dress had been taken away by that hateful Miss Harmon. She had to get it back.
“You two can just wash them pots,” the Madam said. “And don’t think you can talk, because I’ll be watchin’ yer all the time!”
Alicia watched as Kitty went about her chores: emptying the reeking potties into a vile-smelling pit in the yard, then dipping each into one bucket, scrubbing them out with a wad of straw, and dipping them into a second bucket.
“You do these,” Kitty said, pointing to the scrubbed receptacles.
“I heard that!” Madge roared out behind them. “No talking!”
“She’ll get her gin soon,” Kitty whispered. “She’ll be asleep, and we can talk then.”
“I heard that!”
Alicia had never been so quiet for so long, not even in church. Only when a series of heavy snores could be heard behind them did Kitty speak again, in a hoarse whisper.
“You must be summat special. I never know ’er to hold back ’er ’and. And yer marked ’er, too!” Kitty said, admiringly.
“Did I?” Alicia asked.
“I saw scratches on ’er face.” Kitty giggled. “But yer mustn’t do that no more. It’s bad for the ’ouse.”
“What is this place?” Alicia whispered.
“It’s Miss ’Armon’s,” Kitty explained, as if that was sufficient. “Lots of gentlemen come ’ere for their pleasures,” she added, reciting the motto announced by Miss Harmon to new recruits.
“Oh.” Alicia digested this information. “What sort of pleasures?”
“Wif the girls, you know.”
“Games and such?” Alicia had been allowed to participate in adult parlor games at Christmas. The sight of grownups indulging in such antics as Charades, Blind-Man’s-Buff, and Sardines could be amusing, but she didn’t see why they had to do it here in Brighton, or why someone should lock her in an upstairs room while they did.
Kitty, on the other hand, regarded Alicia with scorn based on superior knowledge. “No, silly. They goes upstairs and does it.”
“What?”
“It!”
Alicia was totally confused. “What do they do upstairs?” she persisted.
Kitty tried to explain. “Like wot me mum does. The gentlemen puts it into ’em.”
Alicia decided to pursue this at another time. Whatever it was, if it was done here, she decided, she wanted no part of it. “You have to get me out of here,” she told Kitty fiercely.
; “Why d’ye want to leave?” Kitty asked. “Grub’s good. There’s ’eat, and the old bitch don’t ’it ’alf as ’ard as me mum.”
“In my house no one gets hit,” Alicia said stoutly. “My papa won’t permit it. And all the servants get new shoes and new dresses at Christmas, and a … a … living wage.” She tried to remember what her papa had said when he practiced his speech for the House of Commons. “If you help me,” Alicia smiled winningly, “I’ll take you to my house and you can be my maid. Mary Ann will show you how to go on. Then you won’t get hit at all. And you won’t have to wash these horrid pots because we have a proper water closet,” she added.
Kitty glanced over her shoulder. “ ’Ow am I supposed to get you out?” she protested. “The Madam watches me like a ’awk, and Miss ’Armon …”
Alicia tried to remember the last chapter of the exciting story she had been reading in The Boy’s Own Paper before her incarceration. She felt under her camisole. “Here,” she said. “When you took my dress off, you forgot to take this. It’s my grandmama Waltham’s own locket, that she left me because my uncle only has boys.” She unhooked the delicate chain from around her neck and pressed it into Kitty’s hand. “What you must do is take this, and see that the policeman on the corner gets it.”
“Wot policeman?”
“The one on the corner, of course!” In Alicia’s world, there was always a policeman on the corner: a blue-coated guardian of little girls, who smiled at the nurserymaid (in the case of Mary Ann, he sometimes added a polite greeting) and touched his helmet to Papa. “He’ll see it and know that I’m somewhere nearby, and then the police—”
“Police!” Kitty was horrified. “Me? Go to the coppers? I couldn’t do it! Not for all the tea in China, not for …”
“For a whole half-crown a week, all yours? And a half-day off, every other week? And living in London?” Alicia tried to think of every inducement that Mary Ann had relished.
“But …”
“Ssssh!”
“I heard that!” Madge Gurney was awake again. “Are them pots finished?”
“Yes, Madam,” Alicia said. Miss Quiggley would have known that voice of sweet compliance, but Madam Gurney was not Miss Quiggley.
The Problem of the Missing Miss Page 8