by Tessa Arlen
“Now, you listen to me, dear,” Matron said. “I know a snoop when I see one, and you can tell Miss Kingsley from me that all the boys here are doing well, even with the terrible loss of Sir Reginald. And,” a large, hard finger came up and thrust itself under Mrs. Jackson’s nose, “there is no need for you to return to Kingsley House. Send a note with Macleod as to which boys are needed and they will be sent over promptly.”
She makes them sound like chattel, thought Mrs. Jackson. Obviously in Matron’s view the Chimney Sweep Boys were from the gutter and any of them who did not conform could just as easily be returned there. How could someone so coarse and mean in spirit have charge over children in an institution that prided itself on producing gentlemen?
Matron took a step back and Mrs. Jackson turned toward the parlor door. “There is no need for you to come downstairs with me, Matron, I can find my own way out.” And she left the room and walked down the corridor with the slightly shaky feeling that always comes when someone large and nasty has revealed true spite and malice for no understandable reason.
As Mrs. Jackson came down the last three steps into the hall she turned and saw standing in a corner at the top of the corridor the small outline of Symes, his face to the wall.
Poor little chap he must have been running again. She walked over to the boy. “Hullo, Symes. Do you often have to stand in the corner?”
He turned and regarded her solemnly. “Yes, often, I’m afraid. It’s for running in the house. I am always trying to catch up, you see.”
“Have you practiced fast walking? You concentrate on keeping just under the run, and if you keep your arms straight by your sides you can’t break into a run and it looks just as if you were walking no matter how fast you go. You will find you get there just as quickly and no punishments! Housemaids do it all the time.” She smiled at the pale little face looking up at her, as he nodded.
“So you are not one of the Chums, then?” she asked.
He looked worried, and then taking her on trust, he said, “No, I’m good at lessons but not in doing my duty because I am always late. I’m not much good at sport either. The Chums,” he added, “are different. They are the brightest boys here. It doesn’t do to cross one of them though, because they can be mean to new boys. They have special privileges. They can give you a flogging if you break the rules. And if you break rules and cause trouble you are for the high jump all right and can get sent away to … an orphanage.” A look of dismay, and Mrs. Jackson realized that talking to her when he should have been standing facing the wall was certainly breaking a rule.
“Would you like to be a page at Miss Kingsley’s charity evening?” she asked, and watched his face light up for a moment and then fall.
“She wouldn’t let me,” he said.
“Oh yes she would, Symes, if I asked for you. And I think you are a nice, bright boy, the sort of boy who would make an excellent page—as long as you can remember to fast-walk and not run. What do you say?”
“I say, yes please, miss,” said Symes.
“Good. Now what’s your first name, your Christian name?”
“Arthur.”
“Very well then, Arthur Symes, I am putting you on the top of my list.”
She was about to walk away when she looked up and saw hanging on the far wall of the hall a large oil painting heavily framed in ornate gilt. It was a portrait of a middle-aged man with side-whiskers and a balding head; he had his arm ponderously resting on the shoulder of a small boy who was steadfastly looking toward a glowing future and was undoubtedly a Chimney Sweep charity boy. She turned back to Arthur Symes.
“Who is that in the painting over there on the wall, Arthur?”
The boy turned his head and said without hesitation, “Sir Reginald Cholmondeley, and that one over there, the lady, is our benefactress.”
And on the far wall of the hall facing Sir Reginald Cholmondeley was Miss Kingsley, gazing across the room with calm confidence at her oldest and closest friend.
Chapter Fifteen
Triumphantly gloating over her correct identification of Sir Reginald in Miss Gaskell’s photograph and her conversation with Arthur Symes and her interesting, if unpleasant, conversation with Matron, Mrs. Jackson stepped over the threshold of the Chester Square scullery into an air of gloom and despondency. Instantly, all feelings of accomplishment were forgotten.
Both the maids and the second footman, James, were in the servants’ hall. From the kitchen she heard Cook calling out instructions to her silent crew of kitchen maids.
“Good afternoon, Martha. Is something wrong?” Mrs. Jackson said as she unwound her scarf from around her neck.
“Mr. Tricklebank’s in trouble with the pleece, an’ Mistress was took so bad she’s upstairs under the doctor.”
“What?” Mrs. Jackson was aghast. “Miss Kingsley is what?”
“Under the doctor; under Dr. Brewster’s care I mean. Took a turn for the wuss when she ’eard of Mr. Tricklebank’s arrest.” Martha was so undone by what had happened that all her carefully learned King’s English had disappeared and her cockney origins were reasserting themselves more strongly by the moment.
“Arrest for what, Martha?”
“For lying abaht where he was on the night of the murder, course.” And then realizing she had broken a cardinal rule that the fateful evening must not be referred to, she turned away, her face set as she started banging down plates and cutlery on the table.
Mrs. Jackson took off her hat and unbuttoned her coat and handed them to Eliza, who was taking in all this information, her eyes large and bright with excitement.
“And where is Mr. Jenkins, in his pantry?” she asked, and Martha nodded.
“Mr. Tricklebank is probably not under arrest, Martha; he is just helping the police with their inquiries.”
Martha shook her head to this. Overburdened by the truth of the situation, she was driven to reveal it: “Mr. Tricklebank was ’ere for ’is tea with Miss Kingsley. Then that Inspector ’Illary from Scotland Yard arrived and there was ’ell to pay. Mr. Jenkins was in the drawin’ room and ’eard everything. I don’t know what this ’ouse is comin’ to.”
“Very well then, I will go straight into Mr. Jenkins.” Mrs. Jackson simply couldn’t take any more muddled explanations. If Mr. Jenkins could actually remember the incident, he would be perfectly capable of explaining the situation in understandable English.
She found the elderly butler sitting at the desk in his pantry looking quite exhausted, but he recognized her instantly and seemed to be aware of what had happened that afternoon.
“Mr. Jenkins, I am so sorry, it sounds as if this has been a difficult afternoon. Martha says Mr. Tricklebank was arrested. Is this true?”
The old man sighed and shook his head, not in answer but in despair of comprehending Mr. Tricklebank’s predicament with the police.
“As good as, Mrs. Jackson, as good as arrested. You see he lied to the police and to his aunt.” Mr. Jenkins’s tone implied that lying to Miss Kingsley was the far worse crime. “About where he was after dinner on the night of … the night of…”
“Sir Reginald’s murder.” Mrs. Jackson was in no mood for pretense or evasion.
“Yes, that night. Mr. Tricklebank said he was going on with Miss Wells-Thornton to her cousin’s party, but when they got outside he put her in his motorcar and sent her off to the dance, and then he walked off down the street. Now he is unable to account for his whereabouts for a couple of hours. He originally said he was at his club, the Pheebles, but the porter there says he didn’t arrive until one o’clock in the morning. So his time is unaccounted for, for several hours, and of course it looks bad. Miss Kingsley was so upset when the police took him away that she had a fainting spell and is not doing well.” The old man looked quite done in himself, Mrs. Jackson thought, as he went on, “Dr. Brewster is with her now, and Miss Gaskell is up and dressed and looking after her when she should still be in bed.”
“I am sure Miss Gask
ell will be quite all right,” said Mrs. Jackson, trying to reassure the old man.
“Miss Gaskell should not be up and about. She has been unwell this afternoon, and I heard her coughing all morning. Dear, dear me, as if Miss Kingsley hasn’t enough to worry about.” Mrs. Jackson made sympathetic noises, providing the elderly butler with a concerned and listening ear.
“I think Miss Kingsley might disinherit Mr. Tricklebank. She threatened as much this afternoon. He has always been a heedless young person, with his gambling and his feckless ways. But underneath all that silliness, there is a sweetness and a goodness to him. You see, I’ve known Mr. Tricklebank since he was a baby, Mrs. Jackson. I’m worried that this is most likely the end of him with Miss Kingsley. We live in such difficult times these days, young people are ever so … and Miss Kingsley has high standards, as she most certainly should.” He lifted the cup of hot sweet tea she had brought for him to his lips with shaking hands, and Mrs. Jackson was troubled to see how frail and aged he looked.
“Once Mr. Tricklebank has set his evening straight with the police, everything will smooth itself out. There is bound to be a perfectly good explanation.” She did her best to soothe, but the elderly man was shaking his head, and Mrs. Jackson did not doubt that Miss Kingsley’s threat had not been an empty one.
She left the butler to worry over the perplexities of the age he now found himself living in, and went in search of the first footman, John. She found him with exasperations of his own: it seemed that the Clumsy Footman had somehow managed to break two cups and a soup plate—all of them Dresden—merely by carrying them into the china pantry on a tray.
Mrs. Jackson waited outside the pantry door until John’s outrage at the second footman’s ham-fisted handling of priceless porcelain had abated a little. It sounded as if the first footman’s family of origin were East End costermongers, since most of the words he was using were Anglo-Saxon epithets of the harsher kind.
“… Bleedin’ chips on every ruddy cup. An’ another thing … drop one more of them buggers … have your guts for…” wafted out the pantry door. Mrs. Jackson waited for a lull, and when it came she cleared her throat. John put his head out of the pantry door, saw her, straightened his waistcoat, ran a hand over the top of his smooth head, and said quite pleasantly, “Yes, Mrs. Jackson, how can I be of help?”
“I think it would be a good idea if you were ready to stand in as butler tomorrow, John. Mr. Jenkins seems all in, and I think it a good idea if he takes things easy for a day or two. I will ask Martha to help you with the day’s duties tomorrow. Once Mr. Jenkins has had a nice rest we can resume a normal routine.” Whatever that is in this house. She was a little concerned that John might bristle at her assuming a command position and was relieved by the respectful bob of his head.
“I will just pop upstairs for a moment and see how Miss Gaskell is faring, and then Macleod can drive me to Montfort House. Please ask him to stand by with the motorcar.”
Miss Gaskell was up and dressed. She was sitting in her window with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, looking out onto the darkening night.
“How are you, Miss Gaskell? I heard from Mr. Jenkins the awful news of Mr. Tricklebank.”
The girl turned a blank, pale face toward Mrs. Jackson and nodded. “Awful, isn’t it? But it’s madness to imagine him harming anyone. It isn’t in his nature.”
Any more than it is in yours, Mrs. Jackson thought. “In that case I’m quite sure that the police will not detain him for long, as soon as he has been straight with them.”
“Yes, but you see we all know where he probably was, it’s not the first time.” Miss Gaskell coughed—not a chest cold sort of cough but the sort of little ahem when a point is made. Mrs. Jackson understood the signal and took it that Mr. Tricklebank was not only irresponsible but probably had a weakness for all the usual vices of the young man about town: wine, cards, and of course, women. Every family had a Mr. Tricklebank, it seemed.
“I had a most interesting visit to Kingsley House today, as a matter of fact.”
Miss Gaskell had turned her head away to resume her study of the empty street, but this remark caused her to turn back from the window immediately. “Interesting?” she quavered, as well she might after all the horrid things Matron had said about her.
“Yes, it is a most impressive and Christian charity.” Miss Gaskell’s eyes flickered briefly. “I have a list of the boys who would be suitable for the evening. Shall you write or shall Miss Kingsley write to Matron?”
“Miss Kingsley; then Matron will do as she is told, otherwise…” Mrs. Jackson could only imagine how difficult Matron had been to work with for the young companion.
“How long has Matron been at Kingsley House?” she asked in what she hoped sounded like an idle question.
“Oh, quite a few years, maybe as many as ten; she was the matron when I came here. Was she very difficult?”
“Oh, she was most helpful in her own way, but not a particularly pleasant woman in her manner.”
“No, Matron reserves her good manners for Miss Kingsley and the governors.” The companion fell into a brooding silence, and Mrs. Jackson asked her, “How did your interview go with the police, Miss Gaskell, nothing to worry about after all?”
The young woman laughed and said how silly she had been and that the interview with the police had not been as frightening as she had thought. Mrs. Jackson wondered what they had said about the fact that she had been roaming around the house without an alibi at about the time Sir Reginald had been murdered.
“I can’t imagine what you think of us all…” Miss Gaskell tailed off rather listlessly.
“Well, I think there has been a murder in the house, Miss Gaskell, and you are all still in considerable shock. And I think you are all protecting Miss Kingsley’s feeling about the murder of her close friend by not referring to what happened. Sometimes it is a good thing to talk things over, it helps us find our feet again.” She let this one lie and watched Miss Gaskell closely.
“Miss Kingsley has expressly forbidden us to discuss the events of that evening, Mrs. Jackson. I believe the servants are quite happy to go along with her wishes.” Miss Gaskell resorted to being sniffy and missish, but it did not disguise the anxiety the young companion evidently felt and which pervaded throughout the Kingsley household.
Mrs. Jackson moved to the window to draw the curtains against the night. Looking down to guide the heavy fabric around the wastepaper basket, she saw something there that made her almost giddy with excitement. For lying at the bottom of the basket, and almost concealed by balls of screwed-up writing paper, was the corner of a photograph that had been ripped in two. Coyly peeking up at her from behind a crumpled list of contributors to his charity was the whiskery face of Sir Reginald Cholmondeley, whose photograph hitherto had been kept in an elaborate frame and concealed underneath Miss Gaskell’s pillow.
Well now, thought Mrs. Jackson as she said good night to the young woman, what a good day it has been for discovery. She went downstairs, put on her hat and coat, and left the house feeling as if she were escaping from a tomb.
Chapter Sixteen
While Mrs. Jackson was tucked up with a good book and a glass of hot milk in the old nursery, recovering from her day of triumphs and revelations, Clementine, dressed in her best Fortuny evening gown, was taking her seat in the Shackletons’ box at the Royal Opera House.
Lord Montfort had offered to accompany Olive Shackleton and his wife to the opening night of Madama Butterfly on his last evening in town before he left for Iyntwood. It was a deeply generous act on his part and Clementine went to great lengths to thank him for this kindness. She knew the opera was a close equivalent to an evening spent in hell for her husband. In his own words he could never quite appreciate the appeal of listening to a contest between the bellowing of solidly overweight men and the shrieking of large women, often at the same time, in a hot auditorium crammed with people, all of whom he believed were there because they had nothin
g better to do. Yet here he was with all the appearance that the evening held nothing but delight for him.
They were accompanied by Lady Ryderwood and Aaron Greenberg, and after Lord Montfort had settled Lady Shackleton and Lady Ryderwood on either side of his wife at the front of the box, he took a seat at the back of it next to Aaron Greenberg, where they fell into quiet conversation.
Sandwiched between two devotees of Italian opera, Clementine felt rather like a fraud. For her, the appeal of a first night was watching fellow opera-goers at play before the curtain rose on an extravagant production with ornate sets and lavish costumes. The singing, which she enjoyed for the most part, was a rather secondary appreciation. Leaving Veda Ryderwood and Olive to discuss the merits of various sopranos most suited to the role of Butterfly, she gazed down at the packed auditorium to watch society’s overture to the performance.
The Royal Opera House had undergone a tremendous change in the last few years and had been thoroughly refurbished. Tonight it reminded Clementine of a great gilt-and-plush jewel box. The red-velvet tiers were festively swagged with glossy green foliage, bright with autumn berries, entwined with winter-flowering jasmine and hothouse lilies to scent the soft, rarefied air. Gathered below and on either side of her were London’s beau monde: women, sumptuously dressed, shone like stars in their jewels, accompanied by meticulously tailored men who provided a perfect black-and-white foil for the brilliant oriental colors in fashion this year inspired by the exotic sets and costumes of the Ballets Russes.
Clementine nodded to friends among the glittering, shifting crowd below as she watched them greet one another: the younger women with little cries of surprise and exclamations of delight at a particularly magnificent dress; the older with stately inclinations of the head before, barely moving their lips, they fell into a long, murmured exchange of information and gossip. In boxes on either side of her, a more illustrious crowd fluttered fans to cover whispered assignations and the more scurrilous news of the day, causing heads to be thrown back in trilling laughter and bright, malicious eyes to flash. Handsome young men regarded the throng through half-closed, insolent eyes, exhibiting habitual boredom, or brayed with loud foolish laughter, as they waited to be released for the real business of the night’s pleasure at the card tables of their clubs. Standing apart from the distraction created by life’s partygoers, England’s politicians, industrialists, bankers, and landowners talked among themselves. Their faces betrayed nothing but polite, well-bred interest, that particular air of the patrician Englishman for which he is renowned, the reserved demeanor the Germans called arrogance and the French sangfroid. They talked of war, they talked of cabinet placement, and they talked of money. Clementine noticed them in their familiar groups and her gaze traveled onward until it alighted on the tiny, birdlike figure of Lady Cunard, who was busily making the rounds among the especially rich and highly titled, darting from box to box, disappearing and reappearing like a marionette in a puppet show. Clementine turned to Olive to indulge in a little information-gathering of her own.