Death Sits Down to Dinner

by Tessa Arlen

  Then, to Mrs. Jackson’s relief, Mr. Jenkins pulled himself together.

  “Absolutely not, Sergeant, I will accompany you myself. John, my overcoat, gloves, and bowler if you please, and while I am gone please make sure that Miss Kingsley is not troubled in any way. Now then, Sergeant, I am ready. And we will use the servants’ entrance on our way out, and perhaps you would kindly remember to use that door when you come to this house next time.” And correctly attired for cold weather, the elderly butler led the way to the area door.

  Chapter Twenty

  The servants sat on in the Chester Square servants’ hall as they waited for Mr. Jenkins’s return. John was sent up to retrieve luncheon trays. He returned and they ate their dinner in silence. Mrs. Jackson picked her way through an insipid mutton stew and idly wondered what delicacy had been served up in the servants’ hall at Montfort House. It certainly wouldn’t be anything as bland and tasteless as this mess, she thought, pushing aside a half-cooked dumpling and eating around watery, overboiled cabbage. Now that they were gathered together, the tight-lipped silence among the Kingsley servants, which had prevailed when she first arrived in the house, returned. When Eliza’s distress abated enough for her to ask through a stuffed nose what could have happened to the new footman Eddy Porter, Martha turned such a frowning look on her that she lowered her eyes and returned to her weighty treacle pudding and lumpy custard.

  Mrs. Jackson decided that the moment Mr. Jenkins came back to the house and she knew whether he had been able to identify Leonard Crutchley’s body, she would call it a day and return to Montfort House. She hoped that Mr. Jenkins had his wits about him, because livery alone would not be enough to identify a body that had been in the Thames for four or five days.

  The kitchen maids cleared the table; their noisy chatter over the sound of running water and the clatter of pots and pans that accompanied washing up seemed even louder amid the expectant silence in the servants’ hall as they waited on. John left for a cigarette in the area outside the servants’ entrance, and Martha instructed Eliza to make tea. The racket in the scullery came to an end, and the kitchen maids came back into the room looking apologetic and sat down with them.

  And finally the area door opened and slammed shut. Mr. Jenkins had returned. Every one of the servants stood up as he came into the servants’ hall, but none of them spoke. Mrs. Jackson thought it said a great deal for their respect that they waited for the butler to speak first. His trip to the mortuary had obviously been harrowing: his face was gray and pinched with cold, and there was a look of miserable despair about him. If they all hoped to be informed whether he had been able to make an identification, they were to be disappointed. Mr. Jenkins nodded to them briefly and without saying a word walked down the corridor to his pantry and closed the door.

  “Oh good Lord, it was Len,” said Martha, and she put her large hands over her face. “What is the world coming to? This will be too much for Mr. Jenkins, I know it will.”

  “Make some tea for Mr. Jenkins please, Eliza,” Mrs. Jackson said as she got to her feet and prepared to follow the butler. And to the cook who had poked her head out of her kitchen door: “Cook, will you arrange for someone to cut some sandwiches as quickly as you can, unless you have something hot and nourishing on hand, like soup. The chicken soup from upstairs luncheon will do perfectly. If there is any left, I will take it in to Mr. Jenkins.” Mrs. Jackson wasn’t going to have any more of this pact of silence and closed doors; she was far from being an impatient woman but she had no intention of waiting around for a couple of days for what had happened at the mortuary to reveal itself. She did not catch anyone’s eye because she felt the looks that were being given one to another among them at her having instructed the cook to serve the butler soup made for Miss Kingsley. Too bad if they don’t like it, she said to herself. I’m not leaving here until I know, and that poor old man needs something a bit better than dreary reheated mutton stew inside him.

  When a tray was produced with a large bowl of soup, sandwiches, and a pot of tea, she carried it through to the butler’s pantry to find Mr. Jenkins sitting at his desk, still wearing his bowler and scarf, his topcoat thrown carelessly aside over a chair.

  Violent death had come to Chester Square not once but twice, and the stress was taking its toll on the elderly members of the household. Miss Kingsley was still shut up in her room and was not at home to anyone who called. Her butler, who after the death of Sir Reginald had been visibly fraying around the edges, after identifying the murdered body of his comrade was beginning to unravel.

  It was distressing to see him sitting at his desk cautiously sipping a tiny glass of whiskey. Offering a cup of hot sweet tea seemed inadequate and silly at a moment like this. Mrs. Jackson cleared a space on the desk and quickly laid out a napkin and a spoon. Then she placed a bowl of fragrant chicken soup in front of him and a small plate of sandwiches next to the bowl.

  “You’ve missed your midday dinner, Mr. Jenkins, so here, take a bite of sandwich and then eat some soup.” And with that she sat down and waited. Severe shock often increased the appetite and she knew she must be patient and wait for him to eat.

  He barely acknowledged her, but to her relief he took a tentative bite of his sandwich, grunted, and took a larger bite. He chewed voraciously and sipped his whiskey, and when he had finished that he picked up his spoon and started to eat the soup, taking an occasional bite of sandwich. Mrs. Jackson saw a little color return to a face that had been the color of putty.

  “You may take the tea away, Mrs. Jackson,” he said as she moved toward the tray. “I don’t want any of that slop today.” And he poured himself another whiskey. And still Mrs. Jackson said nothing.

  “They always forget to put mustard on the ham,” was his assessment of his sandwiches as he finished them off, and poured a third whiskey.

  Mrs. Jackson judged that now was the time, before he finished off his glass.

  “Were you able to make an identification of the man at the mortuary, Mr. Jenkins?” she asked.

  “Yes, Mrs. Jackson, I was. It was difficult because the body had been in the water for several days; he had been washed downriver to Tilbury. He was found last night … poor lad.”

  “So it was Mr. Crutchley, was it?”

  “Yes, it was Len, it was undoubtedly Len.” His voice sank low and for the first time he allowed himself to express a little of the emotion he felt. “That boy had worked for me for ten years, from hall boy to second footman and on up. I trained him myself. He was only twenty-four.”

  Mrs. Jackson saw his sorrowing face and knew how terrible it must have been to identify the body of someone who had been part of the old man’s family. Those who work for us always become like our own, she thought, as she remembered the housemaids she had trained, the cooks she had befriended, and the footmen who had come and gone in her life over the years. But however much she empathized with the tired, saddened old man sitting across the desk from her, grieving over the loss of someone whom he had been fond of, she had to know more.

  “You say he was in the river; had he drowned?”

  “No, not drowned. The police say he was dead when he went into the Thames. He had been hit over the head and his body thrown into the river. Thrown there like rubbish.” Mr. Jenkins’s hands shook and he finally looked up at her.

  “He was murdered, Mrs. Jackson, waylaid on his way back to the house from running an errand, knocked out cold, robbed, and thrown away. And I thought, God forgive me, that he had run off. He was a straightforward, law-abiding lad with no vices. He worked hard, he was respectful to those he worked with, and a good son to his mother. I was training him up to take over my job when I retired. And I thought he had just run off. I never dreamt…” His voice trailed off and he stared across his desk at her, looking for reassurance that the world he knew was not crumbling away. But she had nothing to offer, so she nodded her reassurance that the shock would wear off and in time he would accept this loss. Then she noticed that his
pale, watery eyes were losing focus, he was withdrawing into himself. The events of the last few days had been too much, this second murder had come as a terrible blow, and unable to find his equilibrium, he was staggering, reeling at the loss of a young man he had cared about.

  Mrs. Jackson got up from her chair and walked around the desk. She took the glass from his hand, as whiskey couldn’t help him now. She gently removed his bowler hat from his head, and he was hardly aware that she did so. She put a comforting arm around his shoulders. How long she stood there she didn’t know, but after a while she rang for John. She met him outside the butler’s pantry and told him to help the old man to bed.

  “Light a fire in his room and keep him warm, on no account must he get cold. If you can, it would be a good idea to sit with him through the night, or at least check up on him, he has had a terrible shock. And yes,” she answered his look of silent inquiry, “yes, it was Leonard Crutchley. Murdered. And now I want you to tell me something, John. Be quite straightforward about your answer, please.”

  She left Chester Square twenty minutes later, coat buttoned up tightly to her neck, her scarf wrapped up to her ears and her hat pulled down low over her brows. She walked rapidly and all the way she thought of nothing at all, she was aware only of her steps ringing out on the hard pavement and her breath clouding the air as she walked. It took her exactly fifteen minutes before she ran lightly down the area steps and through the scullery door into the servants’ hall of Montfort House.

  There was the usual clamor belowstairs at Montfort House, but after the repressive atmosphere at Chester Square, Mrs. Jackson welcomed the relaxed gaiety of the group. The second footman lowered his voice the moment she walked through the door, and the pretty little housemaid stopped talking in midsentence as she took her place at the table. Mrs. Jackson felt quite sad that she was the reason for their silence. She had evidently established a reputation with the younger servants as a crabbed old spinster.

  Ginger, however, smiled and said, “Good evening, Mrs. Jackson, Percy and Annie are going out to the Picture Palace to see the new Mary Pickford film. It’s come all the way from America, what’s it called again?” She turned to the second footman, who glanced sideways out of the corners of his eyes at Mrs. Jackson before he answered.

  “Caprice,” said the housemaid, for him, and giggled.

  “I am going to go with them of course; perhaps you would like to come with us?”

  Mrs. Jackson was almost too startled to reply. She had never seen a film, but she had heard that the Gaumont Picture Palace was a grand affair with a Mighty Wurlitzer organ that played throughout the performance, but as to this Mary Pickford, or whoever she was, she had never heard of her, buried as she was in the Buckinghamshire countryside. She hesitated before she said with genuine gratitude for being asked, “How very nice of you to invite me, Mrs. Harding, but I am quite done in. And her ladyship has asked me to pop in and see her before she leaves for dinner.” She was conscious of quick glances around the table. I wonder if they think I am here to spy on them, she thought. And just in case she was coming off as starchy and stuck-up she added, “I am really looking forward to my supper. It smells absolutely delicious.”

  “Be on the table in a tick, Mrs. Jackson.” Ginger smiled and gestured to the maids to finish laying the table. “Call Mr. White, would you, Perce? And after dinner, Annie, you must help with the washing-up, if we are to be on time for the picture. I love Mary Pickford, she’s called America’s Sweetheart! Isn’t that nice? And that Owen Moore is so handsome you would never guess he was a penniless tinker’s son from Ireland!” She walked around the table straightening cutlery and smoothing napkins into place and the footmen and maids rushed to help her. There was the usual bustle of chatty activity, with Annie giggling and the footmen vying with each other to make her squeal. Mrs. Jackson was almost glad that Miss Pettigrew was upstairs engrossed in the many little duties she performed for her ladyship at this hour of the early evening, so she wouldn’t have to catch her eye. They all came to the table and stood behind their places to wait for Mr. White, who said such a short grace that Mrs. Jackson was still standing waiting for more as the rest of them sat down.

  She lifted her fork to her mouth, realizing as she did so that her mouth was watering. And then: Oh good heavens above! She filled her mouth with something hot and delicious in which there were spicy sausages cloaked in a thick, rich tomato sauce poured over some tiny little potato dumplings that were as light as tiny feather pillows.

  “This is wonderful, Mrs. Harding,” she said in deep gratitude that the new cook was a spendthrift with the Talbots’ money. “What is it?”

  “It’s called gnocchi with a ragout sauce, Mrs. Jackson, a simple rustic Italian dish. I’m glad you like it.”

  Mrs. Jackson had never heard of such a thing, but dear Lord, she thought as she scraped her plate and wondered if it was politic to ask for more, it was tasty and satisfying and the flavors! In all her life Mrs. Jackson had never tasted anything quite like it before. Where on earth had this young woman learned to cook? It wasn’t in the north of England and that was a fact.

  She looked around the table at the shining faces of the Montfort servants as they ate their dinner and talked about their favorite films. The two footmen were leaning back in their chairs, outwardly flirting with the little scullery maid and the second housemaid. Mr. White was listening to Ginger as she told a funny story about the milkman, his face wreathed in such a delighted smile that his eyes had disappeared into two crescents. Well, he’s a goner, thought Mrs. Jackson.

  * * *

  Clementine was about to take her bath before dressing for dinner when Mrs. Jackson came into her room. She had not expected to see her housekeeper until the following morning before she left for Chester Square, so hopefully Jackson had something vital to tell her. As usual, her housekeeper was standing in her doorway, quite composed, her face betraying nothing. Really, thought Clementine, there is something almost inscrutable about her; I am never too sure what’s going on in that bright mind of hers.

  “Do come in, Jackson, I was about to take my bath but it can wait. You are back early from Chester Square. Has something…?” Her sentence remained unfinished since she realized it was always left to her to fill in the silences until Mrs. Jackson was ready to inform.

  Mrs. Jackson remained where she was, simply looking at her.

  “Something has happened, Jackson, come on out with it.” And finally her housekeeper spoke, her tone perhaps a little flatter and less conversational than usual.

  “Yes, m’lady, something has happened. And I am still trying to work out how it fits in to everything we already know.”

  Clementine sat down on her sofa and made herself wait. After a moment Mrs. Jackson took a breath and told her that Miss Kingsley’s first footman, the one who had walked out two days before the dinner party, had finally turned up, and that the Clumsy Footman, whose real name was Eddy Porter, had done a bunk. As Mrs. Jackson talked, Clementine’s mind went blank. And when Mrs. Jackson finished, her first thought was that everything that had gone before in their investigation now simply didn’t make sense.

  “What do we know about this Eddy Porter fellow?” she asked.

  “Very little. I spoke with John, who is now the only footman at Chester Square, and he said this Eddy Porter had been sent to the house by Gibson’s Domestic Agency. I telephoned the agency before I left Chester Square, and they haven’t heard of him. They have no record of sending over anyone to Mr. Jenkins to interview. They said there is a shortage of well-trained footmen at this time of year.”

  “So the first footman Leonard Crutchley was murdered to get him out of the way. And the Clumsy Footman, this Eddy Porter, was planted at Miss Kingsley’s house. But how does a footman fit in with the murder of Sir Reginald?” Clementine having finally straightened out the confusing array of footmen employed at Chester Square could not venture beyond these new facts and sat waiting for further enlightenment.

/>   “I am not sure, perhaps because he was not a footman, m’lady. He was a strange-looking man, from the little I saw of him. Too tall, too thin, pitch-black hair, horribly pale skin, and washed-out blue eyes. It was eerie really. John told me he didn’t know the first thing about waiting at table. I asked John exactly what had happened on the night of the murder, where all the servants had been from when the ladies left the dining room until Sir Reginald’s body was found, and especially where this Eddy Porter was. And this is what he told me.” She drew in a breath.

  “Wait a moment. You have had a long day of it, Jackson. Come on, sit down here. That’s better. Now, on you go.” Clementine reached for her notebook and her pencil as her housekeeper assembled her thoughts.

  “John said that when the ladies left the dining room to go up to the salon, Mr. Jenkins told the second footman, the Clumsy Footman to wait on them upstairs. Do you remember that, m’lady?”

  And Clementine said yes, she remembered a footman, she did not know his name, but it was the clumsy one, the one who had spilled coffee. He had certainly been tall and his hair very black.

  “Yes, well then he was sent by Miss Kingsley downstairs after the coffee accident. How long do you think he was gone for, m’lady?”

  “Perhaps ten minutes, might have been more, I am not quite sure.”

  “John told me that while Mr. Jenkins was in waiting outside the dining-room door he was belowstairs, setting up some glasses to take up to the salon and the gentleman were all on their way upstairs to join the ladies. He told me that this Eddy Porter, the Clumsy Footman, arrived in the servants’ hall and went outside into the area to have a cigarette. John didn’t feel it was his place to say anything about him taking an unregulated break because Porter was an arrogant sort with an unpleasant attitude to the other servants. But John went straight upstairs to tell Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Jenkins came downstairs and had some stiff words with Porter. John said Martha told him afterwards that Mr. Jenkins stood in the servants’ entrance into the area and was actually shouting at Porter to go back upstairs and take care of the gentlemen and the ladies in the salon. And Porter came inside, took his vinegar, and ran up the back stairs.”