By now she was wringing her hands and pleating her apron. ‘Sir, I know I should not put myself forward, but I do fear the moors in this weather.’
Voke frowned. ‘And what has that to do with anything?’
‘Young Dr Shaldon’s out there, sir. He slipped out early, while I was dusting.’
‘He must have slipped out from somewhere,’ Voke observed. ‘And I deduce it would not be through the front door.’
‘No indeed, sir. But I dare not say more. I fear for my place here, sir.’
‘And why should that be?’
‘I cannot tell you, sir. I truly cannot!’ With that she burst into tears. ‘But I promise you, sir, I was doing no wrong.’ She fled.
Mrs Lacock, who had been watching silently from the back of the room, caught my eye. ‘Let her have her cry,’ she said, ‘and then I will speak to her. She will not leave this house, never fear.’
~ * ~
‘So the Meatballs man isn’t what he seems, and young Dr Shaldon is missing. And a housemaid is in hysterics. Where do we proceed from here?’ Mr Voke was nursing a small glass of the estate cider.
‘I fear I have been sadly remiss,’ I confessed. ‘I knew that little Molly was behaving oddly, and have done nothing about it. She slips into rooms late, and out early. But she accomplishes her duties excellently.’
‘And do we know where she goes between tasks?’
I shook my head. ‘I had it in mind to follow her. But such a thing would be demeaning, would it not?’
Voke gave a lopsided smile. Of course, that was what he did all the time. By way of silent apology, I topped up his glass.
He sipped. ‘We have a room not open to everyday guests. We have two scholars permitted to study a priceless picture. And we have a tearful maid, whose duties take her into the vicinity of the picture, worried about the whereabouts of one of the guests. Is he handsome, Mr Dawson? Aye, I feared so. And she is smitten, poor wench. Well, I am tempted to go by her instincts, Mr Dawson - I suspect the young clergyman may be on the Haldon road. And I suspect he is carrying something of interest. Meanwhile, let us speak to Mr Meatballs.’
But by whatever name he went, he was nowhere to be found either.
~ * ~
Whatever Mrs Lacock said to Molly, it only served to make her more tearful. So eventually Mr Voke said, ‘Let me talk to the little maid. I do believe I’m acquainted with her uncle by marriage on her father’s side. Let us see how that approach may work. Yes, you may listen, Mr Dawson, but I’d rather she didn’t know you were there. And I’d rather you kept quieter than a church mouse, whatever she may tell me. Agreed?’
As a butler, I take orders from no one but His Grace. But if I failed to agree, the interview would take place without my knowing anything that passed, so I concurred. To overhear conversations without giving the participants any idea of my presence is not unusual for one in my position. The only difference I anticipated was that at least I would have the chance to discuss this encounter afterwards.
Voke must have talked Moretonhampstead gossip for at least ten minutes before Molly responded - and if I tell you that while the town has a long and venerable past, it is still a very small place, you will understand how tedious those ten minutes were. However, I did learn that young Molly was a favourite of the late parson’s wife, and would have liked to continue in her service but that on her husband’s death the good widow was forced to go and live with her family. I also learned that one of her tasks had been to read aloud to the lady.
Read! A village girl like that knowing her letters well enough to read aloud! The notion made me gasp. The Bible, poetry and sermons! Whatever next? Novels? I found it hard to keep my promise and my silence.
‘So when I can, I try to keep up my reading, Mr Voke. To keep the words in my head, you might say.’
‘And where would you be doing this here reading, Miss Molly?’
There was a long pause. ‘Once or twice in my bed, but then I think Mr Dawson saw me carrying a book, so I stopped. So now it’s in the library, sir. Most often His Grace doesn’t even know I’m there. If he does, I flaps my duster and he thinks I’m carrying out my duties.’
‘I think you should show me exactly where.’
My heart bled at the depth of her sigh. ‘Of course, sir. But please sir, for pity’s sake, send after Dr Shaldon. A stranger’s like to perish when the fret comes in like this.’
‘Lord bless you, Molly - don’t you worry about that.’
Nor need she, the head keeper and a team of outdoor servants having been already despatched on Voke’s orders.
‘Tell me, my girl, are you keeping company with some fine young lad?’
In the silence, I could almost see her hung head and deep, painful blush.
‘What, no sweetheart? What are the young men thinking of, not courting the cleverest girl for miles round? And are you sweet on anyone? Dr Shaldon, maybe?’
Catching the sound of a sob, to spare her further unhappiness, I made it my business to stride loudly towards them, as if I’d but just entered the corridor. Soon we were on our way, a dismal little procession, to the place where Molly said she read. Sure enough, a volume of Richardson’s Pamela had a feather between its leaves to mark the place.
Voke took the volume, and lent as she must have done against a sturdy shelf. He looked up, and smiled. ‘You could have seen anyone touching that there picture that’s gone, couldn’t you, Molly?’
She nodded silently.
‘But you wouldn’t dare tell Mr Dawson here or Mrs Lacock lest they asked what you’d been doing in the library when you were supposed to be beating carpets or fetching and carrying. Now, Molly, weather apart, why were you afraid for the young reverend’s safety as he set off on the Haldon road - always assuming it was the Haldon road, and you weren’t trying to put us off the scent?’
Mutely she shook her head, her eyes awash again.
‘Now, my way of thinking is that this young reverend saw you reading. Was he kind to you, or did he make you fearful?’
‘Sort of both, Mr Voke.’
‘Both? How can that be?’
‘He gave me a guinea. And he promised to keep my secret if I kept his. That he kept on coming back to see the picture of the man and the woman.’
‘But I think someone else came to see it too? Keeping a quiet eye on Dr Shaldon?’
‘He wrote in a book, Mr Voke.’
‘He being Signor Polpetti?’
She nodded. ‘And then I was worried, because he didn’t write funny, like I thought Italian would be. He wrote in English.’
I gaped.
But Voke simply said kindly, ‘Good girl. Now, my girl, are you sure it was the Haldon road this young reverend was heading for?’ Turning to me he added, ‘So who is pursuing whom? Which man is the thief, eh, Mr Dawson, and which the thief-catcher?’
~ * ~
Mrs Lacock and I felt we deserved a little of His Grace’s Madeira wine when we sat together that evening, Mr Voke joining us, though in courtesy to Mrs Lacock he retired outside to smoke his filthy pipe. It had been a long hard day, but we flattered ourselves we had carried it off so well that none of the guests knew that anything had occurred to upset the even tenor of the hall. The picture was back in place, and Badger, the head keeper, had arrived in time to assist the unarmed Signor Polpetti when Dr Shaldon turned his pistols on him. When he realized his game was up, Dr Shaldon took the only path open to a gentleman wishing to prevent disgrace staining his family’s escutcheon - he turned the pistol on himself.
After a few minutes’ discussion, Mr Voke and Badger agreed that it might well be that in the thick mist he might have taken his pursuers for footpads, and, drawing his weapon, had mistakenly fired it as his horse reared, the bullet finding his own brain. A few guineas from His Grace’s purse would ensure that the story became the official one. Only part of the truth would find its way into Signor Polpetti’s notebook - a Bow Street Runner’s Occurrence book. It seemed that many esta
blishments like ours had lost works of art after one of his visits, and the most recent victim had set the Runners after him.
A few more guineas found their way to Molly, for her timely confession. Mrs Lacock was inclined to demur at that, but Mr Voke pointed out that without the girl’s ultimate honesty, the picture would have disappeared into the mists and been lost for ever. But Mrs Lacock was adamant that she must find employment elsewhere, and I could not argue. A maid was supposed to be a maid, not a secret student.
So as we drank our Madeira, we discussed Molly’s future. She was not qualified to be a governess, Mrs Lacock mused, and I had seen enough of the miseries attendant on a governess’s life not to argue. Neither did I like Mrs Lacock’s suggestion that she should seek a place for her as an old lady’s maid-companion: Molly deserved the chance of a bit of life and a handsome young man to share it with.
At last, Mr Voke spoke up.
‘I have a cousin down Okehampton way,’ he began, ‘who runs a small school for the daughters of farmers and so on; she might, if she were given a suitable premium, offer young Molly a place. The maiden could earn her keep as a maid-of-all-work, and learn as she went. In time she might become a pupil teacher, and better.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Mrs Lacock cried. ‘Who knows what a bright girl like that might achieve in time?’
But I nodded more slowly, with a sudden pang coming from I know not where.
<
~ * ~
TOGETHER IN ELECTRIC DREAMS
Carol Anne Davis
Carol Anne Davis has written a number of short stories in addition to five novels, including Shrouded. In recent years, she has also focused on writing about real-life crime, and her six titles include Parents Who Kill.
~ * ~
F
rom the start, I did everything in my power to split them up, to make him exclusively mine again. But the bitch just wouldn’t let go, so I was driven to kill. The psychologist here at the prison thinks that I overreacted, but she clearly hasn’t loved enough . . .
I met him, of all places, on a sponsored walk for breast cancer. Both his mother and mine had died of the disease and it created an immediate bond between us. We were both forty, both divorced, both had one grown-up child who lived far away. Even our names sounded good together - Jack and Gill. My work as the assistant headmistress at a girls’ school brought me into contact with very few men and his job as an aeronautics engineer meant that he worked with very few women. Neither of us had been dating for years so we were ready for action, fell hard.
Jack praised everything about me at the start - my looks, my figure, my somewhat dry sense of humour. He said that I was cute, that he loved my body, that I was very entertaining and that he loved spending time with me. I reciprocated with ardour, forever hugging and kissing him. He was always freshly showered and sweet-scented, so there was nothing that I wouldn’t do . . .
And, at the onset, it seemed enough. He appeared to set out his stall, telling me that, if he remarried, his wife would get his sizeable pension. He was disappointed that his first wife had had so little interest in his work. Many women hear the word ‘engineer’ and turn away - they want a man with a job which they can understand, someone in sales or teaching. But I’d had friends in the engineering faculty when I studied English at university, simply because one of my sister’s boyfriends was an engineer.
Throughout my course, I came to know these youths well, found that, if you looked beyond the initial awkwardness, they had good hearts and grounded personalities. They wanted what we all want, love and mutual support. They were the type of men who would hold their beloved in high esteem and would never cheat. Or so I thought . . .
I remember the first time I knew that something wasn’t right. I’d been dating Jack for six months, and we were in love, when he went on one of his regular work nights out. By then, I’d met and socialized with most of his colleagues. Indeed, I often picked him up from the pub at the end of these evenings, sometimes joining him for the final round. But, on this particular evening, he was vague about exactly where they were going and said that he’d get a lift back from a mate.
The following day, I asked him which of the usual suspects were there. He reeled off a few names, hesitated, said, ‘Becky’, then added another few male names.
‘Becky?’ I asked. I mean, women in engineering are rarer than hen’s teeth or at least they were when I was at uni.
‘Mm, she joined us about a month ago.’
‘Any good?’ There had been one female engineer on my sister’s boyfriend’s course and she’d only survived by getting various blokes to help her with her course work. She was beauty without the brains. Her father had persuaded her to try engineering as she was his only child and he needed someone to take over the family firm.
‘Yeah, she’s OK.’
We were curled up on the settee and I’d just switched on the television and was about to leaf through the TV magazine. All of a sudden he was staring intently at the screen, yet it was showing EastEnders, a programme we both despised.
‘There’s a documentary just starting on BBC4,’ I muttered, picking up the remote control but still watching him out of the comer of my eye.
‘I’ll make us a cuppa,’ he said and catapulted off the couch.
I felt a growing unease as I waited for him to return. He’d always told me that he was a one-woman man and had given me no reason to doubt him. But the way he’d hesitated before mentioning her name . . .
‘So, what does Becky do?’ I asked when he returned with two overfilled mugs.
‘She works for me.’
‘Did she come from Ashtons?’ I knew that another engineering firm had recently paid off their staff and that several of them had been taken on by the company which employed Jack.
‘No, she’s straight out of university.’
‘A mere foetus!’ I laughed, and waited for him to say that she was hopelessly callow.
Instead, he merely muttered, ‘She’s OK.’
It would be a month before I saw them together but I knew that she was my rival long before that. Put bluntly, he changed, became more distant. He stopped holding my hand when we were out walking and he went from greeting me with a ‘Hi gorgeous’ to a mere ‘Hi’. He also started to find fault with my appearance, pinching my waistline and asking if I’d gained weight. Ironically, I’d lost a few pounds as I was terrified of losing him, was often too upset to eat.
I decided to go to the gym and tone up, though it was a horrible thought after a day spent dealing with overwrought teachers, pushy parents and hormonal pupils. But I was suddenly competing with a girl of twenty-two.
What with skipping meals and working out on the ski machine after school, I went from a size fourteen to a twelve in a fortnight. Then I waited outside Jack’s work one day and saw him leave, laughing, with Becky and she must have been a perfect ten. She had long blonde tresses which caught the light and danced around in the summer breeze - mine’s a brunette pixie cut and I have my share of bad hair days. She also had the straight white teeth of an American actress, whereas I have molars courtesy of the NHS.
It hurts to get your teeth straightened. It really does. They play that part down when you go for a private consultation. Instead, they take your photo and show you what you’re going to look like after your pegs are realigned. I signed up there and then and spent the next four months in pain, and still have ongoing discomfort. But they did look better, they really did. Even Jack said so, but he still didn’t want me to pick him up from his work nights out.
I was getting slimmer, prettier, fitter, yet it wasn’t enough. ‘It’s surprising that you still get spots at your age,’ he said one day. In the bathroom a moment later, I looked in the mirror at the small red bump next to my gloss-enhanced lips and marvelled that my future happiness could depend on it. Dermabrasion helped, as did a lighter foundation, but I began to dread the run-up to my period when my complexion would be at its worst.
&n
bsp; If you’re a feminist, I bet that, by now, you’re urging me to leave. And I should have done, I know, but he’d been so wonderful to me at the beginning. I kept thinking that, if I tried hard enough, I could get the man who had loved me back. I mean, it’s not as if he was nasty all the time - he still took me out three times a week and made love to me as if he really meant it. And he still made future plans.
So, for the first eight months after Becky arrived, I convinced myself that he merely had a crush on her, that it wasn’t reciprocated. After all, what would a twenty-two-year-old blonde beauty see in a forty-two-year-old man who was beginning to lose his hair?
She saw something, the bitch - maybe it was the thought of his pension or maybe she had a thing about father figures. Who knows? All I can say for sure is that I followed them from work one night and saw them go into an Italian restaurant. No boss. No colleagues. Just him and her, with their arms around each other’s waists as they walked along the road and disappeared into The Venetian. I stood outside for a moment, feeling ill and afraid.
Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology] Page 6