The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  The preacher was not bad. He knew his theology and his arguments were clever. The sermon dwindled at the end, though, and went on for far too long. I began to feel sorry for Davenport, seeing his shoulders slouch a little. Then I remembered his earlier comments and lost my sympathy. Instead, I gave my attention to the white barrel-like ceiling, studded with gold, and to the fruits and flowers of the carving under the east window – which bore the unmistakable style of Grinling Gibbons. It was a beautiful church. I could almost find peace here, except that phrases in the prayers, cadences from my childhood, made me think of home and I began to grow uncomfortable.

  I had sat next to a girl who was keen more to talk than to listen, so I did not have to dwell on maudlin thoughts. The girl, whose name was Betsy, pointed out not only her own mistress and everyone else of consequence, but their servants too. She had bright blue eyes that sparkled as she chattered in a loud whisper. Her own lady, in the seats below, was almost as talkative, whispering to her companion behind her prayer book. Mistress and maid were well-suited. At the end of our bench, Betsy noted two servants from Hawbridge House. One of them sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap, a calm expression on her pale face. I recognised her as the girl who had accompanied Lady Hawbridge to the theatre. That, Betsy told me, was Hannah, Lady Hawbridge’s maid. She had been many years in the lady’s service, and was nice enough, although a bit aloof. Hannah heard her name and turned to glare, but her eyes softened when she recognised Betsy and the glare became more of a gentle warning to her friend to keep her voice down. The other Hawbridge girl was just a chamber maid. Betsy didn’t know her name. Her face had not yet lost its childish pudginess. She was sullen and bored; dragged along to church for her moral and spiritual improvement, no doubt. I wondered whether Lord Hawbridge had ever sought her out and pressed her against a table.

  I asked Betsy to introduce me to them both, seeing now how a fellow servant might gain access to the Hawbridge residence in a way that a theatre girl who was ordinarily a harlot would not.

  As we left the church, Betsy was chattering excitedly to Hannah and (we discovered her name) Mary. None of us needed to say much as Betsy talked, because she could talk for all of us, but it transpired that we were all making our way down York Street in the direction of St James’s Square and we could, as Betsy suggested, walk together. Hawbridge House, I learned, was in the square.

  I caught Davenport’s eye as I stood on the street with the girls. He wanted me to go with him. The small jerk of his chin was more like a command than an invitation and I resented it. I shook my head in response and linked my arm through Betsy’s, turning around to see him with his hands on his hips, scowling after me.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘Where’s your house, Lizzie? Who’s your lady? Is she here?’ Hannah cast a look over my dishevelled gown and battered face. I did not look like a lady’s maid, but she was kind enough to suggest that I might be. She herself was neatly dressed in light blue, with a very white kerchief and a plain straw bonnet. Even the sullen Mary was better turned out than me. Her bonnet had a ribbon. I didn’t even have a bonnet.

  I might have been poorly dressed, but I knew how to spin a yarn. One of the benefits of my usual profession is that I know enough about the social scene inhabited by worthy gentlemen to create stories convincing enough for servants.

  ‘Ah, it’s a sad tale,’ I said, affecting some distress. ‘I used to be in a lovely house with Mrs Woodmarsh. She was such a lady.’

  There was a gentleman who had visited me only a week or two ago, who told me that his wife was lately dead. Mr Woodmarsh had spent nearly an hour lamenting her passing – such a fine creature, a saintly wife and loving mother to his children – and I had listened and made sympathetic sounds, pouring his wine and offering him food. He had dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief and described, in nauseating detail, her many virtues to me, before pushing my face down into a pillow and doing what he had paid to do. I suffered no scruples about making good use of his recent loss.

  I repeated her remarkable character to my audience, sniffing back tears. ‘She was taken from us not twenty days ago.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sad,’ said Hannah. ‘When they’re kind to you, you grieve them, don’t you?’

  ‘I’d hate to lose mine,’ said Betsy. ‘I love her more than I loved my own mother. She’s never once raised her hand to me. Shares all of her secrets too – not that I’m telling.’

  Betsy had proved to be a fabulous gossip in the short time I had been in her company, but I guessed that she would stay loyal to her own mistress. She was genuinely fond of her.

  ‘What happened?’ Hannah looked again at my clothes and my bruise, as if she were guessing at my current circumstances.

  I put a little wobble in my voice and told them that Mr Woodmarsh, in his grief, had dismissed his wife’s servants.

  ‘The poor man,’ said Betsy. ‘It does take them like this, sometimes. I heard it even happen to a duke, once. His wife died, and he burned all of her clothes and sent everyone away. He must have loved her dearly.’

  ‘Indeed, I don’t know what he’ll do without her.’ I tried to shake the memory of Mr Woodmarsh grunting profanities into the back of my neck. ‘But as for me, I am without a situation, without a home, and am very near to giving myself up on the street.’

  This had a predictable effect on my companions. Even Mary looked horrified, although I wondered whether she quite understood.

  ‘You must come to our house.’

  ‘No, ours is bigger, we have opportunities, I’m sure.’

  They fussed and suggested, pulling my arm. Eventually, with all the effort of one making a difficult decision, I plumped for the Hawbridge establishment.

  ‘But you are only around the corner, isn’t that so?’ I said to Betsy. ‘We might meet from time to time.’ I squeezed her hand warmly. ‘And if there is no position at Hawbridge House, perhaps I might come to you?’

  ‘Depend upon it, Lizzie, you would be very welcome. But the best of luck to you. Lady Hawbridge is a proper lady, just like your Mrs Woodmarsh.’

  She turned aside from Hannah, Mary and me, away to her own place of employment. We stood, for a moment, in the northern end of St James’s Square, looking up at the impressive sight that was Hawbridge House, the Earl of Hawbridge’s London residence.

  It was not the largest house on the square, but the earls of Hawbridge could hold their heads high amongst the dukes and earls whose dwellings jostled for importance in this corner of London. It was certainly stylish, trumpeting the wealth and significance of the family with its widely-spaced windows and shining stonework. Even though the late earl had lost a fortune in gaming houses, his home stood among the best of those belonging to the English nobility. The family would, ordinarily, have been thinking about making its way back to the country estate for the summer. If I could recall correctly, the estate lay in Gloucestershire. They would be certain to travel from London after the earl’s funeral. That meant I had only a few days in which to discover whether my information about Mr Astley and the Hawbridges was correct, and whether Mr Astley did, indeed, have reason to want Lord Hawbridge dead.

  And I was still supposed to be in the theatre, sewing and mending, in Drury Lane, not in St James’s.

  This was going to be difficult to manage.

  Hannah, who was not aloof, as Betsy had claimed, but rather charming once Betsy’s incessant chatter had left our ears, decided that she had taken me under her wing. I still styled myself as Lizzie Blunt, but now I was a forlorn house maid, cast upon the wicked streets of London by a grieving master. I was, I admitted to myself, rather enjoying playing a variety of parts. If matters continued, I would be able to perform an entire play by myself.

  ‘This way, Lizzie,’ Hannah said, pulling me by the arm. ‘Our door’s the other side.’

  Of course it was. I would never be invited through the front door of Hawbridge House, except on the arm of my father or one of my brothers. That was a sh
ame: it was a splendid door in a very magnificent edifice. I would have enjoyed making an entrance.

  The servants’ door was not as gorgeous, but it was grand enough to remind Lord Hawbridge’s servants that they worked for a nobleman of taste, means and influence. Or, they used to. They could only hope that the new earl would be as keen to make such an impression. Every servant, even as he or she grumbled against his master, liked to know that the master was significant in the world. I was ushered into the servants’ hall; a large dining room with enough seats to tell me that this was a decent-sized household, even for a London house. The country estate would have more servants, especially if the earl kept a large stable and liked to entertain. Hannah left me with Mary, while she went to find the housekeeper.

  The house was spacious, hushed and calm. A world away from Drury Lane.

  ‘What’s it like here?’ I asked Mary, not having heard a word from her along the street. My voice seemed harsh and loud in these surroundings.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, staring at the floor. ‘Mrs Kemp is vicious.’

  I assumed that Mrs Kemp was the housekeeper I was about to meet. It’s rare to find a chamber maid describe the housekeeper as anything other than vicious.

  ‘You been here long?’

  ‘Four months.’

  She was not employed for her lively conversation or sunny countenance. I was grateful to see the vicious housekeeper appear in the doorway with Hannah, the tapping of their feet almost noiseless as they arrived.

  ‘You’re the girl who’s looking for work?’ Mrs Kemp was a large woman with a square jaw and beady eyes. Her greying curls had been strictly tamed under a white cap. She would not, in any situation, be described as a beauty, but her brisk and confident manner was that of a woman who was eminently capable of running a noble household. She ruled this house more surely than did Lady Hawbridge. I thought her wonderful, if a little terrifying.

  ‘Yes please, mum,’ I gave her a small curtesy. ‘I was lately in Mrs Woodmarsh’s employment, until she died. I have very little to live on at present.’ I brushed at some dirt on my gown. I was aware that this was a futile action, but I hoped that it demonstrated that I was normally tidier in my appearance. I gave her what I hoped was an honest smile.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sure you’re a good worker, and Hannah has told me your sorry tale, but I haven’t a position here. I’m sorry. The family has been bereaved and they’ll be off to the country soon.’

  This was not what I’d wanted to hear, although it was what I had expected. I hung my head.

  Mrs Kemp might have been as frightening as an ogre to a mouse like Mary, but there was a kindness in her eyes. She took hold of one of my wrists and inspected the attached hand.

  ‘You’ve very dainty fingers. I’ve got some mending that needs doing. The girl from the laundry normally mends, but according to the laundry man she’s got the chicken pox. How are you with a needle?’

  I almost laughed as I reached into my pocket to find my needle box. ‘I am very good with a needle, Mrs Kemp,’ I said. ‘Why in my previous position, I was often asked to darn or mend because my stitching is so fine. As you say, my hands are small, and my mother was a seamstress, and she taught me well.’

  She didn’t want to know my history. Which was a good thing, when I was making it all up.

  ‘I can’t offer more than that, and I can pay you only a little, but if you’re competent enough I can put in a good word for you hereabouts. I don’t like to see a good girl fall on hard times.’ She let go of my hand. ‘Go with Hannah and you’ll find what needs doing. Keep out of the way of the family, though. They are not to be disturbed.’

  I thanked her profusely, like a girl who believed her luck was turning.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Hawbridge House was built so that the family never needed to see their servants, except when they summoned them. The gracious rooms, designed for entertaining, the copious bedrooms, ready to receive guests at any hour of day or night, were not to be used as thoroughfares for the staff.

  In my father’s house – comfortable, certainly, but not nearly as large as this – servants peeped into rooms before entering to clean and tidy. Then they would approach their task noiselessly, making themselves as invisible as possible, even when we could see and hear them quite easily. They would pad down corridors as if in soft slippers, not looking at us if we passed them, or unless we greeted them. But we mingled, we rubbed along together. We certainly knew they were about.

  This residence had been set with corridors and passageways for the servants behind the walls of the main rooms. These were well-lit, even windowed in places, but hidden from view. In the drawing room, or the dining room, members of the family and their guests need never know, as they held a morsel of food to their lips, that a chamber maid was carrying her covered bucket of slops only a few steps away from them. Hannah moved swiftly and in silence, well-practised in staying out of sight. She kept turning her head to see that I was following, as if she were anxious that I would make a noise. She seemed on edge, as we scurried down the passageways, and only relaxed when we finally reached the linen room.

  We found the basket of mending. It was the usual fare: cuffs on shirts and edges to handkerchiefs and neck cloths. It was not even full and could be dealt with very quickly. I wondered aloud why none of the maids in the house did this work.

  ‘We could do. Well, I could do it,’ said Hannah, ‘but the laundry man’s daughter has always done it. And I think Mrs Kemp took pity on you.’

  ‘Betsy said your master died suddenly,’ I said, as she was about to leave me. ‘Is that what Mrs Kemp meant by the family bereavement?’

  She nodded, glanced back down the corridor and pulled the door closed. She spoke in a low voice. ‘I don’t know much about it. Only that there was a lot of shouting yesterday morning, Lady Hawbridge was screaming and young Lord Shand – sorry, no, he’s Lord Hawbridge now, the new earl, I mean – he had to be raised from his bed and was in a terrible state about it. They’re all calm now, of course. I don’t know how they can bear it.’

  ‘Lord Shand was the young man with Lady Hawbridge at church? There was another man with her, I think, and an older lady?’

  ‘Yes, that’s Mr Callow. He’s a friend of the family. He’s known her ladyship since childhood. The other person is her ladyship’s aunt, who happens to have a house nearby. They’re close.’ An aunt. She had looked like an aunt.

  I wanted to ask about Mr Astley, but she hadn’t mentioned him. I made use of the chattering Betsy again. ‘There was another man at church, Mr Asprey, was it? Betsy said he had been close to Lord Hawbridge – and Lady Hawbridge too.’

  ‘Astley,’ she corrected. ‘He was a friend of the family, yes.’

  ‘Betsy said your master was murdered,’ I said, idly picking up the basket and fishing out a handkerchief.

  Hannah jumped.

  ‘I don’t know how she knows that,’ she said in a furious whisper. ‘None of us knows how he died. The servants’ hall was buzzing with stories about him having his throat cut. They said it happened in a theatre too.’ She folded her arms and frowned. ‘It seems that rumours are spreading quickly, if that little gossip Betsy told you.’

  Betsy had said nothing, of course, but she was proving helpful. ‘There’ll be a scandal?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ she said, picking at her sleeve. ‘You’ve no idea how awful it all is.’

  I had an inkling.

  Hannah opened the door again, her face still troubled. ‘When you’ve finished, come straight back down to the servants’ hall and help yourself to bread or cheese, but don’t take anything else without permission. If anyone asks, tell them I sent you, but don’t linger, and don’t do anything to disturb the family. Don’t forget to ask for Mrs Kemp; she’ll pay you, like she said.’

  There were a lot of prohibitions in this house.

  She gave me a weak smile before returning silently to he
r own work. I sewed quickly and with determined concentration and it was not long before I had refilled the basket with mended items. I was rather proud of my efforts, but I did not have time to sit and admire them. I had other work to do.

  Anyone unfamiliar with an earl’s London home would be forgiven for getting lost in the back corridors, but I had enough experience to guess, roughly, how this house was laid out. The rooms for entertaining would overlook the square, so that guests might pass the time watching the comings and goings at the other fine houses. What could be more diverting than standing at the window, glass of wine in hand, noting the carriages arriving at the Duke of Norfolk’s place, or the Duke of Cleveland’s mansion, commenting to the assembled company on the style of the livery, the likely power of the horses, or the fashions of those who disembarked? The earl and countess would each have their private apartments at the back of the house, away from the noise of the square, and overlooking some sort of garden. The servants would be squashed into the rooms at the top of the house, even into the roof, enduring heat in the summer, and cold in the winter, running from the very top of the house to the very bottom of it via the hidden staircases and passageways.

  I retraced the steps I had taken with Hannah and found the door I needed, slipping quietly through it, like any good servant, basket in my arms, but chose to follow the passageway towards the front of the house, rather than immediately heading downstairs. As I had trotted behind Hannah earlier, I had noticed one or two cracks and holes in the walls, where a person might peep at the family, or overhear conversations. I sought them out now, putting my eye to each and every gap that I found. I could see painted wallpaper, fine furniture, portraits on the walls, and even a gorgeous clock on the mantlepiece of one room, but not one living being. There was no sign of Mr Astley, let alone Lady Hawbridge.