Death at Whitechapel (4 page)

“I should be delighted,” Winston replied, taking out a pen. “Given your heroism in the Sudan, I consider it a great honor.” He took out a pen and wrote swiftly in the book. “Your courage is spoken of in high places,” he said, as he handed it back. “With high praise.”

Charles's right brow went up and he regarded Winston curiously. He had not disclosed those events of his military life, not even to Kate. Where the devil had Winston Churchill heard of it? In India or Egypt, most likely, from one of his former comrades. He sighed, reflecting that the Army had always loved a rousing war story that exemplified the soldierly virtues of heroism, self-sacrifice, and all that rot. High places, eh? The remark might be merely Winston's posturing—the young man was certainly prone to dropping great names on any occasion where he thought it might earn him attention. But it was also remotely possible that the tale had come from HRH, who seemed of late to have taken an interest in Winston's career.

The relationship between the Prince and the Churchills was long and full of intrigue. It was no secret that Albert Edward had long been, and perhaps still was, one of Lady Randolph's many lovers. The late Lord Randolph—Randy, to his friends—had winked at that adultery but foolishly attempted to call the Prince's hand on another, involving Randy's brother, Blandford, and one of the Prince's former paramours, Countess Aylesford. Randy, the most self-destructive man Charles had ever known, tried to use some of HRH's indiscreet letters to force the Prince to help Blandford. But this treachery only brought disgrace. It was a long time before Lord Randolph and his wife were allowed to rejoin the royal entourage.

Charles sat down, lit his pipe, and leaned back in his chair. “And just what,” he asked dryly, “have you heard about my ‘courage'?”

Winston hesitated, as if drafting a response designed not to give offense. “Well,” he said carefully, “at the Battle of Abu Fahr—that would have been in '85—they say a certain lieutenant of engineers led his detachment in a forlorn hope against the Dervishes' flank after they had broken through the regiment's square. The detachment was slaughtered, except for the lieutenant, but his bravery saved the rest of the regiment.” Then wonderingly, and almost as if talking to himself, he added, “They say he refused the Victoria Cross.”

Charles drew on his pipe. He had heard, from acquaintances close to Kitchener, that Winston was considered a “self-advertiser” and a “publicity hound.” One of the Sirdar's aides had even gone so far as to suggest to Charles that Winston, who had pulled every string he could reach for an assignment to the Expeditionary Force, had gone to the Sudan in search of campaign medals to further his political hopes back home. If that were true, Winston must ascribe Charles's refusal of a V.C. to sheer lunacy.

But the point was not to be argued. Instead, Charles said mildly: “The Sudan campaign has certainly proved popular here. Most people say that Kitchener's army put a proper end to the business we should have finished thirteen years ago.” He paused. “You must have had an interesting time of it at Omdurman.”

“Ah, Omdurman!” Winston lost his diffidence and his pale eyes lit as if by electricity. “The battle entirely strengthened my faith in our race and our blood. We may have appeared to those savages as barbarous aggressors, but I am proud to raise my sword and my pen in honor of the persevering British, who, though often affronted, usually get their way in the end.”

“Oh?” Charles said. Both his eyebrows went up this time.

“It's the game, you know,” Winston said, leaning forward eagerly. “War is the finest, honestest work of every man. Omdurman proved to the world that the spirit which flamed in the Light Brigade at Balaclava still burns in the British cavalry of today! Such gallantry! Such deeds of distinction!”

“Indeed,” Charles murmured. He cleared his throat. “Well, if you take that line in your book, I daresay it shall sell very well, and undoubtedly raise you to any pinnacle you choose.”

“Thank you,” Winston said. “I believe it is my duty to give readers a taste of the fury of war.” He put on a grim look that was at odds with his youthfulness. “We were in a tight spot at Omdurman, you know. If it hadn't been for my Mauser pistol, my bones would be bleaching in the Sudan.”

“The M96 self-loader?” Charles asked, reaching for another change of subject before they could soar to more lofty heights of rhetoric.

“Yes, that one. You've used it?”

“I have had occasion to examine it,” Charles said thoughtfully. He had in fact discovered a whole crate of this particular weapon, which was manufactured in Germany, the year before. One weapon from that consignment had very nearly ended his investigation, and his life. He did not elaborate because HRH had declared the matter secret in the interests of national security and Charles doubted that Winston could keep a confidence. “It is a fine defensive weapon,” he said. “It must deliver a remarkable volume of fire power.”

Winston became quite animated. “Oh, yes, yes! Not only does it fire as fast as you can squeeze the trigger, but reloading is simplicity itself. The bolt locks open at the last shot and you simply ram another clip of cartridges down into the magazine.” He raised his hand and pointed his finger as if it were a gun. “And there you are! Ten more dead men!”

George turned from the fireside conversation. “Is it as accurate as they claim?”

Raeburn looked up, the fire glinting on his glasses. “I understand,” he said, “that the rear sight is adjustable to a hundred yards.”

“Several hundred,” Winston said.

“I shall consider acquiring one,” George said. “Where did you get yours?”

“You might try Wesley Richards in New Bond Street.” Charles rose from his chair. “Ah, here are the ladies, at last!” he said, with relief.

 

W
ell, my girl,” Sarah Pratt said angrily, “it's ‘igh time ye showed yer face.” She shoved the copper stock-pot to the back of the iron range. “Where
'ave
ye bin, Mary Plumm? It's nearly four, an' the potatoes not peeled for supper nor the tea table laid in the servants' hall.”

The new kitchen maid, a pert, redheaded girl of fifteen with an ivory complexion and a tip-tilted nose, looked at her with innocent eyes, blue as the summer sky.

“Why, I've bin t' school, Mrs. Pratt. Don't you remember? Her ladyship told me I might, from two to four, wi' the village girls.” She tied a clean white apron over her gray cotton dress and got out a loaf of bread. “I bin learnin' t' use Mrs. Quibbley's sewin' machine.”

“School!” Sarah hissed, between clenched teeth. She took down the pudding that was meant for the servants' tea. “I thought ye were done wi' learnin' a long time ago.”

Mary Plumm, whose experience as second kitchen maid at Marsden Hall made her seem eminently suitable for the kitchen at Bishop's Keep, was a replacement for Harriet, who had departed a fortnight earlier. Sarah missed Harriet sorely, though she would not have admitted it. The girl had always been willing (albeit a trifle untidy), never talked back, and had followed Sarah's instructions with diligence if not always with attention. Unfortunately, Harriet was now employed in the post office in the nearby village of Manningtree, where (she had proudly confided to Sarah in a penciled letter betraying many erasures), her hours were fewer, the work less strenuous, and she had been promised promotion after a year's satisfactory employment. Harriet's betrayal galled Sarah, all the more because her ladyship—quite inexplicably—had encouraged the girl to take the new position when it was offered to her.

“Advancement and a change of scene,” Lady Charles had said approvingly. “I applaud your ambition, my dear.” Whereupon she had given Harriet a sovereign for good service and promised a strong character should that be required in the future.

Sarah harrumphed to herself. She admired her employer but some of her schemes and notions were unfathomable. A sovereign for good service, to a servant who threw over one perfectly good post for another! But perhaps that was the way they did things in New York, where her ladyship had grown up.

Mary began to slice the bread, working rapidly and neatly. “I am done wi' learnin‘, Mrs. Pratt,” she said. “Book learnin', anyway. But this is different.” She raised her chin. “I'm learnin' a trade. One o' the useful arts.”

“An' what is it ye're learnin' from me, I'd like t' know?” Sarah demanded. She shook her spoon at the menu slate hung on the wall beside the great cupboard, where the next day's dinner menu—carrot soup à la Creci, roast fowl, vegetables, compote of peaches, and charlotte à la vanille—was displayed. “Look at those dishes! Ye're leamin' to cook, ain't ye? That's a trade, an' a fine one! I should know—I bin doin' this for twenty-five years, in this very same kitchen!”

Mary met Mrs. Pratt's eyes. “Twenty-five years in the same kitchen,” she said in a wondering tone that just missed being insolent. “Why, I don't b'lieve I could stand it.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. When she was taken on as kitchen maid, the first thing she was taught was to hold her tongue. If she had spoken with such impertinence to Mrs. Howard, who was Cook before her, she would've had her ears boxed till they rang. But like it or not, the times had changed and kitchen maids, especially experienced ones, were harder to come by—and much more independent. If Sarah boxed Mary Plumm's pretty little ears, as she felt like doing, Mary Plumm might well take off her apron and march the two miles to Stafford Place, where Lady Stafford's cook (whose previous kitchen maid had gone off to London to work in her cousin's fish-and-chips shop) would welcome her with open arms and an extra half-holiday twice annually. Sarah would have to recruit one of the housemaids to help with the cooking until her ladyship hired another kitchen maid, who would probably have half Mary Plumm's experience and twice her impertinence. It was not an inviting prospect. Add to it the desperate personal predicament which had recently threatened Sarah Pratt's peace and tranquillity, and it might be understood that she was unusually short of patience these days.

“Not so thick wi' that bread,” she snapped. “That's the last loaf till tomorrow's bakin'. An' as soon as tea is done, the potatoes is next.” She paused deliberately. “Thompson has sent in some fine large potatoes, so I b'lieve we'll make crulles for upstairs dinner.” Potato crulles were potatoes cut round and round in a continuous spiraling curl before they were cooked, requiring a sharp knife wielded with careful attention. That should keep the saucy miss occupied. “An' mind ye wash ‘em in very cold water,” she added, knowing from personal experience how that chilled the fingers. “The colder the better. An' peel 'em thin as can be, but no breaks. If one breaks, throw it into the slops an' start over.”

Mary Plumm's little cry of consternation was lost in the opening of the kitchen door and the entry of Mr. Hodge, the butler. He had been hired last year when the previous butler, Mudd, yielded to wanderlust and departed for New Zealand and life as a sheep farmer. Mudd had been young and inexperienced, and Sarah had ruled the roost when he was the butler. Now, she had to submit to Mr. Hodge—Frederick B. Hodge, that is—who would never, in his wildest dreams, imagine himself herding sheep in New Zealand. Experienced in the fine art of butlering, he was a reserved, formal man of indeterminate age whose coat was always brushed and tie unfailingly straight. His erect carriage and precise language reflected his insistence on professional discipline on the part of the staff.

“There has been a change of plans, Mrs. Pratt,” Mr. Hodge said in his dry, correct voice. “Tomorrow's guest has already arrived. There shall be three for dinner.”

Mr. Hodge's tone did not indicate what he thought of such a breach of decorum, but Sarah was vexed. Three for dinner meant a recalculation of the fowl and the addition of another entree. But that had been the way of things ever since Miss Ardleigh married his lordship and become involved in Society, and she was resigned.

“Three for dinner, eh?” she said. “Thank‘ee, Mr. 'Odge.” She turned to Mary Plumm. “Ye'd best 'uny yer tea, my girl. As soon's ye're done, draw an' pluck another fowl an' peel those crulles. Mind ye now—very cold water!”

This time, Mary Plumm's dismay was clearly audible. Sarah smiled to herself. Yes, there was more than one way to handle an insolent kitchen maid.

 

Standing at the edge of the terrace, looking out over the gardens, Kate was pleased. The year before, she had ordered the renovation of the south gardens, which had been neglected for several generations. Her two aunts, from whom she had inherited Bishop's Keep, had been far more interested in the practical kitchen garden that provided vegetables and fruits for the table than in the extensive pleasure gardens that had once surrounded the house. Before the aunts, her grandfather had thought flower gardens frivolous, costing a great deal of money and requiring the time of men and boys who might be better employed in the fields.

But while practical Kate counted the cost of the gardens, she also respected their value—to her, to the estate, and to the boys and a few girls who were being trained in the horticultural arts by her new head gardener, Mr. Humphries. When trained, these young people would have a secure trade which would pay them far more handsomely and reliably than common field work—which, in the current agricultural situation, was not easy to come by and not very secure. A boy or girl who learned gardening was a boy or girl who would not have to go to London to find work in a factory. In Kate's view, growing young gardeners was equally as important as growing gardens—especially when it could be done with money she had earned from her books and was free to spend in any way she chose.