Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman (23 page)

Clementine glanced at Mr. Bottomley-Jones and smiled as she noticed that his eyes were as round as the saucer he was slopping his tea into, as he listened in to this choice array of cosmopolitan tittle-tattle.

He caught her eye and asked whether she thought “Lead, Kindly Light” and “I Dwelleth in the House of the Lord” were hymns better suited to the occasion of Teddy's funeral as selected by his grandmother. Receiving her compliant nod, he turned to the dowager and Lord Montfort to help make the final choice, leaving Clementine in the company of Colonel Valentine and free to eavesdrop on Agatha and Christina's conversation.

“How are you doing up at the house with this awful fellow from London? This policeman … what's his name?” Christina was ready to talk about the new investigation into her son's death, and Clementine sat farther forward in her chair.

“Ewan, and he is quite awful, a
new Englishman
if ever there was one. No respect, dreadful manners, and simply no idea how to behave. You would not believe what he has subjected us to. Of course we had no choice, as you can imagine.” Agatha put her little dog on the floor so it could lap some cool tea from a bowl at her feet.

“Agatha, of course you have a choice, never put up with that sort of rubbish … But what did he do?”

“Do? Why, nothing at all. It is what he
required
that was so unspeakable: an
alibi,
as he called it, from everyone in the house as to where they were on the Sunday morning from three until six o'clock, when of course we were all in our beds, sound asleep. Can you imagine? Nanny said that she heard everyone was
somewhere else
after we all retired at the end of the ball. You know what I mean. It's quite outrageous. I would never have thought for one moment…” Lady Booth searched for the right phrase.

“… That Ralph's house parties were so sophisticated? I would have thought their set far too stodgy. Oh I'm sorry, Agatha, I don't mean to offend, but you take my meaning, don't you?”

Clementine, avidly listening in, guessed that Lady Booth would never believe that anything improper might go on in a house she had agreed to stay in for a Saturday-to-Monday house party, but like all prudes she loved to hear what those with lesser morals had been up to. It was what made her such a merciless gossip.

A little prod from Christina: “Come on, Agatha, what else did Nanny tell you?”

“Well, all right then. Who do you think Constance Ambrose said she was with on the night of the ball after lights out?”

“Do I know Constance Ambrose?” Christina was pleased at the possibility of a cosmopolitan soufflé as an alternative to the provincial suet pudding of gossip to be had at Haversham Hall.

“Yes, of course you do. She married Jack Ambrose, the third son of the Duke of Denver, he was…”

“Ah yes, I remember now … Jack Ambrose's a bit of a stick-in-the-mud. Isn't Constance much younger and quite pretty?”

“Yes, if you like strident coloring … She is the daughter of Viscount Slitherton.”

“Ah yes,
that
Constance. Agatha, I can assure you
that
Constance is very attracted to assignation. So what did Nanny say about Constance Ambrose?”

“Nanny said Constance's maid was being very tricky after her interview with the police sergeant, dropping hints and so forth, you know how they do. But what it boiled down to was that Constance told her maid, ‘I spent the night with that crusty old bachelor, the Badger.' Sounds to me like a bunch of twaddle; the only bachelors staying at the house were Harry and his set, so she can't have meant them. I just ignored it. After all, Constance is not particularly bright … like most of the Slithertons.”

“I am sure there is more to it than that. I think you are taking what the maid said too literally. It's code for something.” Christina would be happy to mull over those words minutely for the next three days, a morsel to provide a distraction.

Clementine, listening quite closely to this exchange, didn't need three days. She knew precisely whom Constance had meant by a “crusty old bachelor” and understood quite sadly that she had lost her most favorite suspect for Teddy's murder. She glanced over at the Reverend Bottomley-Jones, who, having secured a list of hymns from the dowager and relying on his years and status as a man of the cloth, had drifted off to sleep, his cup and saucer clasped askew on his tummy and a slightly conspiratorial smile on his mouth.

*   *   *

Later that night, after dinner, Mrs. Jackson had detailed John to look after the younger guests who had wandered off to the music room with the Victrola to practice the fox-trot, which was all the rage in London this season. The young gentlemen were permitted to drink whiskey, Mrs. Jackson had told John, but the young ladies might only have lemonade. She was aware from her corner of the servants' hall that John had returned for more lemonade and to report that Pansy and Blanch were having the time of their lives now that the mesmerizing Miss Lucinda was no longer staying in the house. They were dancing, he said, and dancing quite nicely in the arms of either Lord Haversham or Mr. Oscar, as their brother, Mr. Ellis, good-naturedly changed gramophone records.

“It's a wonderful dance, the fox-trot. Look, I've been watching them, it's quite easy really.” John pulled Mary to her feet and demonstrated the dance with her, singing the lyrics as he trundled her around the room:

Oh ma honey, oh ma honey,

Better hurry and let's meander.

He executed a perfect feather step and then a reverse. Mrs. Jackson, looking up from her mending, thought it a charming exhibition. John was agile and light on his feet, and Mary had no trouble following his lead. She smiled to herself and threaded a darning needle with gray yarn. The servants' hall felt almost normal again.

“They have two records, this one and the ‘Alabama Slide.' It's called ragtime and it's wonderful to dance to.” John swung Mary to a seat by the table, and turned to laugh at his fascinated audience. “Those two young ladies are having the time of their lives. They're both in love with Lord Haversham and Mr. Oscar, though they're certainly wasting their time on Mr. Oscar Barclay.” John allowed his right wrist to flop down as he did a neat little spin in his patent- leather slippers. Mary burst out laughing and was promptly told off by Mrs. Thwaite.

“I want none of that in front of my girls, John, d'you hear me? It was dreadful what you just implied … Mr. Barclay is a lovely young gentleman; he's almost as nice a young man as our Lord Haversham is.” Having scolded the footman, Mrs. Thwaite now encouraged him with loud laughter.

Mrs. Jackson looked up from the stocking she was darning to pay more attention.

“He certainly
is
a lovely young gentleman,” said John, who had become a little more urbane and worldly under the influence of visiting valets who saw a good deal more of life than he did. “He's a right old chip off the block is Mrs. Oscar.”

John, left arm pointing upward, twirled his silver tray on his finger and stuck his right hip out sharply, head coyly on one side, causing the girls to shriek. Mrs. Jackson looked up and saw Mrs. Thwaite give John a shove, roaring with laugher and swatting at him with a tea towel.

He went sideways, his feet rapidly two-stepping for balance as he flipped his tray up and neatly caught it, which caused even more of an uproar and a couple of cheers.

“Chip off the old block? Oh no, dear, I won't have it said!” Mrs. Thwaite put large red hands on her bony hips and gave another guffaw. “We've certainly got the cream of society staying with us this time—the corridor-creeping society, that is. And without mentioning any names, which I never do no matter how you twist me arm, I think there have been a few changes since they were last all here.” More merriment among the kitchen maids, and Iris shook her head. “Yes, Iris, just you try helping out with the early-morning tea trays and see if I'm not mistaken. Why her ladyship doesn't arrange for a six o'clock bell so they can all get back to their rooms in time for tea, I can't imagine. Save the blushes of some of our nicer girls, it would.” There was another gale of laughter from the kitchen element. They were getting loud, and this brought Mrs. Jackson fully in at the double to restore order, thinking as she did so that Mable Thwaite obviously believed she was back in some pub off the Mile End Road, where everyone threw back their heads and brayed with mindless laughter the cruder the evening became. Well, not in her servants' hall.

“What on earth is going on here? John, up those stairs and back to your work. Obviously, we need to have a little talk at the end of this evening. Now do I have to count to three?”

Order was immediately restored, but the image of John twirling his tray had a ring of truth, which was what had made his playacting so very unacceptable to her. Yes, of course Mr. Barclay probably was … well, she couldn't bring herself even to think the word, respectability wouldn't allow it. But it was no reason for half the female servants to erupt in strident laughter. She stalked out of the servants' hall feeling doubly burdened by what was happening in their belowstairs world.

She had been aware that from the moment Sergeant Hawkins had walked downstairs to begin his investigation into the murder of Teddy Mallory, their lives would undergo a change that would bring no benefit. There would be questions asked and answers given that would chip away at the clear line that separated upstairs from downstairs. Loyalties would be tested and attitudes reversed, resulting in a shift in perspective and understanding. Once this line was crossed there would be no turning back, inevitably altering the long-instituted patterns of behavior between servant and master. She sadly came to the realization that John would never have behaved so disrespectfully a week ago. It was understood that footmen liked to play the fool, especially for the maids, but what had happened this evening was different. John had lost respect both for himself and for those he worked for. More troubling was that Mable Thwaite had had no problem in outwardly encouraging him.

Mrs. Jackson stopped and listened. She could hear the cook explaining exactly what
cinq à sept
meant—she pronounced it “sink or set”—for the edification of her kitchen maids. She was just about to turn around and go back into the servants' hall to reprimand her when she caught sight of someone moving at the bottom of the long corridor that ended at the scullery door. She leaned forward, peering into the gloom, and then walked down the corridor. It was Elsie in the shadows by the door, with a shawl up over her head.

“Elsie!” Mrs. Jackson's voice was sharp. “Where on earth do you think you're going at this time of night? Servants' curfew is at nine.” She walked the length of the corridor rapidly. “Where were you off to, my girl?” Her voice was low so that no one would hear, but her tone was severe.

Elsie's face, insolent for only a second, became conciliatory. She caught her lip between her teeth; it didn't do to cross Mrs. Jackson.

“Just out to get some air, Mrs. Jackson.” Elsie's tone was mollifying and she spread her hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence.

“No, you were outside a moment ago, young lady, I saw you. I hope you are not off to meet someone.” Violet's disappearance had made Mrs. Jackson more suspicious of all the younger maids. “I've got my eye on you, my girl.” Her voice was low and cold. “You'd better be off to bed now and I'll talk to you again in the morning.”

Mrs. Jackson was surprised to find herself so angry. She was quite sure that Elsie had been on her way to a meeting with someone by the guilty way the girl had responded. It suddenly struck her that Elsie often volunteered to run to the kitchen garden if something had been forgotten. Mrs. Jackson had assumed it was because she needed a break from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the servants' hall. Whom could she possibly be meeting at this time of night? Then she believed she knew who, and she felt the pain of jealousy so acutely that her stomach actually ached.

 

Chapter Twenty-two

The following morning Mrs. Jackson brought up Clementine's breakfast tray and with it a copy of
The Times
. As she struggled to wakefulness, Clementine was surprised to see that her housekeeper was still in the room.

“Good morning, Jackson. What sort of day is it?” she asked as Mrs. Jackson opened the curtains.

“A nice one, m'lady. I brought you
The Times
newspaper.”

“Oh really?” Clementine caught Mrs. Jackson's encouraging tone and picked up the paper. “Oh … I see. Oh good gracious me, it's Lucinda!”

“Yes, m'lady, it most certainly is.”

Lucinda Lambert-Lambert's whereabouts were proclaimed in heavy bold print on the front page, accompanied by a blurry photograph of her being manhandled out of, or into, a Black Mariah by three solidly built members of London's constabulary. Clementine read out loud:

PEER'S GRAND-DAUGHTER CHAINS HERSELF TO THE RAILINGS OF 10 DOWNING STREET.

Miss Lucinda Lambert-Lambert, grand-daughter of Eamon Geoffrey Parceval Squareforth, 5th Earl of Lanarkshire and daughter of Northampton millionaire boot and shoe industrialist, Mr. Gilbert Lambert-Lambert of Clevellan Square, W1, was arrested yesterday afternoon at five o'clock, after chaining herself to the railings of 10 Downing Street. Miss Lambert-Lambert was wrapped from hat to toe in the suffragette flag and wearing a banner demanding “Votes for Women.”

The Prime Minister, Lord Herbert Asquith, 1st Earl of Oxford and Asquith, is presently staying at Checkers, and was not inconvenienced by the young lady's attempts to draw attention to herself as a member of Mrs. Pankhurst's suffragette movement.

Miss Lambert-Lambert had manacled herself to the railings in front of the Prime Minister's official residence, where she remained until police cut through the iron links of her chains and placed her under arrest. She resisted all attempts to go quietly to the police vehicle and had to be dragged by three policemen into the carriage. A constable, assisting in her arrest, sustained a serious contusion to the side of his face and a broken nose from the chains that were still attached to Miss Lambert-Lambert's right wrist. During this time Miss Lambert-Lambert was loud in her exhortations for equality for women, and their right to vote.