The Aquila Project (9 page)

‘Nevertheless, Napier,’ said Kershaw, ‘I think I had better go out there myself. Grunwalski is a strange fellow, who might well see it as his duty to himself to go along with these keepers of his! If I were there on the spot, I could persuade him to remain safely in the world of reality. Come, Box. There are things that I have already set in train, and I need to know what information they reveal before I venture abroad.’

When they left the Foreign Office, Colonel Kershaw
accompanied
Box along Whitehall as far as the opening into Great Scotland Yard. He had been silent since they left Napier, but now he stopped on the pavement, at the same time detaining Box by the simple expedient of tugging him by the sleeve.

‘Box,’ he said, rather diffidently, ‘will you come out there to Poland with me? You would not be pursuing a wanted felon this time, as you were when you and I were in Prussia together, but I’d value your presence – and your ability to see things that I have missed – when I embark upon this adventure in Poland.’

‘I’d be delighted, sir,’ Box replied. ‘But I would need to consult my superintendent—’

‘Leave all that to me, Box. I’ll see the commissioner myself this afternoon. You’ll find that Mr Mackharness will raise no
difficulties
. I’m so very glad that you’ve consented to come. We shall meet again soon.’

Colonel Kershaw raised his hat, and in a moment he was lost in the crowd of busy people making their way towards Trafalgar Square.

At nine o’clock the next morning, Vanessa Drake, in her character as Susan Moore, housemaid, stepped on board the Dark Green City Atlas omnibus that would take her out to St John’s Wood, and the residence of Baron Augustyniak.

‘Y
OU
MAY
WONDER
,’ said Mr Quiller, butler at White Eagle Lodge, ‘why I have gathered you all together here in the kitchen on this bright Saturday morning. The reason is, that this is a new establishment, and we are all agency staff – Thompson’s Agency, to be exact. It’ll take some time before we mould ourselves into a proper household. So let me tell you a few things before you disperse to your duties.’

Vanessa Drake, clad in her long black dress, starched white apron and matching cap, tried to look suitably demure and expressionless in her guise of Susan Moore, one of the two
housemaids
. Mr Quiller, she thought, was a rather faded kind of man, as though a life in service had quenched his spirits, but he had a kindly, agreeable face, and an honest London voice that held an ever-present edge of wit. Somewhere in his mid-fifties, he had lanky grey hair, which tended to fall across his forehead. Listen! What was he saying?

‘First,’ said Mr Quiller, ‘a little word about the master and mistress, Baron and Baroness Augustyniak. Let me hear you say it, so that you’ll always get it right: Augustyniak. Good. They are both Polish nobility, and you’ll hear them speaking to each other both in Polish and French, though you’ll be relieved to hear that they are both fluent in English.’

‘How do we address them, Mr Quiller?’ asked a rather haughty
young woman wearing the cap and ribbons of a house
parlour-maid
.

‘A good question, Partridge,’ Quiller replied. ‘“Sir” and “Madam” will do, as they’re not English nobility. The baron seems to be a very amiable and friendly gentleman. The baroness, I’m told, is a mite temperamental – fond of the occasional scene. So keep a wary eye out in that direction. They’re both great
entertainers
, and hold frequent dinner parties and receptions, so there’ll be plenty of work for all of us.

‘Now, I want everyone to tell everyone else who they are, and where they’ve been in service.’ Vanessa saw the butler smile to himself as he added, ‘Madam, as you know, has her own personal maid, Jeanne, a young French person. She came from Poland with the baroness, and is not part of the household.

‘Now, I’ll start with myself. I’m Mr Quiller, butler and wine steward, as one or two of you know already, having worked with me before. I’ve served in some of the best houses, both in Town and out in the sticks, for more than thirty years. Now, let’s hear your names, and a bit about you, starting with the lady on my right.’

‘Mrs Stafford, cook general,’ volunteered a rather forbidding woman in a black dress. ‘I was formerly with Sir James and Lady Standish in Eaton Square. And this,’ she added, pointing to a shy girl of fourteen or so standing beside her, ‘is my kitchen maid, Victoria, late of the Langham Hotel, but now trying her hand at private service.’

One by one, the remaining seven staff introduced themselves. Mary Partridge, house parlour-maid, formerly with Lord and Lady St Pancras. Gladys Jones, chambermaid, various posts in gentlemen’s houses. Ellen Saunders, housemaid, formerly with the late Miss Pepper of Pont Street, Chelsea.

‘Susan Moore, housemaid, formerly with Colonel Macdonald of the Indian Cavalry.’

Vanessa listened to her own nervous, piping voice. Surely they
were all looking at her? Didn’t she fit? Could all these genuine servants see that she was an impostor? Who was that gloomy, bewhiskered man standing by the kitchen door? Why was he looking so fixedly at her? Did he—

Albert Smith, footman, formerly with Mr Seaton Hughes of Putney. Alexander Scott, footman, formerly with Mr Adams of Salisbury.

The sour-faced bewhiskered man, his cold eye still fixed on Vanessa Drake, was the last to introduce himself.

‘Joseph Doyle, coachman, last employed by Captain Wainwright of India Lodge, Hammersmith. Can I get back to the mews, Mr Quiller? There’s a lot to be done since the baron’s last coachman suddenly got a fit of the sulks and left without working out his notice.’

Without waiting for a reply, Joseph Doyle slipped out of the kitchen door, muttering to himself. Quiller looked after him with a wry smile, and gave his staff permission to begin the morning’s work.

Vanessa had arrived at White Eagle Lodge, a fine, detached three-storey villa standing in its own well-tended gardens, on the previous day. She had found the house in turmoil, as a number of builders and decorators were still putting the finishing touches to various alterations demanded by Baron Augustyniak when he had moved into the house a month previously. It was only now, on the morning of the 7 July, that Mr Quiller had been able to assemble the new household for his little talk. The other servants had arrived during the earlier part of that week.

Vanessa had quickly made friends with her fellow housemaid, Ellen Saunders, whose tiny bedroom was next to hers in the attic storey of the house. Ellen was a pretty, unaffected girl of sixteen, who had worked with Mr Quiller before. She had been in domestic service from the age of thirteen.

‘Mr Quiller’s had ever such a romantic life, Susan,’ Ellen confided, as they left the kitchen to go about their work. ‘A couple
of years ago he was butler to a gentleman in Warwickshire who turned out to be a murderer! He’s not accepted work in the country since then. “London will do me fine, Saunders”, he said to me when we were both working for Mr Leopold Grace in Chiswick.’

‘Why did he call you Saunders?’ asked Vanessa. ‘It’s not very friendly, is it?’

Ellen looked at her new friend in puzzlement. What a funny question to ask!

‘Well, I’m a housemaid, aren’t I? What else should he call me? And you’re a housemaid too, which means that you’ll be called Moore, just as I’m called Saunders. Didn’t you know that?’

Vanessa bit her lip in vexation. Her one day’s intensive training as a housemaid, under the expert tuition of Mrs Prout at Bagot’s Hotel, had taught her a lot, but evidently not enough. She would have to be careful. How rotten it was, to tell lies to this nice, friendly girl!

‘Colonel Macdonald always called me Susan,’ said Vanessa. ‘I believe that was the custom in the Indian Cavalry. What do you think of this Baron Augustyniak?’ she asked, hastily changing the subject. ‘Have you seen him yet?’

Ellen Saunders giggled. ‘The master? Yes, I’ve see him,’ she said. ‘I came here on Tuesday, you see. He’s ever so handsome, and I’m almost certain he winked at me yesterday when I met him on the upstairs landing. A roving eye, that’s what he’s got.’

‘What did you do when he winked at you?’

‘I did what all maids should do when that kind of thing happens: blush and curtsy, then make yourself scarce! My Miss Pepper taught me that. Madam’s jealous of him, I think. She’s one of those smouldering foreign ladies. But come on, Susan, we’ve got those grates to do in the reception rooms, and the flowers to change.’

That same evening there were guests to dinner. The dining room at White Eagle Lodge was lofty and well lighted by three long
windows looking out on to the rear gardens of the villa. It had been newly furnished, and everything gleamed and glittered in the light of two gas chandeliers, heavy with crystal.

Vanessa and Ellen Saunders took up their positions against the wall opposite the sideboard, waiting to hand round the dishes. Mr Quiller supervised them, while attending to the pouring of the various wines served with the different courses. It was a
nerve-racking
experience. Vanessa watched everything that Ellen did, and tried to do the same. There were no accidents, though she saw the butler glance at her quizzically from time to time. Serve from the left, remove from the right…. Or was it the other way round? Mrs Prout, Colonel Kershaw’s secret colleague at Bagot’s Hotel, had taught her all about the different kinds of service: French, Russian, standard silver – but now they all mingled together in her mind in a confusion of panic. Watch Ellen, do as she does, and you’ll be all right….

Between courses the two girls stood against the wall, staring neutrally into space. Vanessa contrived to examine the company closely through veiled eyelids.

Baron Augustyniak sat at one end of the long table, dominating the room by the sheer power of his personality. His evening clothes sat easily on his massive frame, their sober black contrasting with his mane of blond hair and his bushy golden beard. The light from the chandeliers glinted off the gold-rimmed monocle that he wore in his right eye. He was inclined to his right, talking in low tones to a little balding man who nodded vigorously at everything that he said. They appeared to be speaking in Polish.

A raised finger from Quiller signalled that it was time to change the plates and serve the next course. Mercifully there were only eight guests that evening, and Vanessa was quick to learn from Ellen’s deft and experienced service. Only once did she catch the baron’s eye fixed on her, but with a little thrill of pleasure she
realized
that he was merely admiring her, not suspecting her. Ellen had said that the master had a roving eye. Back to the wall.

At the far end of the table sat Baroness Augustyniak, an
impressive
woman, with dark hair and flashing eyes. Her extreme haughtiness contrasted with her husband’s natural affability, and she scarcely deigned to speak to the guests sitting to her right and left. She wore a black satin dress, its soberness relieved by the
brilliance
of her magnificent diamond necklace and bracelet. When Vanessa resumed her place by the wall, she saw the baroness glance briefly at her. There were tears standing in her eyes.

The eight guests were all earnest, worthy men of middle age, learned experts in the various branches of Polish culture. They spoke English at the table for most of the time, and their
conversation
was about the endowment and running costs of the projected Polish Institute. It was a dull, worthy evening. The gentlemen did not linger over their port, and the party broke up soon after coffee had been served in the drawing-room.

Was Colonel Kershaw right in suspecting that Baron Augustyniak was more than he claimed to be? It was early days yet.

After they had carried all the dishes and cutlery into the kitchen for Victoria to wash, Vanessa and Ellen returned to the dining-room, where they busied themselves in polishing the table and the massive sideboard.

‘You don’t know much about service, do you, Susan?’ asked Ellen. ‘When you offered the asparagus dish to that little baldy gentleman sitting on the master’s right, he almost had to stand up to see what you were giving him!’ There was indulgent humour in the girl’s voice, but her remark gave Vanessa an unpleasant jolt. How much longer would she be able to keep up the pretence that she was a trained servant?

‘Poor Colonel Macdonald was an invalid, you see,’ said Vanessa. ‘He never entertained at all. That’s why I’m a bit clumsy now.’

Ellen Saunders chuckled to herself. She continued to polish the dining table with evident devotion to the task, but she glanced mischievously at Vanessa.

‘Colonel Fiddlesticks!’ she laughed. ‘You made him up, didn’t you? Where did you
really
come from, Susan? Did you run away from some man?’

It was an immediate way out of Vanessa’s dilemma.

‘Promise you won’t tell anyone,’ she said.

On Sunday morning, Baron and Baroness Augustyniak,
accompanied
by the French maid, attended Mass at the local Roman Catholic church. Mr Quiller told Ellen and Vanessa to blacklead the grate in the drawing-room, and to lay and light a small fire there.

‘This man,’ said Vanessa, as she polished the steel fender, ‘was ever so charming at first, and said that he wanted to marry me. His mother and father kept a pawn shop in the Mile End Road, so he had expectations. But then he showed himself to be a fiend in human form.’

‘What did he do?’ asked Ellen, pausing with the blacklead brush in her hand. Her eyes sparkled, and her pretty face was animated by curiosity. Vanessa felt quite encouraged. It wasn’t often that she told elaborate lies, and she found that she was quite enjoying it.

‘He took me to the Alhambra one night,’ Vanessa continued, ‘and afterwards we went to five different public houses. First he got tipsy, and then he got drunk, and started to hit me. A man who was passing by saw what he was doing, and knocked him down in the street. And then the brute swore something dreadful – words I’d never heard before in my life – and said that he’d have revenge on both of us. He said he had a razor at home, and that he’d come and find me and cut my throat in the night.’

‘Coo…’ whispered Ellen, in ecstasy.

‘And that’s why I fled,’ Vanessa concluded. ‘I was a seamstress, you know, but a friend managed to get me on the books of Thompson’s Agency. A military friend,’ she added, thinking of Colonel Kershaw. ‘So promise you won’t tell on me?’

‘’Course I won’t tell on you,’ said Ellen. ‘All you have to do is watch what I do, and take pattern from me. What was he like, this brute? What was his name?’

‘Albert,’ Vanessa replied. ‘He was a giant of a man, with yellow hair, and a long white scar across his face. I don’t know why I fell for him, Ellen. Maybe it was because he was so well-spoken, quite like a gentleman. But there was a demon bottled up inside him, like that Mr Hyde in the story.’

‘Coo…’ whispered Ellen, as they left the room together. Her friend Cecil never thumped her, or anyone else, for that matter. And he had no long white scar across his face, only spots, which wasn’t quite the same.

After lunch, which passed without incident, Quiller told Vanessa to dust and tidy the baron’s study, as he wished to work there on his private papers that afternoon.

The study was a spacious room at the back of the house, across the entrance passage from the dining-room. It was panelled entirely in white-painted oak, and a number of family portraits hung on the walls. A large desk stood on a Turkey carpet in the centre of the room, and a tall, very ornate set of shelves held a collection of leather-bound books.