The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (44 page)

“He was cold and calculating,” Ada said, remembering his green eyes. “All he wanted was riches.”

“Pure self-justification. But he is very clever,” Charles said. “The codes were the work of a brilliant mind, only used for the wrong purpose.”

“Now,” Clark was suddenly serious. “I must ask each of you to keep all the details of this affair secret. As far as the police are concerned we have captured a thief and dealer in stolen goods. I have tried to protect Miss Byron’s identity.”

“Why a secret? Sir?” Robert asked. His tankard of porter was already drained.

“No good cause would be served by tarnishing those close to the king. We must preserve stability at all costs. And we don’t want speculation and gossip about Henry de Bellfont’s claims that he burned down Parliament and is capable of blowing up St Paul’s Cathedral.”

“They were empty threats?” Ada asked. “He didn’t have a hand in that fire? Or the collapsing buildings?”

“With that mind, he could plan anything,” Charles said, “but would he have been able to carry it through?”

“I shall make very discreet investigations, but I believe not. He seized on two events and pretended he caused them, so we would pay to save St Paul’s. I doubt he had any intention of blowing it up. Abducting Miss Byron was to add strength to his claims.”

“What about his trial? He might take the opportunity to boast of these deeds?” Robert said.

“We shall find another way of dealing with him,” Clark said. Ada saw a glint of ruthlessness in his eyes that made her wonder if Henry de Bellfont would ever reach a courtroom. Perhaps he’d be encouraged to go to Tasmania, or America. She caught Robert’s eye and saw he’d come to the same conclusion.

The door opened and two serving-women came in carrying trays of food. Once everything had been laid out, the porter topped up, and the women gone, Clark said, “I propose a toast. To Miss Ada Byron, without whose mathematical genius, ably assisted by Mr Charles Babbage, we would not have averted this crime.”

As the three men raised their tankards, Ada laughed, and felt herself go pink. She wondered if she would ever be so content again.

Brodie and the Regrettable Incident

Anne Perry

Anne Perry has written over fifty books including two long-running series set in Victorian England. The first features Thomas Pitt who, though he rises through the police ranks, finds it difficult to mix with members of society because of his lowly background. The series began with
The Cater Street Hangman
(1979). The other main series, which began with
The Face of a Stranger
(1990), features William Monk, who manages to join the police force despite having lost his memory. He also has a rather chequered career, as he struggles to find his past. Both series have proved popular, though Perry has found time to dip into other periods, ranging from the French Revolution to the First World War. The following story fits into neither of these series, but clearly begs for one of its own. It features Miss Brodie, a highly inquisitive middle-aged lady’s maid in 1890s society, and Mr Stockwell, the butler.

“Really?” Colette raised her delicate eyebrows in an expression of surprise and implied contempt. “You allow the cook to do it for you? In France we always prefer to boil our own.” She was referring to the rice, the water from which was used to stiffen linens and muslins. “One can get so much better a consistency,” she continued, looking at Brodie with a very slight smile.

They were in the ironing room of Freddie Dagliesh’s country home. Colette was the young and very pretty lady’s maid of Mrs Violet Welch-Smith, house guest, and wife to General Bertrand Welch-Smith. Brodie was considerably older, of a comfortable rather than handsome appearance, although she had possessed a considerable charm in her youth. Now the first thing one noticed about her was intelligence, an air of good sense and a sharp but suitably concealed humour. She was lady’s maid to Pamela Selden, Freddie Dagliesh’s widowed sister. Since he was unmarried, he always invited Pamela to act as hostess when he had a house party he felt of importance, or where he was concerned he would be out of his depth. Violet Welch-Smith was a woman to give any man such a feeling.

Colette was still regarding Brodie with an air of superiority, waiting for an answer.

“Yes I do,” Brodie replied, referring to the cook and the rice-water. “Cooks, especially in other people’s houses, prefer that visiting servants do not attempt to perform tasks in the kitchen. They invariably get in the way and disrupt the order of things, upset the scullery maids, boot boys and undercooks.”

“Perhaps that is what happened at the last house where we stayed,” Colette retorted, changing the flat iron she was using on her mistress’s petticoat for a warmer one from the stove. “The food was certainly not of the quality we are accustomed to in France.” She looked very directly at Brodie. “I had not realized that that was the cause.”

Brodie was furious. Normally she was of a very equable temper, but Colette had been trumpeting the innate superiority of everything French, both in general and in particular, ever since she had arrived nearly two days ago. This was enough to try the patience of a saint … an English saint anyway, most particularly a north country one, used to plain ideas and plain speech. Unfortunately, she could not at the moment think of a crushing reply; she merely seethed inside, and kept a polite but somewhat chilly smile on her face.

Colette knew her advantage, but pushed it too far.

“Do you think your cook would be able to manage rice-water as well as preparing dinner for guests?” she said charmingly. “Would it be kinder not to ask it of her?”

Brodie opened her eyes very wide. “I had not realized you were attempting to be kind!” she said with exaggerated surprise. Then she smiled straight at Colette, this time quite naturally. “Perhaps a French cook would find it an embarrassment, but our cook is English – she is quite used to being helpful to the rest of the staff.” And with that she picked up the enamel jug sitting on the bench, and swept out with it. “I shall ask her immediately,” she called back, before Colette could think of a response.

She made her request in the kitchen, and was on her way towards the back stairs when she all but bumped into the imposing figure of Stockwell. He was the most dignified and correct person whose acquaintance she had ever made.

“Good afternoon, Mr Stockwell,” she said somewhat startled. He was eight inches taller than she, and of magnificent stature. He had probably been a footman in his distant youth. Footmen were picked for their appearance. Height and good legs were especially required. A poor leg was most observable when a man was in livery.

“Good afternoon, Miss Brodie,” Stockwell replied stiffly. She disconcerted him, and he had not yet worked out why, although he had spent some time thinking about the matter. She was really quite agreeable, even if a trifle over-confident, and opinionated above her station. It was not becoming in a woman. But she had been of great assistance to him in that terrible business of the murder of Lady Beech. A certain latitude was perhaps allowable. “A most pleasant day,” he added. “I fancy the ladies will be enjoying the garden. Spring is one of the most attractive seasons, don’t you think?”

“Most,” she agreed.

He frowned. “Is something troubling you, Miss Brodie? Is it a matter with which I could assist?” He owed her a certain consideration, a protection, if you like. She was a woman, and a visiting servant, and this was his house. Her welfare was his concern.

“I doubt it, Mr Stockwell,” she replied, her lips tight again at the thought of Colette. “I find Mrs Welch-Smith’s maid very trying, that is all. She is convinced of the superiority of all things French, and she is at pains to say so.”

“Ignorance,” Stockwell said immediately. “She is a foreigner, after all. She may not know any better.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Brodie snapped. “She is not in the least bit ignorant. She is simply …” She stopped abruptly. What she had been going to say was unbecoming to her. She closed her mouth.

Further down the corridor a maid went by with a dustpan in her hand.

“Fortunately the General’s man, Harrison, is as English as we are,” Stockwell said, looking at her sympathetically. “In fact he seems to have very little liking for France or the French. Although naturally he is discreet about his remarks – merely an inflexion here or there which the sensitive ear may discern.”

“I have barely seen him.” Brodie thought about it for a moment. “Is he the rather portly young man with the brown eyes, or the fair-haired man with the absent-minded expression?”

“The fair-haired man,” Stockwell answered. “The other is the coachman. But it is understandable you should be confused. Harrison spends at least as much time in the stable. I confess I don’t think I have seen him in the laundry or the bootroom or the pantry. And the General looked rather as if he had dressed himself. I believe he shaves himself also.”

“Then what is Harrison here for?” Brodie said curiously.

“That is a mystery which I have solved,” Stockwell replied with satisfaction, a smile on his long nosed, rather round-eyed face. “The General is an inventor, of sorts, and has brought with him his latest contraption, which is intended, so I believe, to clean and polish boots by means of electricity.”

“Land sakes!” Brodie exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

“For something to do, I imagine,” Stockwell replied. “Gentlemen are largely at a loss for something to do.”

“How does this concern Harrison?” Brodie asked.

“He is assembling the machine in the stables,” Stockwell answered. “Or at least he is assisting the General to do so – although I fancy Harrison may be doing most of the work. However, he seems to enjoy it, in fact to take a certain pride in it.” A look of puzzlement crossed his rather complacent features. “There is no accounting for the difference in people’s tastes, Miss Brodie.”

“Indeed not,” she said with feeling, and proceeded up the stairs.

*

Dinner was an awkward meal, in spite of the unquestionable excellence of the food: a delicate consommé, fresh asparagus from the kitchen garden, picked at it’s tenderest, fresh trout, grilled until it fell from the bone, a saddle of mutton, several kinds of vegetables, followed by apple pie and thick cream, or trifle or fruit sorbet of choice. The awkwardness was caused largely by Violet Welch-Smith. Pamela Selden could see very easily why her brother had wished assistance over the week. Violet was a difficult woman, and she believed in candour as a virtue, regardless of the discomfort it might cause. She was also an enthusiast.

“We had the most marvellous food on our recent trip to France.” She looked at her husband who was sitting opposite her across the table. “Didn’t we Bertrand?”

Bertie Welch-Smith was unhappy. He thought the remark, just as they were finishing a meal provided by their host, to be unfortunate.

“Didn’t care for it a lot, myself,” he said with a frankness his wife should have admired. “Too many sauces. Like apple sauce with pork, or mint with lamb, or a spot of horseradish now and again, that’s about all. Oh, and a good custard to go with a pudding of course.”

Pamela hid a smile. She liked Bertie Welch-Smith. He was in his middle fifties, retired from a career in the army which was brave rather than brilliant. He had reached the rank of General in the old system of his father having purchased a commission for him, and then his turn for promotion having come fortunately soon. A single escapade of extraordinary valour in the Ashanti wars had brought him to the favourable notice of his superiors. He was not a naturally belligerent man; in fact, he was not unlike Freddie Dagliesh himself – good natured, rather shy, something of a bumbler except in his particular enthusiasms. For Freddie it was his garden, a thing of extraordinary beauty with flowers and trees from all over the world. For Bertie Welch-Smith it was mechanical inventions.

“You need to cultivate your taste more,” Violet said earnestly.

“What?” Bertie was already thinking of something else.

“Cultivate your taste,” she repeated slowly, as if he were foolish rather than merely inattentive. “The French are the most cultured nation on earth, you know.” She turned to Pamela. “They really know how to live well. We have a great deal to learn from them.”

Freddie stiffened and looked at Pamela in desperation.

“I think living well is rather a matter of personal preference,” Pamela said, with a smile. “Fortunately we do not all like the same things.”

“But we could learn to!” Violet urged, leaning forward across the table. The lights of the chandeliers winked in the crystal and the silver. The last of the dishes had been cleared away. Stockwell came in with the port. The ladies did not retire, since there were only four people present altogether. They took a little Madeira instead and remained.

“Do tell Freddie and Pamela about our stay in France, Bertie,” Violet commanded. “I am sure they would be most interested.”

Bertie frowned. “I had rather thought of going for a stroll. Take Freddie to see my new machine, what?”

“Later, if you must,” she dismissed his plea. “It is a harmless enough occupation, I suppose, but there is absolutely no requirement for such a thing, you know. There are valets and bootboys to polish one’s shoes, should they require it. Which brings something to mind.” She barely paused for breath, her Madeira ignored. “Do tell Freddie how you found poor Harrison and employed him. A French valet is a wonderful thing to have, Pamela; and a French lady’s maid is even better. I cannot tell you the number and variety of skills that girl has.” And she proceeded to tell her, detail after detail.

Bertie attempted to interrupt but it was doubtful in Pamela’s mind if Violet even heard him. Her enthusiasm waxed strong, and Bertie’s eyes took on a faraway look, although Pamela guessed they were really no greater distance than the stable, and his beloved machine.

“So very modern,” Violet gushed. “We really are old-fashioned here.” Her hands gesticulated, describing some facet of French culture, her face intent.