Dandy Gilver and the Proper Treatment of Bloodstains Page 19

  ‘Miss Rossiter?’ he said, his pop eyes rolling about this way and that as he tried to see what I might have been doing. It did not appear to take him very long to come to a view. ‘Leaving a little note on his pillow, are we?’ he said, nodding at the bed nearest to where I stood. ‘Couldn’t you get his attention away from the bulletin any other way?’

  ‘I don’t appreciate your tone, Stanley,’ I said. ‘You have a very impertinent manner and I would remind you that a footman owes respect to a lady’s maid.’

  ‘You’re no more a lady’s maid than he is a valet,’ said Stanley. ‘I’m the only true-trained servant in the place, I think sometimes.’

  I rose up.

  ‘If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head I shall be forced to speak to Mr Faulds about you,’ I said.

  ‘Mr Faulds?’ said Stanley. ‘Oh yes! A great head of staff he is.’

  ‘Don’t be such a prig,’ I said.

  Stanley put his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat and rocked back and forwards on the balls of his feet.

  ‘I wasn’t talking about the famous liaison,’ he said. ‘But now you mention it, it’s—’

  ‘A private matter,’ I finished, ‘and one I have no desire to discuss.’

  ‘But they didn’t keep it private, did they?’ said Stanley, growing almost oily in his glee, and quite repulsive.

  ‘They were overtaken by events,’ I said. ‘I think Mrs Hepburn should be applauded, actually, in not letting any silly modesty deflect her from doing the right thing. I found it courageous. There’s more to life than a petty guarding of one’s reputation. And if you really want to know what I’m doing here in the carriage house – not that I owe you an explanation – I was trying to see if the murderer might have got in this way.’

  ‘Got in where?’ said Stanley, suddenly looking very nervous and glancing about himself.

  ‘Where do you think? Into the house. From the mews. Through here.’ The grin returned then.

  ‘Oh, so you think somebody came in from outside, do you?’ he said. The rocking had started again. ‘Where did you get that one, then?’

  ‘Look, do you actually know anything or are you just being annoying, as usual?’ I asked him and was rewarded with a trace of a frown passing over his face. He really was a most unappealing young man. ‘If you know something, it’s your duty to tell someone. Tell Superintendent Hardy if you want the glory of it. Tell mistress and she’ll no doubt reward you. But you must tell someone.’

  ‘Help the police? I’d no more help a dog bite my own backside. That rotten devil deserved everything he got.’

  ‘Why?’ I said. ‘What did he do to you?’ I felt a small flutter of triumph. If Stanley had a tale to tell of misuse at the hands of his master, I should have got the full set.

  ‘He refused to give me time off to visit my own father when he was at death’s door,’ said Stanley, and his large eyes glistened with instant tears. ‘Not even a day.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, regretting the sparring at once. ‘That was unspeakable of him. I’m very sorry.’

  Stanley sniffed and nodded in acknowledgement.

  ‘I never forgave him,’ he said. ‘He told me he couldn’t risk me bringing it into the house and if I went home to visit I needn’t bother coming back again. And I knew a widowed mother would need whatever I could send her, so I stayed put. My father could have died without me ever seeing him again.’

  ‘Could have?’ I said, latching on to this clue that Stanley was overdoing his tale.

  ‘He rallied, as it happens. But master wasn’t to know that and I’d have got called all the names under the sun at the funeral.’

  ‘That certainly is a consideration,’ I said, drily, thinking it would only occur to the most monstrously self-centred of sons. From sheer dislike, I wished I could suspect him of the murder, but his squeamishness and his servility – each undoubtedly real, as well as the very habit of dropping sly hints, combined to trumpet his innocence. No murderer in his right mind would dare to be so infuriating to those around him.

  ‘But he threw it off in the end,’ Stanley said. ‘And he has forgiven me. I never told him why I didn’t come, of course. A good servant would never carry home tales that reflect ill on his master. And I daresay master couldn’t help being a fastidious man.’

  Even though it came from Stanley, I could not help boggling a little at this. How could anyone rejoice that the rotten devil was dead and still praise the same man for being a ninny over a germ or two?

  ‘Was it the flu?’ I asked. Pip and Lollie had only been in Heriot Row four years but I could not think of anything else contagious enough to excuse such precautions.

  ‘Consumption,’ said Stanley.

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘You can’t catch consumption as easily as all that. Why, I can’t count how many soldiers I saw through it in the war.’

  ‘That’s why I’ll never forgive him,’ Stanley said.

  11

  ‘So, Fanny,’ said Mrs Hepburn, ‘Ernest tells me you’ve got something to say. No. not like that, Mollie-moo. Watch Eldry and copy what she does.’ The tweenie and scullerymaid were engaged on some mysterious task at the table, with sheets of waxed paper and large pairs of scissors. Millie put down her scissors and her paper – in tatters after her efforts – and bunched her hands together under her chin. She gazed at Eldry with devoted attention and Eldry, snipping neat fringes into her own paper strip, could not help beaming back. Really, I thought, every servants’ hall should have a Millie, someone to make the others feel suave and competent and give them scope to be kind.

  Mrs Hepburn was holding the enormous teapot over the collection of cups, with her head cocked, and as soon as she heard Clara’s clogs on the passageway flags she started pouring.

  ‘Mattie,’ she said. ‘So weak it’s not worth dirtying a cup for and no more than three sugars mind, for that Calvert’s powder cannot work miracles and I’m not sending you back to see your mammy with those wee pearlies all ruined.’ Mattie smiled as he took his cup of dishwater tea; he did indeed have sparkling white teeth and I sympathised with Mrs Hepburn about the guarding of them. Clara arrived with a large platter covered in a teacloth and set it down.

  ‘Miss Rossiter?’ said Mrs Hepburn, with the pot poised.

  ‘I’ll have a good dark cup today, Mrs Hepburn,’ I said, for I had fast learned that the strident Indian blend beloved of the servants’ hall could not be outwitted by dilution and was best got over one’s gullet strong, milky and sweet, so that one might pretend it was not tea at all but some kind of exotic soup.

  Mr Faulds reached across from the head of the table and twitched the teacloth from on top of the plate, revealing a mountain range of warm scones, flour-dusted, current-studded and steaming gently. There was a murmur of appreciation from all around the table as the scent of them wafted over us, and Phyllis began dishing out tea plates, a large pat of cold butter on each one.

  ‘Food of the gods, Kitty,’ said Mr Faulds as he bit into his first one. ‘I never thought I’d say it, but I don’t miss jam and cream when it’s your scones under my butter.’

  John gave a snort of laughter and, indeed, there was something inexplicably lewd-sounding about the compliment. Mrs Hepburn tutted, but with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Make the most of the scones and the leisure,’ she said, ‘because there’ll be no more of either after today.’ She filled another three cups and Harry pushed them across the table to their destinations. ‘I’ve two cakes to mix when the tins are dressed and they hams to glaze and the whole house to get ready for the funeral with no kitchener, and there’s you-know-who on her way. I’ll tell you this, Fanny, that woman doubles the work of the house single-handed.’

  ‘Mrs Lambert-Leslie?’ I said.

  ‘Aye, Great Aunt Goitre,’ said Clara. ‘Maybe she’ll have learned to use a handle by now, eh?’

  ‘Some chance,’ said Phyllis. ‘You know, Miss Rossiter, she shuts every blooming door
and drawer and cupboard with one of her big fat hands flat against the wood. Smears the mahogany in her bedroom like you wouldnae believe if we told you.’

  ‘And it’s your turn to do her feet this time, Phyllis,’ said Clara, ‘because I did them at Christmas and wrote it down and got Mr Faulds to sign it.’

  ‘Please, girls, not while we’re eating,’ said the butler. Stanley was looking pained and moved a mouthful of scone from one cheek to the other without swallowing any.

  ‘And if she’s brought a boot-load of washing with her she can raffle it,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘Treating this place like a laundry and never leaves a penny tip behind her. But there, she’s an old woman on her own and nobody presses a lace edge like Eldry, so let’s see if we can’t look after her even better this time. She’s mistress’s only living relative now.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ I said, although whether I meant living relatives or witnessed documents I could not say, ‘mistress has said I can tell you what happened at the lawyers’ this morning. And Mr Hardy wants you all to know too, before he speaks to you again.’

  ‘Well?’ said Mr Faulds. He had his curled fists resting on the table, looking like the chairman of the board.

  ‘Master’s will had a very nasty surprise in it,’ I said. ‘Mistress has been cut right out altogether.’ I paused to allow this to sink in.

  ‘The devil,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘Oh, the fiend!’

  ‘What, cut off with nothing?’ said Harry. ‘Not a shilling?’ He was frowning at me. I had determined to gloss over the matter of Josephine Carson, trusting that no one of the servant class would be acquainted with the details of testamentary law, but now I wondered whether the valet knew too much about wills and succession to let this go by.

  ‘Surprised you care,’ said John, saving me from having to answer. ‘Many’s the time I’ve heard you calling her and him both for sitting back on their what’s-its instead of earning a day’s pay.’

  ‘My poor mistress,’ said Mr Faulds, and then in the next breath. ‘Here, Fanny, what about us?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘There were no bequests to anyone.’

  ‘Not even a wee minder for any of us?’ said Clara. ‘After four years?’

  ‘That’s cold for you,’ said Mr Faulds, ‘but it’s not what I was getting at. I meant what about us, Number 31, the household, if mistress has been left without a penny?’

  ‘So where’s it all gone then?’ said Millie and the others turned to look at her. In her simplicity, she had not frittered off into questions of just deserts and repercussions, but had kept her whole mind squarely on the pot of gold.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, and as one they turned back to me. ‘He has left it to a relation, by the name of George Pollard. A cousin, it seems.’

  For a short moment no one spoke and then the clamour began.

  ‘A cousin? What cousin? He’s never been here. Pollard? I’ve never heard of him. Has mistress met him? Does the lawyer know him? Will he be running the house then? Will we still have our jobs? Who is he? Why should he come in for a fortune?’

  ‘So,’ I said, carefully looking around at them all, one by one. ‘No one knew?’

  ‘Us? Why would we know? Think we would know and not tell mistress? What are you hinting at?’

  ‘Simply,’ I said, ‘that Miss Abbott and Maggie witnessed the will and I thought they might have mentioned something about it. I’m sure I couldn’t have bitten my tongue if it were me.’

  Harry sat forward.

  ‘Maggie and Jessie Abbott?’ he said. ‘Them that left. Why would that be, then?’

  ‘Ah, but Miss Rossiter,’ said Mr Faulds, ignoring him, ‘they needn’t have read what was in it. Probably never even saw it. I believe it’s customary to draw a blank sheet over the page and leave only the bottom portion where the signatures go.’

  ‘How would you know that, Mr Faulds?’ said Phyllis, rather pertly.

  ‘Oh, we all know Mr Faulds has led a full life,’ said John. ‘Eh, Mrs Hepburn?’ But this was going too far even for such an affable butler as Ernest Faulds and he scowled the grin off the chauffeur’s face in a way of which my very own Pallister would have been proud.

  ‘As for your jobs,’ I said, ‘the will was very clear. The house is to be sold.’ There was a collective gasp at that and Mrs Hepburn put her cup down hard in its saucer. ‘Everyone has to leave and the money is to be held until George Pollard comes forward to collect it.’

  Harry was the first to speak.

  ‘Your jobs?’ he said. ‘Your jobs, Miss Rossiter? Do you think mistress will be keeping a lady’s maid then?’

  I bit my lip at the blunder but said nothing as Harry continued.

  ‘Is that why you’re passing all this on, like so much cosy gossip? “I’m all right, Jack”? So much for solidarity, eh?’

  ‘Don’t be a clown, Harry,’ said Phyllis. ‘Don’t be so rude to everyone all the time.’

  ‘Miss Rossiter was quite right to tell us,’ said Mr Faulds, ‘if mistress asked her to. And you said something about Mr Hardy too, Fanny?’

  This was the point I had been leading up to and dreading. This was the moment when below stairs at Number 31 Heriot Row would cease to be the snug little burrow where all could gather together for pronouncements about the doings of those above over buttered scones and tea.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Mr Hardy has taken me into his confidence quite remarkably.’

  ‘Spotted you for one of his own,’ said Harry sourly, but the others shushed him.

  ‘Indeed, Harry,’ I said, ‘he’s under considerable pressure with the strike and this case is exactly what he didn’t need on top of it all, so I daresay he has been less . . . professional than he might have. He knew that I, unlike the rest of you, had no quarrel with Mr Balfour and no reason to want him dead and so he knew he could talk to me.’

  ‘Now, here, wait a minute,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘You’ve no call to be talking that way, Fanny Rossiter, even though, mind you, it’s true enough, true enough. You carry on and finish your piece.’

  ‘I think everyone here felt ill disposed towards master to some extent, although some have been more discreet than others.’ I bowed in acknowledgement to Mr Faulds, who accepted the compliment with a court bow of his own. ‘And everyone said that they couldn’t care less who killed him and wouldn’t want whoever it was to be punished for it.’ My mouth was dry and I took a sip of tea. ‘But that was when you thought one of your number had struck back, had lashed out in protest, or self-defence, or revenge for some injury you could all imagine.’ They were in the palm of my hand now. ‘Only that’s not what Mr Hardy thinks happened. And I agree. What he thinks is that George Pollard got wind of his inheritance and killed Mr Balfour for it. And – here’s the rub – he thinks someone let him into the house and that can’t have happened – couldn’t have – without someone else hearing something or seeing something of what was going on.’

  There was perfect silence now in the servants’ hall.

  ‘So,’ I went on, ‘any of you who is perhaps keeping quiet about . . . anything: someone not where they ought to have been, or being where they oughtn’t; a noise you couldn’t account for; a key out of place or a door that should have been locked left open . . . what you need to see is that you’re not protecting one of your friends who suffered as you did. You’re protecting someone who is quite happy to see you jobless, out on the street, all of you.’

  Clara and Phyllis were both staring at me fixedly and did not see Mattie glance quickly between the two of them. John saw it, though, and tried to catch Harry’s eye. Stanley was drilling a look down towards the floor that could have shattered the stone flags there, and Millie and Eldry avoided looking at one another so studiedly and with such a deep pink bloom on their cheeks that they might as well have stared and pointed.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Hepburn. ‘You could cut the air in here with a knife and tile a roof with it. You’ve set the cat amongst the pigeons now, Fan.’ She cast her ga
ze around her staff, frowning. ‘What’s to do with you all, eh?’

  ‘They’re just upset, Kitty,’ said Mr Faulds. ‘Overwrought, as are we all, I’m sure. Miss Rossiter, do you really think that someone could be so lost to goodness that he – or she, of course – would protect one murderer but not another? I hardly think any of our young people is as calculating as all that.’

  ‘Self-preservation is a powerful force, Mr Faulds,’ I said. ‘Just to be as plain as possible and make sure everyone understands,’ – I was thinking chiefly of Millie here – ‘if George Pollard did it and he gets caught, then the will is ripped into little pieces, Mrs Balfour – as the widow – inherits, and this house carries on just as before, only better by far for the loss of master. So the choice for someone who knows something and could tell is protect one or save all. It’s as stark as that.’

  There was another long silence then. The upper servants as far as Phyllis and Stanley had collected themselves, and were now wearing poker faces of admirable rectitude; well-trained in the art by their years of standing at the edge of intimate domestic scenes as untouched by what passed between master and mistress as a lamp post is by the lives of those who walk through its light. Millie, Eldry and especially Mattie were quite another proposition, never having needed to develop impassive faces in scullery, laundry and coalhole. Mattie looked close to tears and the kitchen girls were still flushed and fidgety.

  ‘Well, let’s not dwell on such things unduly,’ said Mr Faulds, addressing us all. ‘I’m sure that Superintendent Hardy and Mr Ettrick between them will see mistress right and she’ll do right by us too. But if any of you does have something to say to Mr Hardy when he returns, you should say it, and God forgive you for not saying it straight away on Monday like you know you should have.’ He shot a look at me as though to see if that would satisfy me. I gave a tight smile and a suggestion of a nod. ‘Now, it’s Friday tomorrow,’ he said. He dabbed up a few scone crumbs with his finger, chewed them daintily and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘And it should have been Maggie’s day off.’