3-Book Victorian Crime Collection: Death at Dawn, Death of a Dancer, A Corpse in Shining Armour. Caro Peacock

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СКАЧАТЬ the girl from the portrait, twenty years older. The realisation of that, and the feeling that I’d seen her before, made me forget Miss Bodenham’s tuition and stare at her. She was handsome still, but the twenty years had not been good to her. Even with her back to the light, her complexion was sallow, with unmistakeable circles of rouge on the cheekbones. Her eyes met mine and looked away.

      ‘Please sit down, Miss Lock,’ the older woman said.

      A plain chair had been placed facing them. I took a few steps across the Turkey carpet and sat down, aware that every move I made was reflected in large mirrors on the walls to left and right. Behind me as well, for all I knew. It made me feel like a specimen in a scientist’s bell jar. The younger woman – Lady Mandeville, presumably – had a dainty pie-crust table at her elbow with my letter of application and character reference on it.

      ‘I see you have worked abroad.’

      Her voice sounded tired. She picked up the character reference and stared at it, as if having trouble in focusing. It trembled in her hand.

      ‘It all seems … satisfactory enough, I should say.’

      The older woman, whom I assumed to be Mrs Beedle, fired a question at me.

      ‘What’s nine times thirteen?’

      ‘One hundred and seventeen, ma’am.’

      She nodded. It was Lady Mandeville’s turn, but she seemed to find it difficult to gather her thoughts.

      ‘You are accustomed to teaching boys?’

      An edge of uneasiness in her voice, as if playing a part she had not learned entirely. But why should she be uneasy, mistress in her own grand house?

      ‘Yes, ma’am. I had charge of Master Fitzgeorge from six to nine years old.’

      ‘What is the Fifth Commandment?’ Mrs Beedle again.

      ‘Honour thy father and thy mother, ma’am.’

      We went on like that for some time; Lady Mandeville, with that same distracted air, asking questions about my past that I found it easy enough to deal with after Miss Bodenham’s coaching. Her mother was another matter. It wasn’t so much the questions themselves, although they covered everything from the Old Testament prophets to the rivers of America. Her eyes were what made me uneasy. They were dark and shrewd and took in every detail of my appearance from bonnet ribbon to scuffed shoes. When I was answering Lady Mandeville’s questions, I was aware of those eyes on me, as if Mrs Beedle saw through me for the impostor I was.

      ‘Did your previous employer expect you to darn the children’s stockings?’

      Something amiss there. The harmless domestic question came from Mrs Beedle, when I’d expected something more scholastic. With those eyes on me, I faltered for the first time in the interview. Miss Bodenham hadn’t foreseen this and I didn’t know what the answer should be.

      ‘I … I always tried to do whatever …’

      ‘Did Mrs McAlison expect you to darn their stockings?’

      She’d even remembered the name of my fictitious employer. I felt my face turning red.

      ‘No, ma’am.’

      Mrs Beedle nodded, though whether in approval or because her suspicions had been confirmed, I had no notion. Lady Mandeville murmured something about Betty always seeing to that sort of thing. The two women looked at each other.

      ‘Well?’ said Lady Mandeville, fingers pressed to either side of her forehead, as if for an aching head.

      ‘Wait outside, please,’ Mrs Beedle said to me.

      I went into the corridor leading to the front door, staying just far enough away to prove I wasn’t eavesdropping. A door opened at the far end of the corridor. It must have led to the servants’ quarters because the footman appeared and held it open for a maid with an armful of dust covers. The two of them were whispering and giggling together, obviously good friends. I caught what the maid was saying.

      ‘Just wish they’d make up their blooming minds, that’s all. Get it all uncovered, then have to cover it up again. When are they off back down there?’

      ‘First thing tomorrow she is, and the old lady. Supposed to be the day after, only a letter came from over the water this morning and her ladyship was running around like a hen with its head cut off. New curtains, complete set of new silverware, six dozen of champagne, all to go down in the old coach after them.’

      They noticed me in the corridor and went quiet, casting curious looks at me as they passed by on their way to the front drawing room. Soon after that a bell tinkled from Lady Mandeville’s room, which I took as my signal to go back inside. My legs were shaking. I was half-expecting to be denounced as a fraud and handed over to the constabulary. This time they didn’t invite me to sit down. Lady Mandeville was making a visible effort to be businesslike.

      ‘I understand from your letter that you are free to take up your duties immediately. We are living in the country at present.’

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      ‘Your wages will be forty pounds a year …’

      ‘Payable six monthly in arrears,’ Mrs Beedle added sharply.

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      ‘You will please make your own way to Windsor. You will be met at the White Hart, near the Castle, at two o’clock tomorrow. Have you any questions, Miss Lock?’

      ‘No, ma’am.’

      So I found myself going down the steps, engaged as a governess, within half an hour of entering the house. I’d known women take longer to choose a pair of gloves. And what, if anything, had I discovered in that half-hour? One, that Lady Mandeville was unhappy. Two, that her mother, Mrs Beedle, was a woman to be treated warily. Three, the household was confused and on edge because of changes of plan. Four, and probably most important, her footman attributed the latest change of plan to a letter from over the water. When people said ‘over the water’ they usually meant the Channel. Therefore it was possible at least that the letter had come from France and … Yes, you see where I am headed and are no doubt saying to yourself that hundreds of letters come to England from France every day and there is no logical connection at all with the fact that my father died there. Bear in mind, though, that Blackstone had said that my post as spy in the household was somehow connected with his death. Still no logical connection? Very well, I admit it. But then, logic is a plodding horse and now and then you need one which will take a leap.

      As I turned the corner into Store Street I added a fifth fact to my list: judging by the silverware and the champagne, the Mandevilles were preparing their country home for entertainment on a grand scale. Presumably this was the ball or reception that interested the black one. How had he known? Perhaps I was only the latest filament in a whole web of spies, but if so, what made Sir Herbert Mandeville and his household so interesting to Blackstone? No point in asking Miss Bodenham. She’d made it clear that I’d get no information from her. Indeed, she hardly looked up from her copying when I climbed the stairs and told her I’d gained the position.

      I spent the afternoon booking a seat on the first stagecoach I could find leaving for Windsor next morning and shopping for necessities. СКАЧАТЬ