Mystery at Olympia. John Rhode

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      This was quite true. Firlands was an outstanding example of the worst type of Victorian domestic architecture. One felt that the designer’s aim had been to achieve the maximum of pretentiousness without, and discomfort within. Still, nobody could deny that the house was ostentatious, and Mr Pershore liked ostentation. Besides, as Mr Pershore, who had amassed a considerable fortune by speculative building, could see at a glance, the house was solidly built and in excellent repair.

      Mr Pershore was a bachelor, and he brought with him to Firlands his housekeeper, Mrs Markle. Long ago, fifty years at least, Nahum Pershore and Nancy Beard had played together in the builder’s yard belonging to Nahum’s father. They had grown up together, and perhaps, but for a series of events which had long ago lost their importance, they might have married. But, somehow, Nancy had drifted into matrimony with the son of Mr Markle, who kept the tobacconist’s shop over the way.

      Nahum had risen in the world, thanks to a certain pertinacity and acumen. Nancy had not. After twenty years of married life, during which she had encountered many vicissitudes, she found herself a childless widow with nothing but her wits to support her. For a time she eked out an existence by obliging one or two families in the neighbourhood. In fact, she had achieved the status of a charwoman. And then one day, casting about for something more lucrative and less exacting, she thought of her old companion Nahum Pershore. She sat down and wrote him a letter. It was indicative of the gulf which had opened between them that in this she addressed him as ‘Dear Sir.’

      Had she been inspired with some form of second sight, she could not have posted the letter at a more favourable moment. Mr Pershore was suffering from a profound weariness of housekeepers. They had come and gone, each more unsatisfactory than the last. Some had been young, and these had displayed tendencies which seriously alarmed the bachelor instincts of their employer. Others had been old, and these had been incompetent, and allowed the servants to do what they liked with them. He had just terminated the unpleasant business of giving notice to the last of them, when Mrs Markle’s letter arrived.

      Nancy Beard, or Nancy Markle, as she was now! He hadn’t given her a thought for years. But he remembered her perfectly, both as a child, when they had been such good friends, and later, as a tall, lanky girl of nineteen. Tall she had been, certainly. Taller than he was himself. It may have been, though the thought did not occur to Mr Pershore, that that was why he had never married her. Or it might have been her ungainliness, or the lack of her pretensions to any sort of beauty. Mr Pershore, looking back, wondered what that thin-faced chap Markle could have seen in her.

      Could he put Nancy Markle in the way of finding a job? That was the gist of her letter. Well, perhaps he might. She was within a year of his own age, neither too young nor too old. She had always been a dutiful daughter before her marriage, helping her mother in the house, instead of gadding about as so many of them did. It seemed quite likely that she would make him an excellent housekeeper. But …

      It was this doubt that caused Mr Pershore to hesitate. He had only to shut his eyes to recall vivid pictures of himself and Nancy walking home from school together, or sitting with their arms round one another on a pile of timber in his father’s yard. Had Nancy retained the same vivid recollections, and, if so, how would this affect their future relations? He looked at the letter once more, and the inscription ‘Dear Sir’ reassured him. He wrote to her, asking her to come and see him.

      His misgivings evaporated at the interview which ensued. Whatever memories Nancy Markle may have had, she kept them strictly to herself. Her experiences and her present condition were in such striking contrast to those of her former playmate that, in her eyes, they now moved in wholly different spheres. From the moment of their meeting again, their relative positions were established. Mr Pershore was the master, Mrs Markle was willing and obedient servant. It was as though the very knowledge of one another’s Christian names had been erased from their minds. Before the interview terminated, Mrs Markle had been definitely engaged as Mr Pershore’s housekeeper.

      That had been ten years earlier. Mrs Markle was now a tall, gaunt, loose-limbed woman with wisps of iron-grey hair. But she had turned out a perfect housekeeper. Mr Pershore very rarely so much as saw her. The smoothness of the running of his household, however, was ample proof of her efficiency behind the scenes. Mr Pershore allowed her a perfectly free hand in everything which concerned his domestic arrangements. Such matters as the engagement of servants were her province alone. Of these a staff of four was employed at Firlands. Cook, parlourmaid, housemaid and kitchenmaid. The garden was the care of a jobbing gardener, who came three times a week.

      Under Mrs Markle’s rule the domestic routine was regular, but not too exacting. Breakfast was served in the servants’ hall at eight o’clock, and in the dining-room and housekeeper’s room simultaneously at a quarter to nine. Lunch, if Mr Pershore happened to be at home during the day, or if visitors were staying in the house, was at a quarter past one. Mrs Markle, who was a very small eater, did not lunch. She preferred to make herself a cup of tea, with a slice or two of bread and butter, in the housekeeper’s room, at any time she happened to fancy it. Dinner was served at eight, and supper, in the servants’ hall and housekeeper’s room, at nine.

      On the day of his death Mr Pershore had left home, as was his custom three or four days a week, about ten o’clock. Mrs Markle spent the morning supervising the work of the household—she was by no means above taking a hand herself, if any of the servants had more than their usual share of work—and telephoning orders to the tradesmen. There were no visitors staying in the house, and Mr Pershore had announced his intention of not being home until the evening. By one o’clock Mrs Markle had finished her morning’s work, and was sitting in her own most comfortable room. She contemplated spending a nice quiet afternoon with her sewing.

      But her peaceful occupation was rudely disturbed by the sound of running footsteps, and an imperious knocking at the door. Before she had time to say ‘Come in!’ the door burst open, and the cook projected herself into the room, and subsided into a chair, too breathless for speech.

      Mrs Rugg had been cook at Firlands for the past three years. She was stout, and rather deaf, and Mrs Markle secretly suspected her of over-indulgence in gin on the occasions of her evenings out. But she was an excellent cook and thoroughly reliable. Never before had she been known to behave with such a lack of decorum.

      For the moment Mrs Markle imagined that she had had recourse to some secret store of spirits. But, before she could make any remark, Mrs Rugg had recovered sufficient breath to gasp out her news. ‘Oh, Mrs Markle! It’s Jessie! She’s come over terrible bad! In the kitchen. Gave me such a turn!’

      Mrs Markle rose, with a swift movement characteristic of her. Leaving Mrs Rugg gasping in her chair she hurried along the passage towards the kitchen. Jessie Twyford was the parlourmaid, a pretty girl, the daughter of the postman, on whose recommendation she had been engaged. Mrs Markle, in spite of her haste, found time to wonder what could be the matter with Jessie. She had been all right, barely an hour before, when Mrs Markle had helped her to give the dining-room an extra turn out. Certainly Mrs Markle had noticed nothing amiss then. Besides, the Twyfords were a highly respectable family. Could it be?

      She reached the kitchen, with these dark suspicions still unresolved. And, at first glance, she could see that Jessie was in a very bad way. She had collapsed into a chair, out of which she seemed to be in danger of slipping every moment. She had been very sick, and a hoarse moaning sound escaped from her parched throat.

      A cursory inspection satisfied Mrs Markle that her suspicions were unfounded. ‘Why, Jessie, whatever’s the matter?’ she asked, as she bent over the girl.

      ‘Oh, Mrs Markle, I’m going to die!’ Jessie replied despairingly, between her moans.

      ‘A strong girl like you doesn’t die as easily as all that,’ said Mrs Markle cheerfully. She beckoned СКАЧАТЬ