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“Jealousy, of course.” They both looked at her as if she were slow-witted.
Hester was surprised. “Did Percival really have that much of a fancy for Mrs. Haslett? But he’s a footman, for goodness’ sake.”
“Tell him that,” Annie said with deep disgust.
Nellie, the little tweeny maid, came scurrying up the stairs with a broom in one hand and a pail of cold tea leaves in the other, ready to scatter them on the carpets to lay the dust.
“Why aren’t you sweeping?” she demanded, looking at the two older girls. “If Mrs. Willis catches me at eight and we ’aven’t done this it’ll be trouble. I don’t want to go to bed without me tea.”
The housekeeper’s name was enough to galvanize both the girls into instant action, and they left Hester on the landing while they ran downstairs for their own brooms and dusters.
In the kitchen an hour later, Hester prepared a breakfast tray for Beatrice, just tea, toast, butter and apricot preserve. She was thanking the gardener for one of the very last of the late roses fo
r the silver vase when she passed Sal, the red-haired kitchen maid, laughing loudly and nudging the footman from next door, who had sneaked over, ostensibly with a message from his cook for hers. The two of them were flirting with a lot of poking and slapping on the doorstep, and Sal’s loud voice could be heard up the scullery steps and along the passage to the kitchen.
“That girl’s no better than she should be,” Mrs. Boden said with a shake of her head. “You mark my words—she’s a trollop, if ever I saw one. Sal!” she shouted. “Come back in here and get on with your work!” She looked at Hester again. “She’s an idle piece. It’s a wonder how I put up with her. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” She picked up the meat knife and tested it with her finger. Hester looked at the blade and swallowed with a shiver when she thought that maybe it was the knife someone had held in his hands creeping up the stairs in the night to stab Octavia Haslett to death.
Mrs. Boden found the edge satisfactory and pulled over the slab of steak to begin slicing it ready for the pie.
“What with Miss Octavia’s death, and now policemen creeping all over the house, everyone scared o’ their own shadows, ’er ladyship took to ’er bed, and a good-for-nothing baggage like Sal in my kitchen—it’s enough to make a decent woman give up.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Hester said, trying to soothe her. If she was going to be responsible for luring two housemaids away, she did not want to add to the domestic chaos by encouraging the cook to desert as well. “The police will go in time, the whole matter will be settled, her ladyship will recover, and you are quite capable of disciplining Sal. She cannot be the first wayward kitchen maid you’ve trained into being thoroughly competent—in time.”
“Well now, you’re right about that,” Mrs. Boden agreed. “I ’ave a good ‘and with girls, if I do say so myself. But I surely wish the police would find out who did it and arrest them. I don’t sleep safe in my bed, wondering. I just can’t believe anyone in the family would do such a thing. I’ve been in this house since before Mr. Cyprian was born, never mind Miss Octavia and Miss Araminta. I never did care a great deal for Mr. Kellard, but I expect he has his qualities, and he is a gentleman, after all.”
“You think it was one of the servants?” Hester affected surprise, and considerable respect, as though Mrs. Boden’s opinion on such matters weighed heavily with her.
“Stands to reason, don’t it?” Mrs. Boden said quietly, slicing the steak with expert strokes, quick, light and extremely powerful. “And it wouldn’t be any of the girls—apart from anything else, why would they?”
“Jealousy?” Hester suggested innocently.
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Boden reached for the kidneys. “They wouldn’t be so daft. Sal never goes upstairs. Lizzie is a bossy piece and wouldn’t give a halfpenny to a blind man, but she knows right from wrong, and sticks by it whatever. Rose is a willful creature, always wants what she can’t ‘ave, and I wouldn’t put it past her to do something wild, but not that.” She shook her head. “Not murder. Too afraid of what’d happen to her, apart from anything else. Fond of ’er own skin, that one.”
“And not the upstairs girls,” Hester added instinctively, then wished she had waited for Mrs. Boden to speak.
“They can be silly bits of things,” Mrs. Boden agreed. “But no harm in them, none at all. And Dinah’s far too mild to do anything so passionate. Nice girl, but bland as a cup of tea. Comes from a nice family in the country somewhere. Too pretty maybe, but that’s parlormaids for you. And Mary and Gladys—well, that Mary’s got a temper, but it’s all flash and no heat. She wouldn’t harm anyone—and wouldn’t have any call to. Very fond of Miss Octavia, she was, very fond—and Miss Octavia of her too. Gladys is a sourpuss, puts on airs—but that’s ladies’ maids. No viciousness in her, least not that much. Wouldn’t ’ave the courage either.”
“Harold?” Hester asked. She did not even bother to mention Mr. Phillips, not because he could not have done it, but because Mrs. Boden’s natural loyalties to a servant she considered of her own seniority would prevent her from entertaining the possibility with any open-mindedness.
Mrs. Boden gave her an old-fashioned look. “And what for, may I ask? What would Harold be doing in Miss Octavia’s room in the middle of the night? He can’t see any girl but Dinah, the poor boy, not but it’ll do him a ha’porth of good.”
“Percival?” Hester said the inevitable.
“Must be.” Mrs. Boden pushed away the last of the kidney and reached for the mixing bowl full of pastry dough. She tipped the dough out onto the board, floured it thoroughly and began to roll it out with the wooden pin, brisk, sharp strokes first one way, then turned it with a single movement and started in the other direction. “Always had ideas above himself, that one, but never thought it would go this far. Got a sight more money than I can account for,” she added viciously. “Nasty streak in him. Seen it a few times. Now your kettle’s boiling, don’t let it fill my kitchen with steam.”
“Thank you.” Hester turned and went to the range, picking the kettle off the hob with a potholder and first scalding the teapot, then swilling it out and making the tea with the rest of the water.
Monk returned to Queen Anne Street because he and Evan had exhausted every other avenue of possible inquiry. They had not found the missing jewelry, nor had they expected to, but it was obligatory that they pursue it to the end, even if only to satisfy Runcorn. They had also taken the character references of every servant in the Moidore house and checked with all their previous employers, and found no blemish of character that was in the slightest way indicative of violence of emotion or action to come. There were no dark love affairs, no accusations of theft or immorality, nothing but very ordinary lives of domesticity and work.
Now there was nowhere to look except back in Queen Anne Street among the servants yet again. Monk stood in the housekeeper’s sitting room waiting impatiently for Hester. He had again given Mrs. Willis no reason for asking to see the nurse, a woman who was not even present at the time of the crime. He was aware of her surprise and considerable criticism. He would have to think of some excuse before he saw her again.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come,” he ordered.
Hester came in and closed the door behind her. She looked neat and professional, her hair tied back severely and her dress plain gray-blue stuff and undecorated, her apron crisp white. Her costume was both serviceable and more than a little prudish.
“Good morning,” she said levelly.
