The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,146

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