The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,154

“Are you quite sure of that, Miss Brodie?”

“Yes, I believe so. And the oddest thing is that, rather than stop flirting with each other when they became aware of me, that was the moment they started. Before they saw me – or to be more accurate, before she saw me – they were talking earnestly, as if about some matter of importance. There is a good deal of difference between a woman’s attitude when she is talking to a man simply to play, and the subject matter is irrelevant, and when she means what she says.”

“I was aware of that.” He pursed his lips. “I have dealt in my profession with a large number of young housemaids and footmen. This what you describe is most puzzling. We require to know a great deal more about Colette and her admirer, if that is what he was; although now I begin to believe he may be something else. The question is, is he deceiving her too, pretending to be enamoured of her, but, in truth, merely using her to gain access to the house, or is she a knowing accomplice. And what of the valet, Harrison? He is an unusual man.” Stockwell frowned, puzzlement marked deeply in his normally smooth, even, and complacent face.

“In what way?” she asked, sipping her tea, but not taking her eyes from his. “I have barely seen him. He is never in the laundry or ironing rooms … or the stillroom or bootroom either, for that matter.”

“Quite,” he agreed. “It seems to me that the General does the greater part of his own valeting, while Harrison is in the stables attending to that invention of theirs. Now it is safely installed, he is back in the house, but I still see little of him. However it was his remarks, his expression to which I refer.”

“What remarks?” Tacitly, she offered him more tea, and he accepted. She poured it while he answered, after she had disposed of the now cold dregs in the slop basin.

“He says very little about France. Thank you,” he said, referring to the tea. “But when anything French is mentioned, a look of distaste, almost of anger, crosses his face. I am not certain if it is his own personal feeling, or if he is merely embarrassed that Colette, and Mrs Welch-Smith, should be so eager to praise everything French while in the house of an Englishman. They do it to a degree which borders on offence.”

“It is well across the border!” Brodie said tartly, helping herself to a fresh scone, butter, jam and clotted cream – a very English delicacy in which she would not normally indulge. She would have to abstain from pudding at supper.

“You are correct,” Stockwell agreed graciously. “I am afraid several of the staff are beginning to be ruffled by it. There is some peacemaking to be done.”

Brodie sat in silence, thinking. There was indeed a mystery. Perhaps something genuinely unpleasant threatened. She and Stockwell must join forces, as before.

“This time we must prevent any crime before it happens, Mr Stockwell,” she said very sincerely.

“I have every intention that we shall do so, Miss Brodie,” he agreed with feeling. “We must be equal to the task. As before, I shall find your assistance. You shall be my Watson!”

On the contrary, she thought to herself, I shall be your Holmes! But she had more tact than to say so.

The evening did not go smoothly. When Brodie returned to the house, more than a little footsore, Colette surveyed her tired face and wet feet with disdain, and made a remark about the glamour and excitement of Paris, and the charm of the French countryside, where of course the climate was kinder. Sunshine was so very good for the spirits.

Brodie glared at her, and went upstairs to change into dry shoes and her uniform dress. Even in the days of her youth she had never had a figure like Colette’s, or the art to tie a bow till it looked like a frill of lace for the occasions when an apron was required.

After dinner, quite by chance, as she was returning from the stillroom, Brodie again saw the mysterious Auguste. He was walking along the passage from Stockwell’s pantry towards the back door. He had not seen her, and she had time to study him quite carefully, making mental notes to observe with skill, not mere curiosity. To begin with he was quite tall, and he walked with an elegance. Certainly he