The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Really?” Colette raised her delicate eyebrows in an expression of surprise and implied contempt. “You allow the cook to do it for you? In France we always prefer to boil our own.” She was referring to the rice, the water from which was used to stiffen linens and muslins. “One can get so much better a consistency,” she continued, looking at Brodie with a very slight smile.

They were in the ironing room of Freddie Dagliesh’s country home. Colette was the young and very pretty lady’s maid of Mrs Violet Welch-Smith, house guest, and wife to General Bertrand Welch-Smith. Brodie was considerably older, of a comfortable rather than handsome appearance, although she had possessed a considerable charm in her youth. Now the first thing one noticed about her was intelligence, an air of good sense and a sharp but suitably concealed humour. She was lady’s maid to Pamela Selden, Freddie Dagliesh’s widowed sister. Since he was unmarried, he always invited Pamela to act as hostess when he had a house party he felt of importance, or where he was concerned he would be out of his depth. Violet Welch-Smith was a woman to give any man such a feeling.

Colette was still regarding Brodie with an air of superiority, waiting for an answer.

“Yes I do,” Brodie replied, referring to the cook and the rice-water. “Cooks, especially in other people’s houses, prefer that visiting servants do not attempt to perform tasks in the kitchen. They invariably get in the way and disrupt the order of things, upset the scullery maids, boot boys and undercooks.”

“Perhaps that is what happened at the last house where we stayed,” Colette retorted, changing the flat iron she was using on her mistress’s petticoat for a warmer one from the stove. “The food was certainly not of the quality we are accustomed to in France.” She looked very directly at Brodie. “I had not realized that that was the cause.”

Brodie was furious. Normally she was of a very equable temper, but Colette had been trumpeting the innate superiority of everything French, both in general and in particular, ever since she had arrived nearly two days ago. This was enough to try the patience of a saint … an English saint anyway, most particularly a north country one, used to plain ideas and plain speech. Unfortunately, she could not at the moment think of a crushing reply; she merely seethed inside, and kept a polite but somewhat chilly smile on her face.

Colette knew her advantage, but pushed it too far.

“Do you think your cook would be able to manage rice-water as well as preparing dinner for guests?” she said charmingly. “Would it be kinder not to ask it of her?”

Brodie opened her eyes very wide. “I had not realized you were attempting to be kind!” she said with exaggerated surprise. Then she smiled straight at Colette, this time quite naturally. “Perhaps a French cook would find it an embarrassment, but our cook is English — she is quite used to being helpful to the rest of the staff.” And with that she picked up the enamel jug sitting on the bench, and swept out with it. “I shall ask her immediately,” she called back, before Colette could think of a response.

She made her request in the kitchen, and was on her way towards the back stairs when she all but bumped into the imposing figure of Stockwell. He was the most dignified and correct person whose acquaintance she had ever made.

“Good afternoon, Mr Stockwell,” she said somewhat startled. He was eight inches taller than she, and of magnificent stature. He had probably been a footman in his distant youth. Footmen were picked for their appearance. Height and good legs were especially required. A poor leg was most observable when a man was in livery.

“Good afternoon, Miss Brodie,” Stockwell replied stiffly. She disconcerted him, and he had not yet worked out why, although he had spent some time thinking about the matter. She was really quite agreeable, even if a trifle over-confident, and opinionated above her station. It 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.”