The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Ah!” Bertie said, with satisfaction, patting his stomach. “Can’t tell you, old chap, how I missed a decent breakfast in France. Don’t mistake me, food’s very good, and all that, but I do like a proper cup of tea in the morning. Don’t care for coffee much, what? And I like a little real marmalade, some of the stuff you can taste, not all these damn pastries that fall to bits in your hand.”

“Quite,” Freddie agreed. He had never been to France, but he did not approve in principle. There weren’t many people he disliked. One had to be either dishonest or unkind to offend Freddie; but he did dislike Violet Welch-Smith, although he would not have dreamed of letting Bertie see that. Bertie was both his guest and his friend, and therefore sacred on both counts.

They strolled side by side in the sun towards the stables and the marvellous machine.

“And then you must come and see my magnolias,” Freddie said hopefully. “I’ve got some purple ones which really are very fine, if I say so myself.”

“Certainly, old boy,” Bertie agreed. “Delighted!” He did not know what a magnolia was, but that was irrelevant. Freddie was a good fellow.

* * *

Brodie busied herself about her duties. There was delicate personal laundry to be done. There was a spot of candlewax on the gown Pamela had worn the previous evening, and she must take it to the ironing room and press it between blotting paper with a warm iron. She would have to remove the pink with a little colourless alcohol. Gin was best. It was a tedious job, but it was the only way. Then naturally there would be a great deal of other ironing to do. A lady’s maid’s accomplishments were many, but Pamela very seldom desired to be read to or otherwise entertained. She always found more than sufficient to occupy herself. Anyway, she was obliged to accompany Violet, and listen continuously to her endless account of her sojourn in France, and its sophisticated pleasures.

Just before midday, Brodie was walking through the hall towards the conservatory to deliver a message, when she saw a newspaper lying on the table near the umbrella stand. It was the local newspaper, and it had obviously been read and cast aside because it was open at the centre page. She glanced at it and her eye was caught by an advertisement for an exhibition of modern inventions, to be held in the town. Apparently it was most remarkable for the variety and ingeniousness of the machines. In fact, in two days’ time the French Ambassador himself was going to open the exhibition formally. In the meantime, it was possible for local people to attend a preview on the following afternoon, if they should so wish.

Brodie was not interested in machines. On the whole, she considered them inferior to a mixture of industry and a little common sense. But perhaps she should keep abreast of ideas, even if only to know what they were, and ease the minds of poor souls like the bootboy.

Tomorrow was her afternoon off. There was really very little for her to do here. All but the most urgent of jobs could wait until she returned home. It would be a pleasant diversion from having to be civil to Colette. The matter was decided. She made a mental note of the time and the place, and continued to the conservatory on her errand.

Stockwell also saw the newspaper, but the copy that caught his eye was the one that Freddie had read and cast away, folded where he had finished it. Stockwell bent to tidy it quite automatically. Books and papers out of alignment, pictures crooked, odd socks, a smear on a glass, all scraped his sensibilities. As he folded the papers neatly, his eye fell on the advertisement for an exhibition of the latest inventions to be held in the town hall, preview possible tomorrow, for local persons with a scientific interest. Stockwell most certainly had a scientific interest. He was eager to acquaint himself with all things modern, and to keep up with the latest challenges and conquests of the intelligent man.

If Mr Dagliesh would permit it, he would make a brief sortie into the town and observe what was on display. The household would take care of itself quite adequately between, say, two o’clock and half-past four tomorrow afternoon. He would be home again in plenty of time, to make sure that everyone did their duty at dinner. There was no need to mention it to anyone except Mr Dagliesh. Mrs Wimpole would be about her own skills in the kitchen, the footmen did not need to know anything except when he would return, and it was not a suitable matter to discuss with Miss Brodie. After all, scientific inventions were hardly women’s business.

* * *