The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

The evening was long, and punctuated with moments of definite unease. Violet Welch-Smith kept repeating recipes for food that was supposed to be remarkably good for the health, which embarrassed her husband, though not greatly. He was too rapt in his satisfaction with his boot polishing machine, which Harrison had assured him was now perfect. Freddie endeavoured not to listen, simply to make agreeable noises every time Violet stopped talking long enough. Pamela kept the peace as well as she could — and her temper as well as she thought possible.

Brodie had the curious experience of seeing Colette’s admirer again. It was just after ten in the evening and she was coming back from fetching a petticoat she had inadvertently left in the ironing room, when she saw Colette standing in the passageway with her back to the light, and not a foot away from her was the man Brodie had seen her with before. This time he was facing the light and she saw his features quite distinctly. He was very dark with fine brows and a slightly aquiline nose. She judged he would normally be a very pleasant looking man, but at this moment his expression was one of earnestness bordering upon anger, and he was whispering fiercely to Colette, something which seemed not to please her at all.

“Auguste, c’est impossible!” she said furiously.

Brodie did not speak French, but the meaning of that phrase was clear enough, as was Colette’s defiant stance, hands on hips, chin raised, shoulders stiff.

Something must have distracted Auguste — perhaps the light reflecting on Brodie’s face or the faintest of rustles as the fabric of her dress brushed against the wall. He turned and left so quickly, melting into the shadows of the passageway back to the door, that, had she not seen the look on Colette’s face, she might have supposed he had been a figment of her imagination and not a real person at all.

Brodie disliked Colette profoundly, but to tell tales was a contemptible thing to do, something she had never stooped to since one dismal episode in her youth which she preferred not to think of now. She contented herself with looking at Colette meaningfully — to Colette’s discomfort — and then, with a decided swing in her own step, she continued on her way.

* * *

The following afternoon Brodie, with Pamela’s good wishes, dressed in her best afternoon skirt and jacket, a green which became her very well, and set out to walk briskly into the town. It was only a matter of some two miles or so, and she expected to accomplish it in half an hour. It was an extremely agreeable day, mild and bright with a steady breeze carrying the heady scents of hawthorn blossom. There were still primroses, pale on the dark banks of the ditches. Birds sang, and far away over the fields a dog barked. Other than that there was no sound but the wind in the trees and her own brisk footsteps on the road.

The exhibition was very well signposted and she found it immediately. There were few people attending, which was fortunate. It would give her time to look for the General’s device without being hurried on.

The first machine which caught her attention was a travelling electric stairlamp, made by M. Armand Marat, obviously a Frenchman with a name like that. In fact about everything she saw in the first room appeared to be invented, designed or made by a Frenchman.

She passed to the second room, but, before she could examine the machines in it, she saw the back of a very upright man of robust physique, his clothes immaculate, his hair greying and perfectly barbered, a completely unnecessary furled umbrella in his hand. What was Stockwell doing here? She considered retreating, then was furious with herself. Why on earth should she allow Stockwell’s presence to dictate what she should do? She would not be driven out!

“Good afternoon, Mr Stockwell,” she said decisively.

He turned around very slowly, his face almost comical with surprise. “Miss Brodie! What on earth are you doing here? Has something happened?” Now he looked alarmed.

“Yes, something has happened!” she said disgustedly. “It appears that the French have stolen a march on us. All the inventions in this miserable place are French! There is barely a single exhibit that is English that I have seen! It is most disconcerting.”

“I agree,” he said unhappily. “It is most regrettable. However, I can think of nothing whatever to do about it, except take defeat like gentlemen … and ladies. To concede defeat with grace at least has dignity, and that we must never lose, Miss Brodie. Stiff upper lip in times of hardship.”

Brodie disliked conceding defeat at all, even if she were rigid to her eyebrows.

“Is there nothing British here at all?” she asked.