The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“It is part of the structure, Miss Brodie, necessary for the strength of the machine when it is in motion.”

“I don’t see how.” His tone troubled her. “Surely that piece above it is sufficient for that purpose? It is not going to bear either weight or stress.” Her mouth compressed into a thinner line.

“It must do, or it would not be there!”

“What stress? Surely the piece above it serves that purpose?”

“Do not concern yourself, Miss Brodie,” he said coldly. “Machinery is not the natural talent of women. It is hardly to be expected that you should understand the principles of engineering. It reflects no discredit upon you.”

She had not for an instant considered it might. It was discredit to the machine she had in mind. But she could see from the set of his face that he did not understand it either, and therefore would brook no argument. However, he added one word too many. “I am sure you can appreciate that, Miss Brodie!”

“No,” she said abruptly. “It is not myself I am questioning, it is the machine. I am afraid it is not quite right, and may let the General and Mr Dagliesh down when the French Ambassador comes to test it.”

“Balderdash!” Stockwell retorted, pink in the face now and plainly discomfited. “I think, Miss Brodie, that we have looked at this exhibit long enough. I am going to have a cup of tea. I observed a very agreeable establishment a mere five minutes away. If you wish to join me, I do not mind.”

It was an uncharacteristically ungracious invitation, made under duress, but Brodie accepted it, partly because she would not be dismissed like that, but mostly because she was extremely ready for a cup of tea. It had been a long, thirsty walk into town, and would be the same on the return, especially if she were to try to keep up with Stockwell’s pace.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly in reply.

He looked a little surprised, but after a moment’s hesitation offered her his arm. He would never have dreamed of doing so in the house, but this was different. Here they were practically socially equal.

She accepted it as if it were her due.

They walked together across the street and along the pavement without speaking any further, but when the tea was ordered by Stockwell, and poured by Brodie, he broke the silence at last, tentatively to begin with.

“Miss Brodie …”

“Yes, Mr Stockwell?”

“I have observed a … person … around the house and grounds lately, a foreign-appearing person, who seems to be paying attention to Mrs Welch-Smith’s maid. Have you noticed anything?”

“Yes I have,” she said quickly — mention of Colette thawing her annoyance with Stockwell very rapidly. After all, it was a very secondary matter. “I have seen him twice now. I heard her address him as ‘Auguste’, and say what I believe was ‘it is impossible’.”

He leaned forward. “You believe? Did you not hear clearly?”

“What I think she actually said was ‘c’est impossible’.”

“I see. No doubt you are correct about the meaning, but it could refer to anything, even another meeting between them. But let us be diligent, Miss Brodie, and be warned. It is not unknown for servants of a certain character to open the way for accomplices to rob a house. We must be ever aware of the possibility. I shall have the footmen be extra alert where locks are concerned …”

“That will be no use if she lets him in,” Brodie warned. “And …”

“And what?” he said urgently. “There is something else? Strive to remember, Miss Brodie. Crimes are solved by deductive reasoning, and prevented by acute observation beforehand.” He blinked very slightly. “I am still reading the exploits of Mr Sherlock Holmes in the Strand Magazine

. I find him most satisfying in his logic, and somewhat instructive as to the processes of detection. Please, inform me of all you recall of this person ‘Auguste’.”

Brodie thought very carefully before she began. It was most important that she did not allow her feelings to colour her memory, for the sake both of truth and most particularly of honour — in front of Stockwell of all people. “It is more a matter of impression,” she said, guardedly. “He was a good looking man …”

“I have seen him,” Stockwell interrupted. “I have no difficulty in accepting that Colette may be enamoured of him. I wish to know something of use … relevant to … to detection! Perhaps I have not made myself clear …”

“You do not need to!” she said politely. “If you had permitted me to finish it would have become apparent.”

He flushed faintly pink, and stared back at her. He was not going to go further than that. An apology was out of the question. He waited.

She cleared her throat. “He was very neat about his person, well shaved, well barbered, his shirt collar clean and pressed, his tie straight … that was as much of him as I observed. The shadows made it impossible to see the rest of his apparel clearly enough to describe. He gave me the impression of a service clerk in some form of business, or …” she hesitated. “That is not quite right.”

“Yes?” he prompted, curiosity getting the better of him.