The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

He froze, then very slowly turned and stared at her. He was obviously abashed at having been seen, but he did not look guilty, rather annoyed at himself.

“Good evening, Madam,” he replied courteously. His voice was pleasant enough, but heavily accented.

“I assume you are looking for Colette?” Brodie continued.

For a moment he was taken aback. She thought he was even going to deny it. Then he made an awkward little movement, half a bow. “No thank you, I was just about to go.” He indicated the way to the door.

She looked him up and down closely. His suit fitted him too well for him to conceal anything of size in his pockets. At least on this occasion he had not robbed the household.

“Goodnight, then,” she answered pleasantly, and resumed her way towards the kitchen. She was pleased to see Colette there, busy preparing a special egg-and-milk drink which Mrs Welch-Smith liked before retiring. She was looking for the nutmeg.

“Second drawer in the spice rack,” Brodie said tartly.

“Oh!” Colette spun around. “How do you know what I wanted, Miss Brodie?”

“Well, that’s black pepper you have in your hand! Or maybe you like pepper in your milk in France, even last thing at night?”

“Of course not!” Colette snapped. “Although, if you know anything about cuisine, you would not need to ask! Really, such an idea! All the delicacy would be lost. But then, English cooking is hardly an art — is it!”

“Well, it is obviously not one you know,” Brodie returned. “Nor is a decent respect for the household of your host, or you could not make such an unseemly remark. But then French manners are hardly an art either!”

Colette drew in her breath to retaliate.

Brodie got there first. “And another thing, while we are discussing it, it is not done in England for a visiting maid to have her followers in the house without permission — which would not be granted. I dare say Monsieur Auguste is a perfectly respectable person, but it is a principle. Some maids can attract a very dubious class of followers …”

Colette was furious, but oddly she did not explode with outrage. She seemed on the verge of speech, and then to hesitate, as though undecided, even confused.

“Many houses have been robbed that way,” Brodie added for good measure.

Extraordinarily, Colette started to laugh, a high pitched giggle rising towards hysteria.

Stockwell appeared at the door, his face dark with disapproval.

“What is going on here?” he demanded.

Brodie was annoyed at being caught in what was obviously a quarrel. It was undignified. And by Stockwell, of all people.

She was prevented from replying by the arrival of Harrison, General Welch-Smith’s valet. He was a pleasant-featured man with fair hair and large, strong hands. At the moment there was a sneer on his lips.

“Saw that follower of yours going across the yard,” he said to Colette. “You’d better make sure you don’t get caught, my girl! French may have the morals of an alley-cat, but English don’t like their servants having strange men in off the streets. Imagine what the mistress’d have to say if I brought some dolly-mop into the house! Get caught having a quick fumble in the cupboard under the stairs, and the mistress won’t be able to protect you, no matter how well you can use a curling tong … the General’ll have you out!”

Colette looked at him with utter loathing, but she seemed to have nothing to say. She turned on her heel, but, when she stopped at the door, the milk and nutmeg temporarily forgotten, the look in her face was not one of defeat, but of waiting malice, as if she knew she would triumph in the end.

* * *

Brodie went to bed unhappy and profoundly puzzled. There was too much that did not make sense, and yet when she examined each individual instance, there was nothing to grasp. Who was Auguste? He did not behave like a man in love. Why did Colette seem to think she had some peculiar victory waiting for her? Why had Harrison been living in France so long if he disliked the French as he seemed to? She realized in thinking about it that she had heard him make other disparaging remarks, and there had been a light in his eyes of far more than usual irritation or disapproval. There was some deep emotion involved.

How on earth was the General’s machine going to work when one piece was going to strike another as soon as it was set in motion? And what about the extra cross bar? So far as she could see, it offered no additional strength, no purpose, and certainly no beauty.

She went to sleep with it all churning in her mind, and woke in the middle of the night with the answer sharp and horribly clear, as if she had already seen it happen: the two pieces striking would ignite a spark … the extra piece had a hideous use … it was not metal but dynamite! It would explode — a mechanical bomb — killing the French Ambassador, or at the very least seriously injuring him.

General Welch-Smith would be blamed, naturally. He designed the machine. He made it, with Harrison’s help. He had just returned from a long sojourn in France.