The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

And Freddie Dagliesh would also be blamed, by implication. The General was staying in his house, they had been friends for years; Freddie had assisted in the last minute touches to the machine. It was quite horrible.

Perhaps Colette knew of it? That could be why she had that look of secret triumph in her eyes. Then who was Auguste? An accomplice? He must be.

But an accomplice to whom? Surely the General had not really done this? Why? What had happened to him in France that he could even think of such an idea?

The reason hardly mattered. The thing now was to prevent it from happening. She must tell Stockwell. He was the only person who would believe her. Then together they would tell … who? Not the General, certainly. And would Freddie give a moment’s credence to such a tale?

She and Stockwell must do it alone, and there would be no opportunity to speak in the morning. They would all be far too busy with their own duties. She needed time to persuade him of the inevitable logic of what she had deduced. He could be stubborn now and again. And he would be appalled at being woken in the middle of the night. It was conceivable there had never been a woman in his bedroom, in his adult life, except a housemaid to clean it. If he had ever had any personal relationships they would most assuredly have been conducted elsewhere, and with the utmost discretion.

She sat up and fumbled in the dark for matches to light the candle. There were gas lamps downstairs, of course, but on the servants’ level — even the superior servants such as herself — it was candles. She succeeded, then reached for her shawl; there was no time to bother with the fuss of dressing, chemises and petticoats and stockings. Wrapped up with a shawl for decency more than warmth, she tip-toed along the corridor to the farther end where she knew Stockwell’s room was situated. There was a connecting door between the male servants’ quarters and those of the female servants, as decorum required, but it was not locked.

She was watching ahead of her so carefully, that she caught her toe against the leg of a side table where ewers of water were left. She almost cried out with pain, and there was a distinct rattle as china touched china.

Good heavens! What on earth would anyone think if she were found here? She was right outside Stockwell’s door. How could she possibly explain herself? She couldn’t! The General’s invention was going to explode and kill the French Ambassador! She could hear the laughter now, and see the total contempt in their eyes. It was almost enough to make her turn back. She had a blameless reputation! It would be a lifetime’s good character gone — and for what?

To save one man’s life and another man’s reputation, that was what.

Dare she knock?

What if someone else were awake and heard, and thought it was their own door?

They would answer it. They would see her standing here in her nightgown and shawl, her hair down her back and a candle in her hand, waiting at Stockwell’s bedroom door. She would never be able to live it down! She could hear the young maids’ comments now! Hear their laughter. They would never let her forget it! Silly old woman — absurd — at her age!

That was it. It was decided! She put her hand on the knob, turned it and went in. She closed it behind her very nearly without sound. Stockwell was lying curled over on his side in the middle of the bed, blankets tucked up to his chin, nightcap — a little askew — on his head. He looked very ordinary and very vulnerable. He would probably never ever forgive her for this.

“Mr Stockwell …” she whispered.

He did not move.

“Mr Stockwell …” she said a trifle more loudly.

He stirred and turned over.

Heavens alive. What if he saw her and cried out? That would be the worst of all possibilities. “Don’t say anything!” She ordered desperately. “Please keep quiet!”

Stockwell opened his eyes and sat up slowly, his face transfixed with horror. His nightcap slipped over one ear.

She could feel her face burning.

“I had to come!” she said defensively.

“Miss Brodie!” The words were forced between his lips. He was aghast. He opened his mouth to continue, and could not.

“I know what is wrong!” she said urgently. “With the machine! With the General’s machine! It is going to explode … and kill the French Ambassador … and General Welch-Smith will be blamed. I don’t know … perhaps he should be. But Mr Dagliesh will be blamed also, and he shouldn’t. We must do something about it before that can happen.”

To do him justice, he did not ask her if she had been at the port, but his expression suggested it.