3-Book Victorian Crime Collection: Death at Dawn, Death of a Dancer, A Corpse in Shining Armour. Caro Peacock
took no notice. He slid back the bolt and walked in, giving the fashion plate a considering look. He said or did nothing threatening, but the size and assurance of him was enough. Fashion plate took a step away from me and his voice was less confident.
‘Go away. You can come in and clear up later.’
‘Best do it now, sir.’
Amos picked up Rancie’s droppings with the pitchfork. In the process he let some fall on the toe of fashion plate’s highly polished boot. The man let out a howl.
‘You clumsy oaf.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Mucky places, stables.’
Fashion plate opened his mouth then looked up at Amos and decided not to say anything. He pushed past us to the door and went, slamming it behind him.
‘You all right, miss?’ Amos said.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
‘You’d best be off, miss. You just walk along with me as far as the midden and no one will take any notice.’
We went side by side across the yard, Amos carrying the bundle of soiled straw on his pitchfork. Most of the people in the yard were fussing round the travelling coach and took no notice of us. There was no sign of the fat man. The fashion plate had his boot up on a step of the mounting block and a trim man in a black jacket was wiping it with a cloth, both of them looking as serious as if he were performing delicate surgery. The muck heap was right alongside the gate.
‘Off you go then,’ Amos said. ‘If you’re in any trouble, you get word to me, look. And here’s your letters –’
He took a slim bundle out of his pocket and slid it into mine. Until then, I’d forgotten, in my fear and distress, the reason for being there.
‘Here’s another one for the post,’ I said, almost dropping it in my haste to hand it over and be gone.
I covered the first half-mile or so at a pace between a stumbling run and a walk, fearful all the time of hearing shouts or horses’ hooves behind me. Fashion plate, once his boot was out of danger, would surely tell the fat man about the woman in disguise, and if the fat man somehow guessed who she was …
I know the fear wasn’t reasonable. Perhaps it should have occurred to me that fashion plate had hardly cut a noble picture in the loosebox so might not be eager to talk about it. The fact was, I credited the fat man with almost demonic powers and wanted to get as far away from him as I could. A stitch stabbed at my ribs and my breath came short, but I would not slow to an ordinary walk until I was on the main road again, within sight of Mandeville Hall. I went up the back road as usual, into the kitchen courtyard, through the room with the chamber pots and up the four flights of wooden stairs to my room. The letters crackled in the pockets as I took off my jacket. There was one addressed to me in Mr Blackstone’s hand, another plumper one for Miss Mandeville. No time to do anything about them now. The stable clock was striking seven and I was already late for the children’s prayers. I put the letters in my bag, changed, did my hair and ran downstairs.
The two boys were already dressed and sitting at the schoolroom table. Betty was brushing Henrietta’s hair.
‘There’s straw on your dress,’ Henrietta said.
I brushed it off. Betty looked a little disapproving, probably convinced I was a lazy lie-a-bed. Once prayers had been said, I made amends by volunteering to take the children for their before-breakfast walk on my own. The fact was, I wanted to go to the flower garden to leave my signal for Celia. As they ran around among the flower beds, I chose a spray of white sweet peas and wove it into the curlicues of the rustic bench.
‘Why are you doing that?’ Henrietta said.
The child was worse than a whole army of spies. I distracted her by making a crown of sweet peas for her hair. She was delighted and wore it at breakfast, but it didn’t stop her noticing things.
‘Miss Lock has eaten four slices of bread and butter.’
Betty told her a lady never made comment on what people were eating, but I was shame-faced, wondering if I’d developed a boy’s appetite to go with the rest. After that, I yawned my way through the after-breakfast session in the schoolroom. Luckily, Saturdays were less formal than the rest of the week and the children were put into pinafores and allowed to do things involving paint or paste. Charles painted meticulous red jackets on to his lead soldiers, Henrietta attempted a watercolour and James re-arranged his formidable collection of empty snail shells. Seeing them so happily occupied, I was wondering whether I might sneak upstairs and read my letter from Mr Blackstone when there was a knock on the door. Patrick the footman stood outside.
‘Mrs Quivering’s compliments, and would Miss Lock kindly go down to the housekeeper’s room.’
Betty gave me a look that said, Oh dear, what have you done? and I followed Patrick’s black-liveried back down the stairs, wondering which of my many sins had found me out, almost certain that in the next few minutes I faced dismissal. I could only hope it was nothing worse than that.
She was sitting at her desk with a pile of papers in front of her, cap tilted sideways as if she’d been running her hands through her hair. She looked tired and worried, but not especially hostile.
‘Miss Lock, it’s good of you to come down. I’m sorry to take you away from your pupils.’
Was it sarcasm? If so, there was no sign of it on her face.
‘As you may have heard, Miss Lock, we are planning to entertain a large number of people next weekend, a dinner for forty people on Friday and a ball for more than a hundred on Saturday.’
I nodded, not sure if I was supposed to know even as much as that.
‘Amongst other things, there is a deal of writing to be done: place cards, table plan, menus and the like. Mrs Beedle has suggested that you might take on the duty.’
She must have mistaken my look of amazement for reluctance and went on, rather impatiently.
‘I am sure you could accommodate it with your other duties. Mrs Sims could supervise some of the children’s lessons, if necessary.’
Almost overcome by relief and my good luck, I assured her, truthfully, that nothing would give me more pleasure.
‘Thank you, Miss Lock. I suggest you start this afternoon. I shall have a table brought into this room for you. The first thing I want you to do is make a complete and accurate copy of the guest lists here.’ She picked up from her desk several pages pinned together. My eyes followed the lists like a dog craving a bone. ‘Then you may use it to work from when you do the place cards. You understand?’
‘Perfectly, Mrs Quivering. I’m delighted to have an opportunity to be of use.’
By mid-afternoon I was sitting by the window in the housekeeper’s room, the precious lists on the table in front of me. There were three of them, the longest, some 120 names, consisted of those invited to the ball on the Saturday night. A shorter one listed the 40 guests who would also be at dinner the night before. An even more select group of 20 would be staying at Mandeville Hall for the weekend, the majority bringing valets or maids with them.
I read through the lists, looking for names I recognised. The house guests included one duke, two lords, four baronets and their ladies, and six Members of Parliament. (I refrain from giving their names here because most of them were nothing worse than foolish and easily flattered, and I am sure they would not now want the world to know that they had ever set foot in Mandeville Hall.) I racked my brains, trying to remember what I’d heard or read about any of them. The duke was eighty years old or so, and I remembered from accounts of Reform Bill debates in the Lords that he had been a bitter opponent of it. Given his host’s views on the subject, it was not surprising to find him on the guest list. The