Death Sits Down to Dinner (32 page)

Mrs. Jackson felt her cheeks flame hot with embarrassment and she quickly left the room to stand outside in the corridor until the flush died from her face and her heart stopped skipping about in agitation.
What have I just seen?
she asked herself in consternation. She flapped her hand in front of her face to cool it.
Calm down for pity’s sake,
she instructed herself,
he only kissed her hand.
And then as soon as she was sure her cheeks were not quite so fiery a red, she cleared her throat loudly and made a second entrance.

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully. “I have just time for a quick cup of tea and then we really should be getting under way!”

Mr. White got to his feet in some confusion. “Yes, Mrs. Jackson, the boys and I are almost ready; they have just gone to their rooms to find clean gloves. Perhaps you would brief me as we drive over to Chester Square.”

Ginger, Mrs. Jackson noticed, merely smiled and reached for the large brown teapot to pour her a cup. “Take a load off, Mrs. Jackson, and eat a couple of rashers; it will be a long day. Important you make a decent breakfast.” She deftly served the housekeeper a plate of eggs, bacon, and fried bread and went about her work. And Mrs. Jackson sat down next to Mr. White and, careful to not look at him, ate her breakfast.

As Mr. White and Mrs. Jackson were putting on their overcoats in the scullery, they were joined by the Montfort footmen, both of them ready and eager to attend a gala event.

“Right handsome you boys look,” Ginger said with approval as they all piled into the Chester Square motorcar and she stood at the curb, her shoulders hunched with cold, to wave them off.
For all the world,
thought Mrs. Jackson,
as if we are off on a day-trip to the seaside.

As they drove through the empty early-morning streets, Mrs. Jackson took a moment to prepare Mr. White before their meeting with Mr. Jenkins.

“When we get to Chester Square, Mr. White, it is important to remember that Mr. Jenkins must not feel usurped in any way. He has worked for the family all his life and no one understands better than he the importance of the charity event. Our job is to provide perfect support to Mr. Jenkins, in his service to the Chester Square guests, and above all to help Mr. Jenkins to not forget
anything
.” She had then explained the extent and erratic nature of Mr. Jenkins’s little problem with absentmindedness, which was often exacerbated by stressful occasions.

The collaborative meeting between the members of the Montfort House and the Chester Square servants’ halls went well and Mrs. Jackson was reassured as she left the two butlers—never a particularly easy pairing of hierarchical positions, any more than having two ringmasters at a circus—to discuss their schedule of work together. She was pleased to notice that Mr. White was respectfully deferential and she was grateful for his sensitivity toward the older man. Despite his immature years, which counted against him, Mrs. Jackson had decided that she approved of White. His manner was impeccable and he was intelligent, aware, and he managed everything he did with self-contained professional detachment. He had one serious fault though, in her opinion: he was particularly at risk where Ginger’s charms were concerned.

Her mind went back to the tender scene in the kitchen. It was almost a domestic moment, she thought. And who said that people who spend their working lives together should not have kindhearted feelings for each other? She remembered Ginger’s soft expression as White had kissed her hand.
It’s a cold, old world,
Mrs. Jackson said to herself as she remembered the despair in Miss Gaskell’s voice when she finally recognized she had trusted someone with her tender feelings who had not been worthy of them.
Is it natural for us to soldier on, on our solitary paths, and then retire at the end of our working lives to be even more alone?
When she had seen that sweet kiss planted on Ginger’s hand, her heart had leaped and she had caught her breath. It had been almost painful for her to observe simple human affection between a man and a woman, especially when she had carefully taught herself never to expect more than professional friendship with those she worked with. It was out of the question that someone in her position should ever entertain the idea of an intimate friendship with a fellow servant, let alone marriage.

It’s this wretched investigating business,
she thought,
it blurs all the lines of expected behavior and propriety and turns everything topsy-turvy.
Thoroughly confused, her hand strayed to Stafford’s letter, which was carefully folded inside her skirt pocket. She still had not replied to him. She went into her between-stairs office and drew out the letter from her pocket and read it through again.

There now, she thought, the man wants to spend the day with you at Kew Gardens, Edith, what is the harm in that? And you would undoubtedly enjoy yourself. So don’t be so stiff-necked.
She sighed and put the letter back in its envelope and from there to her skirt pocket and went in search of Miss Gaskell.

“I am only here today to help
you,
Miss Gaskell, I have no intention of interfering in any way at all,” she said to the tired young woman. There was something pathetically woebegone about the young companion, as she put out a gentle hand and laid it on Mrs. Jackson’s arm. Mrs. Jackson could only imagine how unkindly Miss Kingsley had castigated Miss Gaskell for her indiscretions regarding Sir Reginald and the carefully concealed theft.

“Ever since you came to help us, Mrs. Jackson, you have been nothing but kind and diligent on our behalf. I do not feel you have interfered, and I am grateful that you care so much. I would really enjoy doing the flowers with you, though.” For the first time in days the young girl in Miss Gaskell emerged, and Mrs. Jackson remembered third housemaids who had enjoyed the treat of arranging flowers for the house for a special occasion.

They worked contentedly together, trimming and arranging the great golden blooms of the roses and the ivory-white hothouse lilies among dark foliage in large Grecian urns and priceless Chinese vases.

Once the flowers were arranged and left to open in the little sitting room, the remainder of the day became one of organized activity with the three footmen; the two chauffeurs, Macleod and Herne; the gardener and his two lads; struggling upstairs and downstairs, moving chairs and sofas from rooms all over the house and those borrowed from two neighbors. The salon, now opened up into its fullest extent, was lit by early-winter sunshine streaming through its windows, casting a bright light on Mrs. Jackson and Miss Gaskell as they directed the efforts of arranging seating in the salon.

When the men were quite finished and were standing in perspiring, red-faced groups, breathing heavily and probably wondering if anyone was going to offer them a glass of beer with their midday dinner, Mrs. Jackson and Miss Gaskell inspected the setup to make sure that all chairs were turned to their best advantage, giving whoever sat in them at least a partial view of the famous diva as she stood by the piano to regale them with song.

“Oh dear no, this won’t do at all.” Mrs. Jackson was standing with her back to the window in the small salon, where a grouping of several chairs and a small sofa were so cramped together that it would be hard for people not to sit without their knees being jammed up against one another’s. “I’m afraid we will have to move this screen back at least three feet, more if possible. Would you…”

“My dear Mrs. Jackson, no one has moved the Chinese screen since it was placed there forty years ago, when the late Mr. Kingsley brought it back from Peking with him, a gift from the dowager empress. It is far too heavy.” Mr. Jenkins turned toward her, his spectacles halfway down his nose, a green apron tied around his middle. The butler’s memory, Mrs. Jackson noticed, was spot-on when it came to remembering the past.

“Just a tiny foot … or two, Mr. Jenkins, couldn’t we just slide…?”

“No one here is strong enough to move it, Mrs. Jackson.” The butler was at his most indulgent. “I’m afraid we would need at least
five
village blacksmiths.” He smiled his gentle smile, no doubt thinking her a headstrong young woman, forever in need of caution.

This was a direct challenge to Herne and Macleod. They were both well-set-up men, proud of their height and strength; Macleod in particular not five years ago had still been driving Miss Kingsley’s barouche and taking care of a stable full of horses in the Chester Square mews. He shouldered the footmen aside, namby-pamby lads that they were, and walked over to the corner of the Chinese screen. Herne, not to be outdone, joined him. The gardener and his two lads fell in on either side. And sure enough the heavy screen was eased an inch toward the window.

“Well don’t just stand there,” grunted Herne, veins standing out on a shining brow, sweat flowing freely. “Git yer back into ut, lads…” And the footmen took off their coats and joined in as they slid the heavy screen back a foot, and then another, and, with a concerted communal grunt, one more, as Mr. Jenkins welcomed every move with exhortations not to send the screen crashing through the window.

“Ah yes, so much better! Do you see, Mr. Jenkins? Look at how much light comes into this lovely room now. So, we should move the potted palm into
that
far corner, and we can put this massive Chinese jar over … there.”

“Oh my dear Mrs. Jackson, please do not
move
the water jar.” Mr. Jenkins’s voice was faint with horror and shock at the housekeeper’s cavalier attitude to what was after all a priceless and irreplaceable treasure. “The jar, as you call it, dear lady, is in fact from the Ming Dynasty, Jiajing to be precise; peerless, without equal.”

“I completely agree, Mr. Jenkins, we must keep this lovely thing quite safe.” Mrs. Jackson walked forward to lift the lid off the jar; she didn’t want anything broken at this stage of the game. Macleod wheeled the lidless jar into a safe corner, and after thanking him she bent over to fit the lid back onto the jar. And as she looked down she saw something that brought the hairs on the back of her neck up so straight and stiff that she felt quite giddy.

“Well now, everyone, what a splendid job. It’s nearly one o’clock, we should take a break for dinner, and then we need to sweep all the floors and carpets through the house again…” She ushered everyone out of the room and watched them troop down the back stairs, the housemaids chattering with the enjoyment of working with a group of vigorous men, and the vigorous men ribbing one another over perceived reluctance to pit their weight against the screen.
Give several men a job to do together that involves a trial of strength and it makes immediate companions,
Mrs. Jackson thought as she walked rapidly back to the salon, and locked herself in.

Her heart was pumping away in her chest as if she had run for miles, but her hands were quite steady as she lifted up the lid of the jar and set it down on the floor.

“Well, hullo,” she said as she looked into the bottom of the jar. “However did you manage to get in here?”

*   *   *

Clementine did not expect to be called to Chester Square quite so early for an evening of music. She had spent a pleasant afternoon trying on hats and trying to remember what Pettigrew had told her about wide crowns and narrow brims, or perhaps it was the other way around. Every hat she tried on was a delight after the massive half-gardens that people wore on their heads these days, and she had left an order for several beauties with the modiste.

She was looking forward to putting her feet up for an hour with her book, before leaving for Chester Square and the Chimney Sweep Boys charity evening. Most certainly she had not expected to have to jump into her bath and then throw on her clothes to go over to Chester Square an hour early, but she was quite prepared to do so, especially since Mrs. Jackson had never in her life given Clementine what amounted to a direct order.

“Pettigrew, is Lord Montfort at home yet?” she asked as her maid fussed about with handkerchief and evening bag.

Her husband, as promised, had returned to town to do his duty for the charity, fully prepared to part with a substantial sum of money to his wife’s friend in the process. When told that he was still at his club, Clementine instructed Pettigrew to leave word with White to tell Lord Montfort that Herne was driving her over early. His lordship would have to take a taxicab to join her at Miss Kingsley’s house.

Wearing her most splendid gown of the season and covered in the entire collection of the Talbot diamonds, as this was a most grand occasion with senior royalty in attendance, Clementine was carefully enveloped in her sable fur and sent out into the damp night. There was a mist closing in off the river that would hopefully not thicken into fog later on.

Herne, who had driven over from his day’s labors at Chester Square, was already dressed in his footman’s attire. Undoubtedly he liked himself in it because he was standing to attention, at least another three inches taller with his chest sticking out, as he held the door of the motorcar open for her.

“Everything going smoothly at Chester Square, Herne?” Clementine asked as he tucked her up carefully in a large plaid traveling rug in the back of the motorcar, making her feel somewhat overheated and claustrophobic as the night had a clammy closeness to it.

“Yes, m’lady, everyone is ready. The French chef came and the food looks jolly good all laid out on the tables with fresh flowers and fruit; very pretty, very festive.” Herne’s job was to wait outside in the car or downstairs in the porter’s lodge when he drove the Talbots to parties and dinners and he was obviously enjoying the novelty of his dual role.

“The young Chimney Sweeps are being put through their paces by Miss Gaskell and Mr. Jenkins; nice lot of boys they are and no mistake. Hard to believe they were all guttersnipes at one time.”

Clementine smiled to herself in the dark; Herne had a peculiarly outright and amusing turn of phrase, always appreciated by the Talbot family.