Monday’s weather was bad, heavy low cloud bringing rain driven by a southwesterly gale. Having ridden a reluctant Esau briskly round the estate to give my orders for the day, which entailed as much indoor work as could reasonably be found, I was glad to return to the House. Esau was to be rubbed dry and kept in the comfort of his stable; I withdrew to my office and the pile of paperwork I had reserved for just such a day as this, even if it meant sending for extra lamps. I longed to be able to introduce gas-lights, like those in the homes of so many of my acquaintance, but would have to choose my moment – and probably wait till all the pleasure-giving changes had been paid for.
However, as the rain hurled itself at the window, I knew that other expenditure might be even more urgently needed. This was just the time to inspect the fabric for leaks. I sent a note to George, the estate carpenter, bidding him to join me in my tour of the House – he would know better than I what might need immediate action and what could be postponed.
While I waited, I wrote more notes, this time to neighbouring farmers, offering tarpaulins and labourers to deal with any urgent storm damage. Two hapless outdoor lads had the unpleasant task of delivering them. I worked my way through a pot of coffee and two thick files of correspondence before George presented himself, clearly soaked to the skin.
‘’Tis a regular cloudburst, gaffer,’ he said, as if apologising for the puddles he was leaving on my carpet.
‘So I can see. Look at you, man – you’re dithering as if you’re in an ague.’ I eyed his height and girth. In his fifties, he was shorter than me, his shoulders broad in proportion. His hands looked strong enough to throttle someone with one of them tied behind his back. ‘If you don’t mind being decked out as a footman, we’ll get those clothes of yours dried in the kitchen, yes, and your boots. And I’m sure Mrs Arden can find some hot coffee for you too.’
He was inclined to demur, but I was entitled to insist, which I did, sending him off with Eliott, one of the more sensible footmen, whom I called back: ‘There is to be no open mockery, nor behind-the-hand sniggering. Am I clear?’
Within a quarter of an hour George was back. Someone had found him not livery, but a Sunday suit, predictably too long in the trousers, so he had to hitch them up with string tied below the knee. Far from being relieved, George looked remarkably hang-dog.
‘The only thing to do, man, is laugh at yourself before others do. Turn it into a joke at my expense – “Gaffer’s turned me into a scarecrow!” That sort of thing. My shoulders are broad enough,’ I said, more hopeful than convinced. ‘Now, where do we start? You must know this place like the back of your hand, but I’ve been worried about the roof since the day I arrived.’
‘And you’re right to worry, gaffer. To my way of thinking, we should look at the attics first, begging your pardon, gaffer.’
‘Lead the way. But let me make this clear, George, you are the gaffer here. You are the expert and I will listen to your advice – and act on it, if it’s in my power.’
Nodding, perhaps doubtfully, he led the way straight to the back stairs, stumbling as he left the brightness of the front of the House for the ill-lit stone stairs, dark green paint on the walls making the matter worse. How on earth did people carry items without tripping in the near Stygian gloom?
The first note I made was to have them painted cream and have them covered with drugget. Not ideal but better.
‘Lord bless you!’ George puffed as we reached the first attic. ‘All these stairs. Now, gaffer, this is the oldest part of the House – right?’
‘It may well be – I’m completely lost!’
‘Look at the size of the bricks: smaller than ours. Hey, look at that lot.’ He gestured at a double row of paintings stacked against the far wall. ‘Isn’t that a picture of Good Queen Bess?’
‘Probably. Painted during her reign by the look of it. And look at all those other pictures too! Surely that’s a Holbein – and that’s a Kneller.’ His lordship wasn’t so much as sitting on a fortune but lying beneath it. ‘And the furniture – how on earth did they get such heavy stuff up here? This table – it must weigh a ton!’
We wandered round like children in a bizarre fairy-tale. In the end we were recalled to the task in hand by a persistent drip in one corner. ‘Blocked gutters or a missing tile,’ George said, ‘and dead urgent, or we shall be getting dry rot – if we haven’t got it already.’
We: he clearly identified himself with the Family in a way I couldn’t now, even if I ever would.
Leak after leak went on my list. A rumble from his stomach reminded me that it was well past the hour of the servants’ morning break.
‘Shall we take a breather now?’ I asked with a laugh.
To my delight he laughed too. ‘Bless you, gaffer, I might as well work on till dinner – it only wants an hour.’
‘And by then your clothes might be dry,’ I added with a grin, as we headed for the stairs and the nursery wing.
By the time we had reached the guest wing, my stomach was joining his in protest. By mutual consent we suspended our task, heading to the servants’ hall for a veritable trencherman’s feast of roast lamb. There was no doubting the suppressed giggles and sniggers as George sat down; when I took a seat near him, the silence that fell upon the gathering was tense and awkward. It was only as Mrs Arden and Mrs Faulkner rose, catching my eye, that I recalled that the others could not speak until the senior servants had adjourned to the Room for their dessert.
I touched George amicably on the shoulder as I left. ‘We’ll resume at one fifteen, shall we, where we left off?’
He stood, touching his forelock. ‘One fifteen it is, gaffer.’
‘I should think your own clothes will be dry by then, George,’ Mrs Arden said, over her shoulder, as she curtsied to me to precede her.
There was a plate of fruit for our dessert, and a bowl of early strawberries from one of the succession houses, which also, incidentally, cried out for George’s attention. Clearly there was far too much for one man to do, even if we added two or three skilled men to his apprentice, but I was aware, as his lordship was not, of the limitations of my budget.
‘Mr Rowsley?’ Mrs Faulkner was gesturing at the fruit.
‘I do beg your pardon. It has been a dispiriting morning, ladies. I cannot conceive why much of the work was not done years ago. I hate seeing neglect in a great house like this.’ Might I persuade his lordship to sell some of the attic’s contents? But that was a matter I ought not to discuss with even trusted companions like this. In any case, they probably had more pressing matters to discuss. ‘Strawberries, if you please. Pray, tell me: is there anything to report more to the point than dry rot in window frames?’
The women exchanged glances. Passing a jug of cream, Mrs Arden spoke first: ‘To my mind there is no doubt that Maggie’s situation was suspected by a number of girls – I believe you felt the same, Mrs Faulkner? – but even now they are reluctant to break what I presume is a vow of silence, especially after that sermon yesterday morning.’
Mrs Faulkner pondered. ‘Do you think there is more than what I might call a sisterly bond? I wondered if one or two were actively afraid to speak out – they were looking over their shoulders as they whispered their replies, as if they were afraid they might be overheard, with dire consequences. Shall I ring for coffee? I suspect we are all a little behindhand with our work today.’
‘Afraid? Not just esprit de corps?’ I asked. Mrs Arden’s blank face told me I had made a gaffe. ‘The junior servants sticking together against people like you two ladies with the power instantly to dismiss them?’
‘No. Absolute fear,’ Mrs Faulkner said decisively. ‘You could almost smell it.’
‘Does this mean that the man involved was – important? Someone – I can hardly believe I am saying this – someone like Mr Bowman?’
There was a scratch at the door. The latest tweenie arrived with the coffee tray. Bobbing almost frantically, she backed out.
Getting up awkwardly enough to suggest that her back was indeed still troubling her, Mrs Faulkner checked that the door was fully closed. ‘Mr Bowman may never be entirely sober but he would never trouble a child of that age. He’s more likely to kill the man who did. He sees himself as a father to them all, young men and young women alike, you understand: remote, perhaps bullying, but a father nonetheless.’
I dared not voice my thoughts, that one of his lordship’s guests might be responsible. I dared not voice another thought even to myself.
‘By the way,’ Mrs Faulkner continued, still on her feet, ‘I have to confess I did not make my way to the gatehouse this morning.’
‘No sensible soul would!’ her friend exclaimed. ‘There’s no good to be gained turning up like a drowned rat. She’d just wonder what you were there for!’
‘Exactly. And I wanted to imply the visit was casual, and build up to what I fear will be an interrogation.’ She passed the cups of coffee – some of her ladyship’s special blend – before she sat down. ‘Did you get any information from George?’ she asked, so casually I knew my answer would disappoint her.
‘I am biding my time. All our conversation this morning was about the poor state of the roof and much of the woodwork. I thought he would be readier to talk when he was comfortable in his own clothes, and, of course, after his dinner-time beer.’
‘That’s another matter Mr Pounceman wants to stick his nose in – the beer allowance,’ Mrs Arden snorted. ‘He says water is good enough. Which I suppose it is, if it’s good water. Ours is so hard – you’ve no idea the effort it takes to get good lather. Ask the laundry maids. You wonder if he’ll dare tell his lordship that water is better than his burgundy.’
‘Not when he’s coming to supper with the county set, that’s for sure,’ her friend laughed.
I hesitated. The idea of making beer part of anyone’s wages worried me. There were people who might want to follow Pounceman’s precepts, but the pressure of their fellow servants, sitting round the communal table, must be very hard to withstand. ‘I would like to be a fly on the wall if he did!’ I said truthfully. ‘Now, I fear I will keep George waiting, and in truth there is much to be done. We will be ready for our cup of tea this afternoon, without doubt.’
The list of essential repairs got longer by the minute. We were now in the family wing, much extended to give loftier rooms for honoured guests and his lordship. In line with custom, her ladyship had given up her room, and now occupied the dowager’s suite further down the main corridor. Though the décor was the best in the whole house, her former quarters would be redecorated ready for the day when his lordship brought home a new wife.
George gave a dry laugh. ‘When I was a lad it was my job to oil all the locks and hinges in the bedchamber corridors so people could go about their business each night without anyone knowing. Creaky floorboards too – I became an expert on them. So’s my apprentice. Not that he needs to be. It’s all changed now, hasn’t it, gaffer? The Family and their friends are supposed to behave themselves the same of the rest of us. People are so damned pious – begging your pardon, sir!’
I laughed. ‘You sound regretful.’
He sucked his teeth. ‘There’s good and bad to be said for it. Back when I was a lad, a wench in young Maggie’s state wouldn’t have had to run away. She’d have been looked after, proper. Yes, she’d have been sent away to another estate, but she’d have been cared for there, and the babe brought up decent. If it was a lad and a Family by-blow, then it would be educated and found a position. Apprenticed, if there was any doubt.’
‘And what if the baby was a girl?’
‘Same thing, really – a respectable position would be found. Then the mother – well, she might marry a local worker, or just be given a ring and become Mrs Something or Other and found a post in another great house. None of this “Never darken my door” business!’
‘“Darken my door business”?’ I repeated sharply.
‘Don’t get me wrong, gaffer. I’m just drawing a conclusion. A girl isn’t going to flit off like that if she was going to be properly looked after, is she?’
‘So, assuming you’re right, and I’m not arguing, who would show the young woman the door?’
He paused. ‘Many places, it’d be the housekeeper or the cook, wouldn’t it? Or even the steward. But I can’t see any of you three doing that. Can you?’ He looked me straight in the eye, suddenly if only briefly treating me as an equal. ‘Now, I have to say I don’t like the look of that frame, do you?’ he continued with an awkward cough.
I had to admit I didn’t, and made a note. So who would have dismissed young Maggie? Or did she indeed believe, when she left, that she was going to meet her lover?
His lordship’s room was occupied by three or four maids, ostensibly beating curtains and wiping paint but actually giggling behind their hands. The laughter stopped immediately, and eyes were lowered as they curtsied. Off the main chamber was a dressing room, big enough to accommodate a full-size bed, but currently empty but for the usual cupboards and wardrobes, all in the latest style, and several free-standing mirrors. One of the cupboards was not properly closed. Had the contents of that been the cause of their hilarity? With George beside me I could hardly investigate.
‘That door in the corner connects to his late lordship’s dressing room,’ George said.
‘Can you imagine if one of them was turned into a modern bathroom?’ I murmured. ‘It would save all that tedious business of hip baths and washstands and chamber pots.’
He stood stock still. ‘But what would the maids do with their time?’
We had checked three or four more rooms further down the corridor before I raised the question of Maggie again. ‘There must be rumours around the House and the estate about who got Maggie with child, George. I’d rather they reached me, you know, before they got to young Harry Kenton’s ears. I’d say he’d be quick with his hands, if he was crossed.’
George sucked his teeth, digging a thumbnail into a suspect sill before he spoke. ‘More dry rot there, gaffer.’ He looked around the room. ‘You may not like to hear this.’
‘Is it I they accuse?’ I tried to sound more disbelieving than furious.
‘Not exactly, gaffer. But they do say you must know. Or someone in the House must know. Mr Bowman, or Mrs Faulkner. Specially her, because – you know – of the … evidence …’ He turned bright red. ‘When my wife was a wench in service, it was part of the housekeeper’s job to check, you know, every month, that she was having … So the housekeeper would be the first to know if …’ He coughed. ‘If there was no blood, like.’
For the life of me I could not imagine Mrs Faulkner indulging in the ritual monthly humiliation. I returned to what he had said earlier. ‘And they think whoever it is – and I can assure you it is not me – should have done more to protect her?’
He looked at me shrewdly once again. ‘You would have, wouldn’t you, gaffer? But tell me, why has Mr Bowman flit off? He’d hear the footmen whispering and sniggering if it was one of them.’
With her ladyship and his lordship both suddenly called away, there was no reason for Bowman to be in residence. But I did not care to follow out loud where that thought was leading me; after what Mrs Faulkner had said, it was certainly not to imagining the butler as a seducer. ‘Mr Bowman returns tomorrow. I give you my word I will speak to him then. Meanwhile, what about this room?’ I tried the handle. And again. I looked dis-believingly at George.
Although most of the rooms had locks, very few had keys in the doors – after all, the House was always full of people ready to detect an interloper. We had simply walked into those we had checked so far, the locks and hinges beautifully oiled. This door refused to budge. Frowning, he fished in his pocket and produced a bunch of keys, some simply skeletons. With some confidence he tried one of them. Then another and another.
‘Looks like we’ll have to get in through the next-door room. It’s kept for particular friends of the Family,’ he said, leading the way. That door opened easily, but the connecting door was as tightly fastened as the one to the corridor. ‘Do you want me to force it?’ he asked. ‘It’ll show, of course.’
‘Any more subtle way of opening it?’
‘I can unscrew the lock. But even that might be noticed.’ He looked at me anxiously: if it were discovered, and he truly offended his lordship, would I be able to help him?
I responded to his unspoken question with a slow shake of my head. ‘It would be hard to justify unless we had evidence of anything needing urgent repair. Let’s think about it, George. Now to the next. There should just be time.’
There would have been, but for an urgent summons. Farmer Twiss’s milking parlour was losing its roof. George looked at me. ‘I’d best lend a hand if you’ll excuse me, gaffer.’
‘Excuse you? I’m leading the way!’