The Messents’ home was an imposing white building in a terrace built along the west side of a handsome Kensington Square. The traffic-calming bumps had stopped it being a cut-through for cabs so the road was pleasantly quiet. There was a parking bay along the black railings opposite and a view from the stoop onto the nicely laid out trees and rose beds in the private garden in the centre of the square.
Built in the late 1750s, the house sported an English Heritage blue plaque detailing the life of a French composer Alice had never heard of. Perhaps it was this link to French cultural heritage that had drawn the Messents to this particular house. Or perhaps it was the fact that in 2010 a footballer had completely refurbished the property, excavating the basement to make room for a Turkish bath, sauna and a professionally equipped kitchen.
Alice rang the old-fashioned bell and rubbed her leather gloves together, looking down the street and noticing that many of the luxury cars that usually graced squares like these were absent. This close to Christmas, Knightsbridge emptied, its residents taking off for their ski chalets, country piles, or to warmer climes.
Dropping in on her staff wasn’t unusual, but Alice knew that Enya might be busy so she resolved not to outstay her welcome. She often thought being a housekeeper must be so satisfying and she hoped that Enya had taken to it. She found herself thinking of a passage about the duties of a housekeeper from Mrs Beeton’s book, which she often held up as a benchmark with which to judge her employees.
Like ‘Caesar’s wife’, she should be ‘above suspicion’, and her honesty and sobriety unquestionable; for there are many temptations to which she is exposed. In a physical point of view, a housekeeper should be healthy and strong, and be particularly clean in her person, and her hands, although they may show a degree of roughness, from the nature of some of her employments, yet should have a nice inviting appearance. In her dealings with the various tradesmen, and in her behaviour to the domestics under her, the demeanour and conduct of the housekeeper should be such as, in neither case, to diminish, by an undue familiarity, her authority or influence.
The heavy front door now opened. ‘Miss Beeton?’ Enya said, uncertainly. She was dressed in black trousers and a black smock. It was clearly a uniform but it made her look a little like a beautician at a spa. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I was just passing,’ Alice lied with a smile. ‘A courtesy call. Nothing more. I came to see how you’re getting on. Is Madame Messent at home?’ She stepped towards Enya, already nosing inside the house.
‘No, no. She’s out. And Monsieur is busy.’
There was an awkward moment when Enya looked as if she were tempted to close the door on Alice, but instead, flustered, she stood back further. Alice smiled and advanced towards her.
‘Um … then come in,’ Enya said, clearly unsure whether this was etiquette, but Alice stepped gratefully into the ambient warmth of the Messents’ mansion.
‘Oh, just for a little bit. If you’re having a coffee, then I wouldn’t say no,’ Alice said presumptuously, peering past Enya into the hallway. Its sweeping stairs had been remodelled with glass panels but several of its original features were intact.
‘Um,’ Enya began, ‘there’s still some in the pot.’
‘Marvellous.’
Alice followed Enya as she walked briskly past a plinth displaying a bust of Napoleon and turned to look through the door of the drawing room to one side.
It was a beautiful space, Alice thought, noticing the modern glass chandelier, antique bevelled mirrors, bookcases filled with an array of antique tomes, large sofas upholstered in salmon pink, and two atlas globes. On one side was a shiny grand piano with the lid open. Houses like these always benefited from a piano and she wondered how Albert the piano tuner was keeping these days now that Mortimer, his guide dog, had sadly passed away. She hoped he’d received the card Jinx had sent.
‘One always forgets the scale of these properties,’ Alice said, as they passed an enormous set of double doors. ‘What’s in there, I wonder?’
‘Oh … er … the ballroom.’
Alice pulled an impressed face. ‘How grand. Can I peek?’
Enya looked confused but did not express an opinion. Alice put her hand on the door. She allowed Enya a moment more to protest, then opened it a fraction. On the other side was a beautiful parquet floor and a pink and grey silk Persian rug that was by far and away the largest Alice had ever seen. At one end a painting covered nearly the entire wall and Alice cocked her head trying to make sense of it. Was it some sort of seascape?
‘That’s quite a piece,’ she said, sensing Enya next to her and clearly wanting her to close the door.
‘There are lots like it throughout the house.’
‘Monsieur Messent is an art dealer, isn’t he?’ Alice said.
‘He has a gallery not far from here. But I’ve hardly seen him. He’s always out. Everyone is very busy. There’s a lot to do. Madame’s throwing a big party on New Year’s Eve, you see. She’s given me a list of tasks. They both seemed a little stressed, so I offered to help.’
‘Both?’
‘Oh, Madame Messent has a secretary, Thérèse.’
Of course, they’d have utilised clever Enya. She felt confident that Madame Messent would be reporting back very favourably about her new member of staff.
At that moment, the phone Enya was carrying rang and she looked at the screen.
‘Oh, I have to take this,’ she said. ‘It’s the photographer.’
It was now Alice’s turn to eavesdrop on Enya’s conversation and it wasn’t long before she realised that Enya was talking to Charles Tavistock. She brought to mind the celebrity photographer, with his shaggy collar-length dark hair and ubiquitous leather trousers. He’d been around for years, and Alice had employed him on several occasions in the past. She couldn’t be sure, but she was pretty certain that he and Jinx had had a brief fling once.
She took the opportunity to study the photographs on the marble console table at the bottom of the staircase, looking at the array of tasteful silver frames. She noted a classically beautiful woman in most of them, Camille Messent, she assumed. The largest showed her with the French president, her lustrous chestnut hair styled falling over slim shoulders, a sheath dress of shimmering material hugging her enviably perfect figure. A tall man with dark hair stood on the other side of the president. He appeared in the next photograph too. This must be Camille’s husband, Alex Messent, Alice thought, picking up the photograph to stare more closely at his inscrutable gaze. As someone who had never looked good in photographs, she was always intrigued by people who had cultivated a ‘photo face’, like Alex Messent clearly had. The kind of neutral look that seemed the same in every shot and one that gave no clue as to his mood or temperament. But he was undeniably good-looking, with fine, Gallic, symmetrical features, but … Alice peered in closer, was that a dimple in his chin?
Enya now came and stood beside her, clutching the phone. She shimmied in between Alice and the table so that Alice had to step away, placing the photo back down.
‘That must be Monsieur Messent,’ Alice said. ‘And Laura? The daughter?’
‘She’s upstairs. Actually, Miss Beeton, I must go and check on her. I really don’t have time to stop for a coffee …’
‘Oh, of course. I didn’t mean to disrupt your morning. You’re clearly busy.’
‘I am,’ Enya said, relieved. She moved the photograph back to where it had been in its previous position, adjusting it just so.
She held out her hand for Alice to guide her back towards the front door. The perfect etiquette for getting rid of unwanted visitors. Alice couldn’t have done better herself.
‘I appreciate you coming,’ Enya said, as they got to the door, ‘but really, everything is fine. There’s no need to worry.’
‘Do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,’ Alice offered, warmed by Enya’s charming smile. She really had such a lovely manner.
‘Of course.’
A second later, Alice was out through the front door, which closed abruptly. She could hear Enya walking away quickly back inside the house.
Smoothing down her jacket, Alice put on her gloves. ‘Just as it should be,’ she said to herself, ‘she’s perfect after all.’