Read sample A Murder in Mayfair

Chapter One

“This is not the time to be coming back here,” grumbled Verity in my ear, as the car negotiated the packed streets of London. From our seat in the front sitting beside Andrew, the chauffeur, we could see everything; the crowds jostling on the pavement in the September sunshine; the tall buildings — such a contrast to the cosy little cottages we had been used to down in the West Country; the bustle and hum of the capital city, thrumming along as it always had.

“Dorothy wanted to return, so, here we are.” I said it somewhat redundantly, knowing full well that Verity, Dorothy’s lady’s maid, was au fait with her mistress’s whims and wants.

“But why now?” Verity groaned and flung herself back against the leather of the seat. We both looked back, towards the interior of the car. Dorothy sat on the back seat, one delicate elbow on the open window, her face both eager and wistful as she contemplated the busy streets.

Verity removed her hat and ran her hand through her hair. “God, that’s better. It’s just too hot.”

I was tempted to do the same, but I was less able to be impulsive than Verity. I compromised by tipping back my own hat, letting the warm, sooty air hit my sweaty face.

Andrew cursed as another car swerved into his path, forcing him to apply the brakes sharply. Verity and I both squealed as we were thrown forward.

“Andrew!”

He glanced over at me, looking annoyed. “I’m doing my best, Joan.” He glanced into the rear-view mirror. “Sorry — sorry, my lady.”

Following his gaze, I could see Dorothy waving a languid hand. She was a good mistress, to be sure; not fussy and overbearing like some I’d worked for. Of course, we’d been through a lot together — that made a difference. We’d all worked for her for years now.

We’re almost family. It was an odd thought to have about an employer, but I’d felt it before, and nothing had changed.

“You’re no longer used to London traffic, Andrew,” said Verity, with a grin.

“Well, who can blame me? Stuck down there in that village for a year. One pub full of bloody, straw-chewing yokels…” Andrew snorted and hauled at the wheel to bring us into the turning lane for Kensington. “At least now I might finally get to have some fun.”

“Of course you will,” soothed Verity. “Just think of all those dance halls — all those little skivvies and secretaries just waiting for a big handsome beau like you—”

I giggled. Andrew laughed, but with an edge of heartfelt agreement in the sound.

Eventually, the car drew up outside the townhouse on Kempton Street. I’d always thought it looked just like a wedding cake, a tall, thin, wedding cake, iced in smooth white paint with many pillars. Four storeys — no, I’d forgotten, five, if you included the basement, which I most certainly did, given that I did most of my work down there. It would probably be quite pleasantly cool in this heat. Black-painted, sharp-tipped railings pointed like spears towards the sky. There was a gate that led down to the paved courtyard, with the door that led into the kitchen. As Andrew got out to hand his employer onto the pavement, I wondered whether I would have to work tonight. But, knowing the head cook, Mrs Watling, she would no doubt have everything under control.

Dorothy vanished through the front door, her white skirt flowing behind her like a victory flag. Perhaps that was an apt thought. She’d worked so hard on herself over the past year that she deserved a happy return to the house she loved the most.  As Andrew and Verity carried in the luggage, sweating and breathless in the heat, I thought about Merisham Lodge, the house in which I’d first been employed by the family. Despite the heat of the day, I felt a chill at the thought of what had happened there.

Enough of that. I put my shoulders back and opened the gate to the basement stairs. I was glad to descend to the kitchen, the familiarity of my surroundings very comforting. Mrs Watling was darting about the room in her usual vigorous manner, the warmth of the afternoon apparently in no way impeding her.

“Joan! My dear, you’re back. How nice to see you.” She smiled at me, and I could tell she was being truthful. It had been several months since I’d seen her, given our lengthy sojourn in the country. There, I’d been the head cook and here, I was demoted back to kitchen maid but, to be honest, I wasn’t very bothered about this. I’d found higher wages meant longer days and more responsibility. No, I’d be happy to settle back into domestic service in London, knowing that Mrs Watling had ultimate responsibility for the kitchen.

“How are you, Mrs Watling?”

“Never better for seeing you, my dear. It seems like years… How is Madam?”

Dorothy had spent the last eleven months of the year at a sanatorium, for ‘her nerves’. Or at least, that was the story given to the servants. In truth, she had been recovering from a severe period of dipsomania.

I filled in Mrs Watling as best as I tactfully could, fetching the biggest tea pot down from the dresser, and filling it with water from the kettle that lived permanently on the range.

“Oh, good girl.” Mrs Watling drank tea like she breathed in oxygen. Mind you, I was almost as bad. And to hell with the hot weather — a good cup of tea was always welcome.

We sat down at the kitchen table to savour our drinks. There was a lot to catch up on. Dorothy had left her most senior servants to oversee the London house when she took Verity, Andrew and I down to the country. I realised then I was pleased to be back, despite the hard work facing me. The countryside is beautiful, but it can be somewhat dull. Andrew’s comments in the car reoccurred to me. At least now I might finally get to have some fun.

Well, now we all would (except not too much fun in Dorothy’s case, I hoped). Verity and I were young girls — we deserved a bit of fun, surely — especially after all the drama of the last few years. Pleasurably, I let myself imagine walks by the Serpentine, evenings at the theatre and the music halls, tea and cake at the corner houses…

Besides, there was another reason to be pleased to be back in the Smoke. I didn’t allow myself to dwell on this thought — there would be time enough later, to think about Inspector Marks.

“Do you need any help with dinner tonight?”

“All under control, my dear.” I smiled to myself inwardly, my earlier thoughts confirmed. Mrs Watling was nothing if not efficient. “It’ll be a cold collation in this heat, besides.” She got up and rinsed her teacup, inverting it on the draining rack by the butler sink. “Did Madam mention anything about any entertainment plans for the week?”

“You’ll need Verity for that.” Just as I said the words, Verity herself walked into the kitchen. She looked cooler, having divested herself of hat, coat and gloves.

“Who’s taking my name in vain?”

“Verity, my dear. How nice to have the two of you back.” For a moment, I thought Mrs Watling was going to kiss her, but she obviously thought better of it. “How was the countryside? Joan’s told me a little but how is Madam?”

I left the two of them gassing away and climbed the stairs to my room. One of the things I loved about this house was that there was just one set of stairs. No servants’ stairs, stashed away behind hidden doors, as if we were some sort of dirty secret — the dirty secrets ensuring that the house functioned properly.

I loved my room too. Verity and I had shared a room for years but, having been allocated separate rooms in our country life, it seemed normal now to have our own private spaces. I sat down on the edge of the bed, easing the shoes from my heels. The room was very plain so far, but I had plans. I’d seen how lovely Verity had made her bedroom at Hidden House and planned to do similar things to this little attic room, just for me.

Hidden House. I frowned. There were a lot of bad memories to be left behind in the country. Things would be different now. I got up from the bed and went to the dressing table. The new tweeny — I wasn’t yet sure of her name — had filled up the enamel bowl. I splashed my face, relishing the feel of the cool water.

Andrew had left my suitcase on the chair by the bed. It didn’t take me too long to unpack, although longer than it had before in other positions. I owned more now. That thought came with its own little glow of satisfaction.

I realised, apart from the washing up and the preparation of tomorrow’s meals, I had something of a free evening. Shame I was so tired I didn’t fancy anything more strenuous than another cup of tea and a good read of my book. Book — the thought sparked a memory, and I glanced up at the empty suitcase that I’d deposited on the top of my wardrobe. My own book — my script — had been sent to Tommy, Verity’s uncle, a theatre actor. He’d promised to pass it onto his director, and to anyone else in the theatrical world who might be interested in reading it.

That was something too big and too exciting to think about for too long. Even the thought of Inspector Marks didn’t come close. I took a deep breath, splashed my face again with water and dabbed it dry with the worn towel hanging on the peg by the nightstand.

When I arrived back in the kitchen, Verity and Mrs Watling were pouring yet another cup of tea. I pushed my own cup forward, just as a knock sounded at the door.

I pushed myself to my feet, slotting back effortlessly into my subordinate role. The boy at the door was a young boy of about twelve. He looked like one of the local street urchins in demeanour and clothing, but I didn’t recognise him.

“Got a letter for Miss Verity ‘Unter,” he said, waving a sealed envelope.

I took it from him. From past experience, I imagined it was a note from Verity’s uncle Tommy.

“Give him a penny, Joan,” said Mrs Watling, gesturing to the penny jar that lived on the top of the dresser. I did so and he took to his heels with alacrity.

“Do you think it’s from Tommy?” I asked Verity as I handed it over, feeling a small glow at the thought. I liked Tommy very much. It then occurred to me, with a jump of excitement, that if it was, perhaps he had news of my play.

“For goodness’ sake, Joanie, I can’t see through paper, can I? Could you hand me that knife?”

I did so and she neatly slit the envelope and extracted the letter within. I saw her gaze move quickly over the words on the paper. And then she frowned. 

Chapter Two

“Verity?” I asked, after she’d been quiet for several minutes, reading her letter. Mrs Watling, unaffected by the tension I felt, had drained her cup once more and began preparing dinner. The little tweeny came in, bobbed a nervous curtsey at me, and begun chopping onions. Her name, apparently, was Alice. The acrid reek of the onions drifted across from the counter and I wrinkled my nose.

Verity sighed and put her letter down on the table. “Sorry, Joan?”

“Is it — is it bad news?” I felt a thump in my stomach at the thought of anything happening to Tommy. A second later, I thought perhaps they don’t like my play.

“Well—”

“Is it from Tommy?” At least I could tell myself that I was more worried about Tommy’s health than my play, if only by a few moments.

Verity took up the letter again, twisting it in her hand. I could see it was written on quality paper, thick and creamy vellum.

“What?”

“Is it from Tommy?” I repeated.

Verity frowned again. “No, no, not from him.” I could see her biting her lip. “Hang on, Joan, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

With no more comment, she left the room with her letter. Now it was my turn to frown. But I wasn’t given much time to think about it as Mrs Watling was calling for my help with the meal. So much for a night off…

As it turned out, it wasn’t a particularly onerous meal. Alice had made an onion soup, quite competently — she was turning out to be more useful than our previous tweeny, Doris. There was cold cooked chicken, ham and tongue. I’d made a pickle with some finely sliced onions and radishes, soaked in salted water and vinegar. There was a salad; rounds of cucumber, skin sloughed away in limp green ribbons to reveal the cool watery flesh beneath, with ripe sliced tomatoes. Finally, an apple tart eaten cold with cream which Mrs Watling had already prepared. The servants had much the same. It was a relief to eat something nice and light in the heat.

By this time, I’d forgotten all about Verity’s letter. It came as a surprise to me, as Alice and I were washing up, that she reappeared in the kitchen and caught my eye, inclining her head toward the door.

“You finish this up, Alice,” I said, hastily, bundling my apron over my head. Oh, the joys of having a little power… Alice, to her credit, didn’t protest.

“Come up to my room,” said Verity, as I joined her in the corridor.

“What about Dorothy?”

“It’s fine, she’s having an early night. I’ve just run her bath for her, she won’t want me for an hour or so.”

We climbed the stairs and settled ourselves into Verity’s room. I looked about me in satisfaction. There was a tiny, seed-shaped white vase holding a single pink rosebud on the dressing table. The counterpane Verity had once made, embroidered with myriad flowers and twining vines and leaves was spread over her bed. A padded pink silk cushion (which must have been a present from Dorothy) completed the look.

“It’s so lovely, V. You’ll have to help me make mine more glamourous.”

“Hmm.” I could tell she wasn’t listening to me. “Sit down for a moment.” As I did, she handed me the letter she’d received that afternoon. “It’s from a girl I once worked with, when I was with Lord Cartwright.”

“Lord Cartwright?”

Lord Cartwright had been the owner of Merisham Lodge, where I had first encountered him (unfortunately). Verity had worked with him before for several years, at one of his London properties, a townhouse not unlike this.

I thought back to our time at Merisham Lodge and the other maidservants we’d met then. “Is it from—” The name escaped me from a moment. “Gladys?”

Verity shook her head. “No, no. Somebody quite different. Theda Samuels.”

I had never heard the name before. “Theodora?”

“Theda. Anyway, just have a read and tell me what you think.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning her before.”

Verity shrugged. “You know how it is, Joan. You lose touch with people. Anyway, have a read.”

Obediently, I bent my head and read.

I read it through. I read it twice. Then I put the letter down and looked at Verity.

“What on earth?”

Verity sat next to me on the bed and took back the letter. “I know.”

“What do you think she means by terrible trouble?” I thought back to one of our fellow housemaids at Merisham Lodge and the trouble she’d found herself in. “Not like — like Nora?” I remembered Nora, a pretty but dangerously naïve girl. She’d moved back to her home village in Wales after losing her position, and we’d lost touch. As Verity had just pointed out, it was so easy to lose people. Briefly, I wondered what Nora was doing now and how she was.

Verity shook her head. “I don’t think so. Theda was always — well, you always had the impression she could take care of herself. So, I don’t think it could be that.” She was silent a moment, staring across the room. “I have a feeling it might be a bit more serious than that.”

“What do you mean?”

We exchanged glances. I plucked the letter back from Verity and skimmed it again. It occurred to me that Theda Samuels could write very well, for a servant.

“Who is this Sir Jacob McMullen? Her employer?”

Verity shrugged. “No idea, Joanie.”

I’d never heard of him either. My gaze dropped to the letter again and a phrase caught my eye. I’m sure you must have heard of him, or at least what happened to him as it has been in all the papers.

I jumped up. “Let’s see if we can find the papers for this week. Mrs Anstells doesn’t throw them out, does she? She keeps them for kindling.”

Verity concurred with this, and she knew where they were kept. We crept back downstairs to the kitchen once more, which was empty.

“Through here,” said Verity, leading me to the porch that led to the little paved square and tiny, neat garden at the back of the house. There was a sideboard against the wall, and she opened it, bringing out a box piled with neatly folded newspapers. “I’ll take the whole thing.”

We carried it up the stairs and went back to Verity’s room. The next few minutes were spent in perusal of the most recent of the papers. It only took a moment to see the blaring headlines.

Verity and I read on, silently. The ‘tycoon’ — he was apparently something big in shipping, according to The Times — had been found with his head bashed in, in his drawing room in his Mayfair house, a mere week ago. Police were pursuing several leads. (I wondered whether Inspector Marks was involved). There were no suspects as yet.

Then Verity and I both came to the end of the report.

Chapter Three

Sober as she may well have been, Dorothy wasted no time in plunging back into the London social scene. The very next morning she came down to the kitchen, where we were cleaning up after breakfast, to consult Mrs Watling about a dinner party she wished to give that very night.

“Just a small gathering, a few close friends.” Dorothy handed over a few notebook pages to me, obviously forgetting that I was no longer the head cook. Quickly, I handed them onto Mrs Watling.

Mrs Watling regarded them. “This should be no problem at all, Madam. Oysters may be a little tricky given the heat, but we’ll do our very best.”

“Thank you, Mrs Watling.” Dorothy pulled her silver cigarette case from the pocket of her house pyjamas, caught sight of Mrs Watling’s face and clearly thought better of it. I bit back a giggle. “I envisage an eight o’clock start. That will do, won’t it?”

“Very well, my lady.”

Dorothy wafted from the room. Mrs Watling went to telephone the tradesmen for the day’s orders while Alice and I carried on with the clearing up.

Verity walked into the kitchen and I smiled, eager to talk to her, especially about the letter we’d pondered last night. She gave me the world’s smallest shake of the head and I soon saw why — Mrs Anstells was right behind her.

“Ah, Joan, we’ll have company tonight, as I’m sure you’re aware. I want both you and Alice to wait at table.”

“Yes, Mrs Anstells.” Inwardly, I cursed like a navvy. There was my evening gone… Still, I supposed it wouldn’t be too onerous. Alice would be there as well, as well as our parlourmaid Nancy, and only a small gathering to serve. Mind you, I always did think Dorothy had an absurd number of servants for one woman. We would manage.

The day rolled on. Various boys arrived with the food for the evening’s party. Alice and I were kept busy putting everything away, preparing for the meal, slotting all the perishables into the refrigerator (what a blessing this was) and looking out all the good china and glassware.

At seven o’clock, I went up to the dining room to see that everything was ready. Verity was already there, arranging a vase of roses on the dining table.

“Nothing’s set out yet,” I hissed, darting towards the table.

“Calm down, Joanie, it’s not a formal meal.” Verity tweaked one red rose and positioned the glass vase on the table.

“What?”

“I mean, it’s going to be a buffet. Everyone helps themselves.”

“A what?” I was flabbergasted.

“You know. You and Alice put out the food on the sideboard and everyone helps themselves.” Verity gave me a grin. “It’s a continental thing, apparently. All the rage.”

“Oh.” It all sounded very strange to me, but it would at least mean not standing about like a noodle, hands crossed and head down, waiting to be summoned. I always hated that.

The guests began to arrive. There was a young, handsome gentleman whose name I didn’t catch, as I was hurrying down the stairs for more napkins as Mrs Anstells announced him. The next guests were an older couple, Mr and Mrs Delacroix, who were dressed very glamorously.

Mr Fenwick the butler had finally retired, and Dorothy had not replaced him. It was Mrs Anstell’s responsibility now to deal with the wine cellar and the cocktail cabinet, although due to Dorothy’s newfound sobriety, this was less onerous a duty than it once would have been. She still had me mix up several jugs of cocktails for her guests, and I rotated about the room, pouring them as needed. As I did so, I thought about the changing manner of service. Things were changing. We had more freedom, more choice; the chance to find another sort of work if we wanted. Not that I was in a hurry for another job. Briefly, I thought of my play. The sheer enjoyment I’d found, of building stories, of creating characters, of putting things down on paper. And of letters too; I loved writing and receiving letters, communicating my life to others and hearing about theirs. Verity and I had been great letter writers when we’d been parted.

During the bustle of the day, I’d almost forgotten the letter Verity’s friend had written to her. Theda — it was a strange name. Like the Hollywood star, Theda Bara. Verity had once told me that the actress’s name had been completely made up, an anagram of Arab Death. Fanciful!

Once Alice and I had made sure all the food had been laid out on the sideboard and the guests had their drinks, we were able to go back down to the kitchen. I left Alice preparing the desserts and dashed upstairs, hoping to find Verity.

She was preparing Dorothy’s room as she did every day, tidying, dusting, opening the windows to let in the muggy London air. She looked up from straightening the silk counterpane on the bed.

“How goes it, Joanie? Is something the matter?”

“I just wanted to talk to you about that letter from your friend, Theda.”

“Oh that.” Verity straightened up from the bed and plucked it from the pocket on her blouse. “Funny, I was just thinking of coming to find you to talk about it.” She gave me a grin. “We’re obviously mind readers, Joan.”

I took the letter from her and read it again. “What do you think we should do?”

Verity returned a tweed suit to the wardrobe and shut the door. “I think we should talk to her. She’s not a close friend, not like you, but she was a friend when I worked with her.” She regarded the room with her hands on her hips, turning in a small circle and giving a nod of satisfaction. “Are you off tomorrow afternoon?”

I was. “Yes, if nothing unexpected comes up.”

“I’ll telephone her, tell her we can meet her. Mayfair’s not that far from here.”

“I think we should.” Despite the horrible circumstances which Theda had communicated to us, I felt a little tug of excitement at the thought of another — well, case, to investigate. But it probably wouldn’t be anything like that — just a frightened girl who needed some support.

Verity twitched the velvet curtains over the window to keep out the rays of the sun. “Come on, Joanie, I need a cup of tea.”

“Me too. Come down to the kitchen.”

Leaving the peaceful, beautiful room behind us, we hurried down the stairs.