Page 84 of The Housekeeper's Secret

And there it was.

Henderson’s checkmate.

‘She didn’t.’ It felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. ‘This has nothing to do with her.’

‘Of course not. I won’t ask how you managed to procure them.’

Smirking, Henderson went across to the fireplace and picked up an Indian silver box from the table beside it. He removed a cigarette and tapped it on the mantelpiece. The flame of his lighter briefly illuminated his face: leering and hard, like Mr Punch. Or the devil himself, with his black pointed beard.

‘I imagine…’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘that she still thinks it’s pure chance a handsome footman appeared at Coldwell from nowhere and… just happened to fall for the housekeeper…’ His laugh was a sneer. ‘And fell so completely that he was willing to flout all the rules and risk his position for a thrilling fumble in the linen cupboard…’

Henderson took a leisurely drag of his cigarette, leaning a shoulder against the mantelpiece with exaggerated ease. Jem felt sick. Stunned into immobility, like a rabbit cornered by a dog.

‘You’ve played a good hand, Arden, I’ll give you that. Got yourself a nice place here, haven’t you? Decent job, and a piece of skirt that’s a real cut above the scullery skivvies you must be used to. Older, of course,’ he qualified, with a wave of his cigarette, ‘but that means she knows what she’s doing. Those grasping young girls are always such a disappointment. I bet she’s quite the wildcat beneath that stern housekeeper’s dress. I assume you know that she’s married?’

The question came from nowhere and caught Jem off guard. Just in time he recognised it as a test. A trap to incriminate Kate.

‘All housekeepers are called Mrs,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s a courtesy title.’

‘So you didn’t know?’ Henderson looked smug. ‘I must say I was rather stunned myself when Miss Dunn let that gem of information slip.’ He laughed, almost fondly. ‘It’s surprising how quickly a drop of vodka in the fruit cup loosens the tongue of a lifelong abstainer. Anyway, small world, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not so remarkable that so many friends and associates of Sir Randolph just happened to be dining at the Savoy on the day of the wedding—between you and me, he did put the word about that a bit of male company would be welcome. But for one of those associates to be the erstwhile husband of our own Mrs Furniss, and for Miss Dunn to recognise him…!’ He shook his head in a great show of amazement. ‘A small world indeed.’

Jem was barely listening. His brain, stalled by shock, was now whirring, trying to catch up. From along the passage he heard the kitchen clock strike—four times? Five? It wouldn’t be too long before Susan came down to put the water on. The night was slipping away, spinning out of his control. He needed to work out what to do. What his options were.

Did he still have options?

‘So, it seems our mysterious Mrs Furniss has a past,’ Henderson was saying. ‘And a husband. Who is still very much present.’

Jem wasn’t sure what Henderson was planning. He couldn’t tell which direction the decisive blow was going to come from, or what form it would take. He only knew that it would come.

‘Alec Ross—that’s the fellow’s name.’ Henderson flicked ash into the fireplace. ‘With a bit of lubrication, Miss Dunn had a lot to say about him and his unsavoury past. He and Sir Randolph have a mutual interest in gaming—cards and so on, and frequent the same… sporting clubs in London.’

He paused to pull on his cigarette. The bastard was enjoying himself, Jem thought. Loving the power he held. ‘Ross has a reputation for being a fearless adversary,’ he continued. ‘A ruthless man, not to be crossed. Loss can do that to a person, can’t it? He plays for high stakes, and the rumour is that he has some rather unsavoury connections. Friends in low places, you might say. I suspect he’d be very grateful to the man who could give him information that would reunite him with his estranged wife.’

Jem remembered the summer night, upstairs in the garden passage. The punch that had come from nowhere, hard enough to knock him off balance.

He felt like that now.

‘You wouldn’t,’ he croaked.

Henderson laughed. ‘If it suited me, why not?’ Frowning slightly, he picked a strand of tobacco off his tongue, which glistened pinkly against his beard. ‘But, unlike some, I take the responsibilities of my position very seriously. My duty is to Sir Randolph, and I put his interests first. Which is why I’m going to make you a deal, Arden.’

Placing the cigarette carefully between his lips he inhaled, then blew a column of smoke out of the side of his mouth. Jem waited, fighting nausea.

‘I’ll keep the secret. The lovely Mrs Furniss will be safe here. I will take personal responsibility for her protection and do all I can to ensure Ross is never invited to Coldwell… if you leave, tonight. Now. Without a word.’

Jem’s head reeled. He thought of Kate, asleep in the bed where he had left her; waking up and realising he wasn’t there. He thought of her pressed against the wall of the basement stairs on the day of the coronation, trembling and sobbing in his arms. He’s not the sort of man to let things go…

‘And, to be perfectly clear, you stay away,’ Henderson went on, his tone hardening as he jabbed his cigarette in Jem’s direction. ‘Disappear, and keep your sordid accusations and ridiculous theories to yourself, and Mrs Furniss can remain here in the peace and security she has always enjoyed; the respectable housekeeper of a respectable house. Do you understand?’

Jem wanted to tell him exactly what to do with his deal. He wanted to push past him and run upstairs to the attic where Kate was sleeping, and gather her up and take her with him. He didn’t give a toss about leaving this miserable house, but it killed him to go without her. Yet how could he ask her to come with him when he had nowhere to go? No future to offer her, not even the last quarter’s pay.

‘You bastard,’ he whispered.

Henderson laughed. ‘I’ll take that as your charming way of saying, “Yes, Mr Henderson, sir, I do understand. Thank you for being so… gentlemanly.”’

There was a noise in Jem’s head. A sort of muffled roar. Above it his own voice sounded distant.

‘I’ll get my things.’

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