Page 1 of The Missing Maid
1
When Harry White looked back, many years later, she supposed she owed almost all of her incredible adventures to the unlikeliest of people – a Mr Simeon Pemberton, Assistant Manager (London and Middlesex) of the Abbey Road Building Society on Baker Street in London. Had he not formed a most inappropriate, not to say entirely unprofessional, attachment to her while she worked as his personal secretary, Harry might never have read the letter that set her on the exhilarating yet perilous path that would shape the rest of her life. Not that Mr Pemberton had any idea how profoundly his petty revenge would affect her, of course. He had only meant to seduce her, with scant regard for her feelings in the matter, or those of his poor wife, and his incredulous outrage when she had rebuffed his advances had hardened into malice and led him to exact the only punishment possible.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a departmental reshuffle, Miss White,’ he said, thin lips unsmiling beneath the bottle-brush moustache that Harry knew he took excessive care to groom each morning. His pouchy eyes glittered with unspokenresentment as he regarded her across the vast mahogany desk. ‘As a result, your services are no longer required.’
She stared at him, indignation and shock momentarily threatening her impeccable self-control. He couldn’t sack her – she had always been a model employee and surely a sudden termination would raise eyebrows in other departments of the bank, leading to awkwardness she was sure he would prefer to avoid. And while she was certain Mr Pemberton had no idea of her true status in life, or her family connections, he must have observed that she was not quite like the other young ladies who worked for the Abbey Road Building Society; along with an air of quiet competence, she exuded a genteel self-assurance that hinted at steel beneath her porcelain-doll features. It was probably what had caught his eye in the first place and it gave her a small measure of comfort now. No, she decided as her heart rate returned to normal, he couldn’t mean to sack her.
Smoothing the herringbone pattern of her soft wool skirt, Harry folded her hands in her lap and took refuge in glacial politeness. ‘I see.’
‘Fortunately, I’ve been able to locate a vacant position in another department,’ Mr Pemberton went on. ‘A back-room role that requires no understanding of the banking business. I believe it will suit your abilities perfectly. You are to start this morning – immediately, in fact.’
It was barely nine o’clock. He hadn’t even allowed her to remove her hat before summoning her to his office, much less pick up any of the work she’d left unfinished the previous day. ‘I see,’ she said again. ‘There are a number of tasks I should complete?—’
‘Immediately, Miss White,’ he cut in brusquely. ‘That means right away, since you seem unsure. The work you have left outstanding can be picked up by your replacement. She willalso send any sundry personal items or detritus to your new department.’
A glimmer of triumph played across his pudgy features and Harry knew he was daring her to take the bait, to give him a reason to do what he so clearly longed to. She was almost tempted – it wasn’t as though she needed to work after all – but she was blowed if she’d give him the satisfaction. Her family prided themselves on graciousness in the face of incivility; their family motto wasSUIS STAT VIRBUS – He stands by his own strength– and she had no intention of letting this odious creep of a man see that he had rattled her. There wasn’t much at her desk anyway, perhaps a peace lily and some rather fine Fortnum and Mason biscuits, an old pair of leather gloves that she could live without.
Summoning up a bland smile, Harry rose. ‘Of course, Mr Pemberton. If you’ll tell me which department, I’ll report there now.’
The crispness of his reply did nothing to disguise his evident self-satisfaction. ‘It’s the post room,’ he said, pushing a white envelope across the polished wooden surface of the desk until it rested within her reach. ‘You’ll find it in the basement. Ask for Babbage; he’ll show you where you are to work.’
It was another insult, calculated to elicit a reaction. The post room played a vital role in the everyday running of any banking institution but it was no place for a woman of education and refined manners. Harry had no doubt that Mr Pemberton expected her to throw her hands up in anger and alarm. ‘Of course,’ she said, taking the letter with steady fingers. ‘Thank you.’
Turning, she crossed the wood-panelled office, heels clicking on the parquet floor. Simeon Pemberton let her reach the door before he spoke again. ‘One final matter, Miss White. It may be that your new colleagues indulge in gossip and tittle-tattleabout other departments of the bank, but I would remind you that everything occurring within these walls remains highly confidential.’
It was possible he meant inside information about who might be defaulting on a loan or increasing a mortgage but Harry would never share details like that and besides, she couldn’t imagine many of the post room staff caring. No, Pemberton meant his lascivious eye and bumbling efforts to seduce her, she thought. He didn’t want any whispers about that to work their way around the gleaming new building, much less her emphatic rejection of his advances. She paused in the door frame and met his forbidding frown with a coolly raised eyebrow. ‘Understood, Mr Pemberton. You may be sure I will remain as professional as ever.’
Head held high, she closed the door and set off in search of her new office.
Neither the magnificent marble staircase in the entrance hall nor the gilt-edged elevator beside it serviced the post room. To reach the basement, Harry was obliged to make her way beyond the bustling, chandelier-lit showiness of the public areas and into the rear of the building, where the considerably less grand service lift conveyed her underground.
When the metal doors slid open, they revealed a brick-lined corridor illuminated by a row of light bulbs in the ceiling. The distant clang of machinery and cheerful raised voices floated towards her, and a curious aroma hung in the air, the oily tang of industry mingled with the scent of cigarettes and manual labour. Harry fought the urge to wrinkle her nose as she stepped out of the lift; it was a stark contrast to the hushed, flowerand furniture polish order of the offices upstairs and something of her determination to show Mr Pemberton that she would not be cowed wavered. But she hadn’t been raised to shy away from difficulty, even though she was well aware her life had not involved much struggle so far. Once again, she straightened her shoulders and went to find Mr Babbage.
The corridor opened into a wide rectangular room that was a maelstrom of noise and confusion. She stood for a moment, taking in the enormous, noisy contraption that dominated the centre of the room but whose exact purpose she couldn’t immediately define, the men in checked shirts with no jackets who scurried around it, the hustle and hullabaloo and fug of cigarette smoke that made the whole scene hazy. Most of all, she observed the total absence of female workers. And then one of the men noticed her.
He stood still and stared, mouth agape as though he had never seen a woman before. His sudden stillness caught the eye of the worker beside him, who also stopped moving to gawk. The raucous shouts began to die away and, before Harry could gather her wits enough to speak, every man was staring in a way that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.
‘Can we help you, miss?’ called one, stepping forward and removing his cap. ‘You ought not to be down here.’
Harry cleared her throat. ‘I’m looking for Mr Babbage. Is he available?’
Her accent, well-spoken and proper at the best of times, sounded shrill and horrendously misplaced above the thrum of the machinery. The spokesman frowned but turned to shout over one shoulder. ‘Mr Babbage, sir? There’s a – a lady what’s asking for you.’
The door of a side office opened and a stout, red-cheeked man came hurrying out. Harry was instantly reminded of a jolly garden gnome, the kind her aunt had gone crazy for the previoussummer and dotted around the gardens of Abinger Hall until it felt as though they were being overrun by cheery little men. He stopped short, goggling at the sight of Harry, then seemed to pull himself together. Eyebrows bristling, he hurried forward. ‘I’m Albert Babbage. What can I do for you?’
His tone wasn’t blunt but nor was it especially cordial. Nevertheless, Harry met the enquiry without flinching. ‘I’m to report to you for work.’
Mr Babbage gawped at her, astonishment written all over his florid features. ‘For work?Here?’
Uncomfortably aware of their audience, she nodded and took the envelope from her handbag. ‘Perhaps this will explain things.’
For a moment, Mr Babbage merely stared at the white oblong, then he seemed to recall where he was. He glanced furiously at the men around him. ‘Dunno what you’re all looking at,’ he snapped with sudden but palpable irritation. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’
As one, they busied themselves and Mr Babbage turned his attention back to Harry with a bemused expression. ‘You’d better step into my office,’ he said, indicating the door through which he’d just passed. It wasn’t until they were both seated, on opposite sides of a heavy oak desk, and he had given Harry another perplexed look, that Mr Babbage pulled out the letter and began to read. Harry took the opportunity to take in her surroundings – post room-themed pamphlets dotted the walls, some yellowed and torn with age, along with procedural posters and instructions. An open cabinet hung in one corner, revealing row after row of shining brass keys, each neatly tagged. A hefty set of weighing scales sat on a sideboard. Here, as in the main room and the corridor, Harry detected the oily bite of metal and machinery. Beneath it lay the ingrained odour of sweat and hard work, and perhaps a hint of tobacco.
With a surreptitious glance through the windows at the engine room beyond, Harry reminded herself that this was Simeon Pemberton’s attempt at revenge. She had to rise above it.
Mr Babbage looked up. ‘This won’t do, I’m afraid. It won’t do at all.’
