Page 11 of The Missing Maid
‘It is,’ the woman said, and she frowned a little as she considered Harry more closely. ‘I’m his wife. Is there something wrong – a problem in the park?’
‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Harry reassured her. She held up the letter. ‘I just wanted to ask him a few questions about an incident he witnessed some time ago, that’s all.’
Mrs Blunt’s wariness increased. ‘Are you a solicitor?’
The suggestion caught Harry by surprise. During the war, plenty of women had filled jobs previously undertaken by men and now they often worked side by side. But she wasn’t sure she knew any female solicitors. That seemed to be a profession that was still overwhelmingly dominated by men. ‘No,’ she told Mrs Blunt. ‘I’m not a solicitor. I’m looking for a friend who went missing in Mayfair. I understand Mr Blunt might have seen her.’
‘Oh,’ the woman said, and Harry saw the light dawn in her eyes. ‘Well, he’s about to go to work, as it happens. Maybe he’ll have time to talk to you first. Wait here.’
She closed the door. Harry waited, listening to the faint murmur of voices drifting through the open window. At length, the door reopened and a tall, slender man in a smart black uniform that reminded her in no small measure of a police constable, peered out at her. ‘What is it you want?’
Harry held up the envelope Esme had given her. ‘Mr Blunt? I’m here about your letter to Mr and Mrs Longstaff, of Foxley village.’
‘Oh yes?’ he said, displaying mild irritation. ‘What about it? I spoke to Longstaff already, told him what I saw.’
‘I know,’ Harry said apologetically. ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t want to believe his daughter could be a thief.’
‘And you do, I suppose?’ the man asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Harry said, with total honesty. ‘But I’m a friend of the family and I’d like to hear your story. Have you got a few minutes to tell me what happened?’
Mr Blunt huffed and Harry expected him to refuse. ‘I’m going to work now. You’ll have to walk with me.’
Harry found herself grateful the weather forecast on the wireless that morning appeared to be wrong; there were clouds overhead but it was not yet raining. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Lead on.’
‘Like I told Longstaff, it was late in the evening,’ Mr Blunt said, as Harry fell into step beside him. ‘Dusk was falling so I had my eyes peeled for trouble. I heard shouting, went to investigate and saw a young woman struggling with a man. At first I thought she—’ He stopped and glanced at Harry. ‘Never mind what I thought at first. As I got nearer, I realised he was accusing her of robbing him. She was screaming that she’d done no such thing. Then she saw me and that was that – she was off like a hare.’
All of which matched what the Longstaffs had told her, Harry thought. ‘What made you think it was Mildred Longstaff you saw?’
The park keeper shrugged. ‘The advert in the newspaper said she was eighteen and had gone missing in the vicinity of Farm Street. The young woman I saw was the right age, and she was in the right place at the right time. Seemed like it might be her.’
Harry nodded, almost to herself. Was it possible Mildred was not as innocent as her family wanted to believe? ‘So you contacted the Longstaff family – what then?’
‘I told them what I saw, gave them a description and all that. At first, they were excited – their girl had red hair too, although that wasn’t in the advert.’ Mr Blunt paused to shoo some children out of a flower bed and then resumed his story. ‘And then I told them she was a thief and they got all shirty. Said it couldn’t have been their girl.’
‘What about the man she was arguing with?’ Harry asked. ‘Did he want to make a complaint?’
‘No point,’ Mr Blunt said pragmatically. ‘The girl had vanished – no sign of her. I wrote it up in a report, in case any of my colleagues ran into her around the park but she hasn’t been back.’
Or no one had seen her if she had, Harry thought but did not say. ‘Did you get the victim’s name?’
A faint smile flickered over the park keeper’s face. ‘Oh yes. It was Mr Lake, would you believe? You meet a fair few Mr Lakes in the darker corners of an evening. One or two Mr Flowers to break up the monotony. I met a Mr Bench, once.’
He was so determined to avoid revealing the reason these men might be in the park at night, unwilling to give their real names, that Harry wasn’t sure whether to feel patronised or protected. She forced herself to remember why she was there. ‘And you never saw the girl again? She never came back?’
‘Not that I’ve seen,’ Mr Blunt said. ‘I think she was scared off.’
Which was perfectly possible too, Harry decided with growing unease. ‘Perhaps you could let Mr Longstaff know if she does,’ she said.
‘I already told him I would,’ the park keeper responded. ‘But he said not to worry. It wasn’t his daughter, you see.’
Recalling his steadfast refusal to accept Mildred had done anything wrong, Harry could easily imagine Mr Longstaff’s vehemence. ‘Thank you for talking to me,’ she said to Mr Blunt. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
It didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself as she walked back to her apartment. She could not match the brilliant reasoning of Sherlock Holmes but she could attempt to follow in Mildred’s footsteps. With this in mind, she spent the rest of her Saturday morning considering the best way to approach Mrs Haverford’s Bureau of Excellence. The obvious thing would be to continue the story she’d cooked up for Dobbins – that she was desperate to find a reliable and trustworthy lady’s maid –but that would not give her a plausible reason to ask specifically about Mildred. If the agency had been responsible for placing her with the Finchems then it was very likely a sore subject and not one that Mrs Haverford would enjoy being raised. Harry was also reminded of the need to conceal her identity. She was taking a terrible risk by investigating at all – if she was discovered it would be at the cost of her job and who knew what else. Her alter-ego of R.K.Moss might also lead back to the bank, via the Longstaffs. What she needed was a disguise, one that would allow her to glean the information she sought without raising suspicion.
After standing for several thoughtful minutes in front of her wardrobe, Harry packed an overnight bag and took the Saturday afternoon train to Surrey, where her grandmother was only too delighted to accept her help in sorting through bags of old clothing to go to the needy. And, after some wrestling with her conscience, Harry telephoned Mr Babbage on Monday morning to regretfully let him know that she was afflicted by a terrible headache and would not be at work that day. Then she dressed herself in the serviceable but worn skirt and jacket she had borrowed from her grandmother’s charity bags, darkened her golden curls with brown boot polish and scraped them into a bun covered by a dowdy hat, and tried not to grimace as she pulled on a pair of worn-down shoes.
Her aunt had once told her much could be inferred from a person’s footwear and Harry didn’t want to ruin her disguise by wearing shoes that were too well made and unscuffed. Lastly, she used make-up to create subtle dark circles beneath her eyes and hollows in her cheeks. When she surveyed the overall effect in the long mirror, she found herself pleasantly surprised by how different she looked. It wouldn’t fool anyone who knew her well – there was nothing she could do to change the colour of her eyes, unfortunately – but she was confident of fooling a casualobserver. In short, she looked like hundreds of other young women who came to London in search of employment and while she couldn’t claim it was the kind of masterful disguise worthy of Sherlock Holmes, it wasn’t bad for a first attempt. It would do for Mrs Haverford; she didn’t actually want to acquire a job, after all.
