Page 24 of The Missing Maid
While researching the Forty Elephants, Harry had kept an eye out for old articles about burglaries in Mayfair – she had found no mention of the agency in any of the reports. Whatever Mrs Haverford was about, she was managing to stay under the radar of the authorities and the press.
Weary and hungry, Harry was about to close the last copy of theMorning Heraldwhen a name she recognised jumped out at her. It was another advert by a young woman seeking a maid’s position – a Beth Chamberlain. Harry stared at it for a moment, unable to believe her luck. She had given up on ever finding the young woman she had met in Mrs Haverford’s waiting room – it was clear she could never risk going back there – but it seemed providence had brought Beth to her. Listed at the bottom of the advert was an address in Camden Town.
Carefully, Harry copied the house number and name of the street into her notebook. Oliver had forbidden her from going under cover, and instructed her not to go back to Elephant and Castle, but he had not told her to stop investigating and it was just possible Beth had information that would help Mildred. As soon as Harry was able, she would take a trip to Camden and cross her fingers that Beth was there.
The telephone in Harry’s office was ringing. The sudden shrillness made her jump; the telephone never rang. In fact, she used it so rarely that it was kept on top of the filing cabinet instead of her desk. After staring at it for a few seconds, she got up to lift the receiver. ‘Miss White speaking. How may I help?’
There was the sound of a throat being cleared. ‘Ah, Miss White. It’s Mr Babbage here. Do you think… that is to say, would you mind coming down to the post room? There’s a matter we need to discuss.’
Harry’s heart thudded. He sounded uncharacteristically formal. ‘Of course. Right away?’
‘If you can manage it,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get Fergus to put the kettle on.’
This last sentence only increased Harry’s unease. She’d had little reason to visit the post room since starting her new position – Bobby delivered any new stationery or equipment she requisitioned – but there had never been any suggestion of refreshments when she had needed to venture into the basement. It must be serious if Mr Babbage was providing tea.
As always, the sounds and smells of the post room overwhelmed her as soon as the service lift opened and the sensory overload only increased as she got nearer the machines and men who kept the bank’s business flowing. One or two of them tipped their caps respectfully as she approached, others nodded and a couple stared at her in the same way they always did, as though she was a mythical creature that had appeared from nowhere. Harry picked her way around the edge of the room, avoiding the monstrous machine that whirred andclanked in the centre, and knocked on the door of Mr Babbage’s office.
He had not grown any less gnome-like in the months she had known him. His cheeks were ruddy, his beard neat and his waistcoat showed signs of strain around the middle. If he’d been carrying a fishing rod, Harry feared someone might pick him up and plant him beside their garden pond. But the cloth of his waistcoat was not the only thing about him that was tight at that moment – his smile was constricted too. ‘Come in. Take a seat.’
Harry did as he asked. A thick brown mug awaited her on the desk, gently steaming, and she knew without asking that Fergus, the post room’s youngest member, had made sure he gave her an unchipped cup. She didn’t reach for the tea, however. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and waited for Mr Babbage to sink into the chair opposite her. Then she fixed her employer with an enquiring gaze.
‘Well, now,’ he said, with an attempt at joviality that did nothing to reassure her. ‘How are things in the office of Mr Holmes? Behaving himself, is he?’
She managed a polite smile. ‘I have no complaints so far.’
‘Good, good,’ Mr Babbage said heartily. ‘You have everything you need?’
‘At present,’ Harry responded. She was still waiting for the additional filing cabinet she had requested but it didn’t seem like the right time to mention it.
Mr Babbage clapped his hands together and rubbed them. ‘Excellent, excellent.’ His gaze roamed the room, passing over the smudges of grime on the walls and the tattered papers and posters stuck to them, before returning to Harry. He coughed. ‘I’ll get to the point, Miss White. It’s come to my attention – that is to say it has beenbroughtto my attention – that your attitude towards your position here has been somewhat less than professional.’
Harry stared at him, feeling her face start to burn. He couldn’t know what she’d been doing. He couldn’t. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He blinked several times and tried again. ‘More specifically, it’s been observed that your timekeeping has been lax, Miss White.’ Mr Babbage glanced down at the desk in front of him, where a sheet of paper she recognised as an internal memo rested. ‘There was an occasion last week when you took an hour and forty-two minutes for lunch.’
So that was it. Harry could have laughed with relief. ‘I see. May I ask whether my work is otherwise in any way unsatisfactory?’
Mr Babbage spread his hands. ‘How would I know? I don’t have two sacks of unanswered letters any more so you must be doing something.’ He let out a heavy sigh. ‘Perhaps this is my fault – I’ve left you alone to get on with things too much. But it’s so busy down here and you seemed very capable. I thought I could trust you.’
His expression was so wretched that her heart went out to him. She had no doubt who had reported her extended lunch to him, although how Simeon Pemberton had learned about it she couldn’t say. He must have one of the doormen spying on her, she thought indignantly. But she couldn’t deny that she had been late, which had put Mr Babbage in an awkward situation and for that she was sorry. ‘You can trust me. I can’t deny the transgression you describe but I assure you it is the only time it has occurred. I am usually very punctual and I’m sorry I wasn’t on this occasion.’
‘Yes, but even so…’ He glanced down at the paper once again and his rosy cheeks became even more florid. ‘Was there a good reason for it? Were you unwell, for example?’
She hesitated, her mind racing through the possible answers. There were any number of fabrications she could invent and shewas sure he would accept them gladly. But she did not want to lie. ‘A friend met me in some distress – a young woman of my acquaintance – on the street outside the bank,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘I took her to a café to comfort her, then returned to work as soon as I was able.’
‘Perfectly understandable,’ he exclaimed, and she thought he might clap his hands again. ‘A most generous and compassionate action on your part. And is the young lady now well?’
Harry pictured Esme Longstaff, who was undoubtedly wracked with anxiety for her sister’s welfare, and crossed her fingers beneath the desk. ‘Much better than she was.’
‘Capital,’ Mr Babbage said, beaming at her. ‘I’ll make a note that I am satisfied with your explanation and that will do. It is a first offence, after all.’
Feeling her jangling nerves start to settle, Harry reached for the mug and took a long draught. It was good tea, strong and bitter and somehow more restorative when drunk from such a no-nonsense receptacle. ‘Thank you, Mr Babbage. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Is there anything more?’
Now it was his turn to hesitate. His smile faded as he regarded her. ‘Not as such, no. But perhaps a word of warning.’ He glanced through the window at the bustle of the main room. ‘I don’t know the circumstances behind you being sent down here and I’m not sure I want to. But clearly there’s more to the story than I’ve been told. In short, Miss White, someone with power is watching you and it appears he’s out for blood. I think you know who I mean.’
It was Mr Pemberton, of course, but Harry knew better than to confirm it. She waited, her eyes fixed on Mr Babbage as he went on. ‘We’re a tight-knit lot down here and we look out for each other but there’s only so much I can do against someonelike that.’ His troubled gaze met hers. ‘Try not to give him the means to hang you.’
Gratitude warmed her heart. Mr Babbage, Bobby and the men of the post room were a world away from the floral scents and hidden sneers of her previous colleagues and for that she was becoming very glad. ‘I’ll try,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you.’
