Page 13 of The Missing Maid
The girl shrugged. ‘Don’t be. Like I said, a pretty face goes a long way sometimes. Good luck.’
Aware that Lemon Drop was waiting, nevertheless Harry wavered. She wanted to know what Beth had been about to reveal but there was no way to ask now, not without drawing considerable attention to them both. She settled for a more innocent-sounding question. ‘Will you be here when I come out?’
‘Probably,’ Beth said, and winked. ‘Unless Mrs H lands me a plum job at the palace.’
Harry couldn’t help smiling. ‘Maybe I’ll see you then.’
There was a loud huff of impatience from the door. ‘When you’re quite ready.’
She did not dare dally any further. With another apologetic look at Beth, Harry crossed the room and followed the woman along the wood-panelled corridor to another office. This one had three additional doors in the walls opposite, all of which were closed. A long mahogany desk cut the room in two, behind which sat a grey-haired, bespectacled woman tapping briskly at a typewriter. She did not look up as Harry entered.
‘Take a seat,’ Lemon Drop instructed Harry, pointing to a row of four empty chairs opposite the desk. ‘I assume you can read and write?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said, perching on one of the chairs. The wooden seat was hard – she hoped she didn’t have to spend much time sitting on it.
The woman handed her a clipboard and a stubby pencil. ‘Fill this in. We need all the relevant particulars, including the name and address of your last employer. Give it to Margot here when you’re done.’
‘Thanks,’ Harry said, taking the clipboard. She glanced at the sheet of paper it held – apart from spaces for her own name and address, it required her hair and eye colour, and her height. ‘Why do you need to know all this?’
‘So we can check you are who you say you are.’ Lemon Drop smiled but there was no humour in her expression. ‘You wouldn’t believe the things some criminals will try to get through the door of a wealthy house.’
Harry almost asked how many young women were robbing houses but stopped herself just in time. Weren’t the papers full of reports about the daring, all-female gangs who were terrorising London’s streets? Perhaps that was who Lemon Drop was referring to but Harry didn’t get the chance to ask. With an impatient gesture at the clipboard, the woman left by the door she and Harry had just used, leaving Harry alone with Margot and the staccato clack-clack of her typewriter.
After a moment’s consideration, Harry began to write, taking care to disguise her elegant cursive handwriting as much as she could. She listed her home as 12 Sophie Street, Poplar – a slum she had recently read about in the papers as being targeted for redevelopment by the local council – and added two inches to her height. Recalling Beth’s doubts about her lack of domestic experience, she made up three maid’s positions and put Mr andMrs Honeywell as her last employer. The latter was a slight risk – perhaps Mrs Haverford knew of the Honeywells and even provided staff for them – but by the time the deception was confirmed, Sarah Smith would have vanished. Casting her eye over the form one last time, Harry decided she was satisfied. She rose and placed the clipboard on the desk. ‘Finished.’
Margot stopped typing. She collected the board, glanced at it and stood up. ‘Wait here.’
She disappeared through one of the doors in the far wall, closing it behind her. Harry took advantage of her absence to study the room. The floor was bare but free of dust; the walls were freshly painted. Several filing cabinets stood against one wall, tall, with three deep drawers each. There were no windows. The desk was heavy; the typewriter looked expensive. A big plant sat on the desk, its leaves glossy and wide. There was a stack of letters beside the typewriter that Harry longed to take a look at, but she didn’t want to risk being caught. Instead, she let her gaze travel around the office again. It was entirely unremarkable – no posters or paintings adorned the walls, no name plaques were attached to the doors. In fact, Harry’s overall impression was one of anonymity, perhaps even of impermanence – from what she could tell, the contents might be emptied in just a few hours. It was not the kind of place she would have associated with the likes of Lady Finchem but then she supposed none of Mrs Haverford’s illustrious clients ever came here. That was what housekeepers were for.
The door opened and Margot reappeared. ‘This way.’
Steeling herself against a sudden barrage of butterflies in her stomach, Harry crossed the room and stepped past Margot. The first thing she noticed was the plush red carpet – her shoes sank into it as she walked. A fire crackled in the chimney breast along the right-hand wall, removing the dank chill that had been noticeable in the rest of the building. Bookshelves flanked theleft wall. Two tall windows in the wall opposite the door faced out onto the street, dressed in heavy red curtains, and Harry couldn’t help contrasting the warmth and comfort with the peeling paintwork and hard wooden seats of the waiting room. But for all that, the focus of this room was another desk, topped with green, gilt-edged leather, and the straight-backed woman who sat behind it. She stood up as Harry entered and smiled. ‘Miss Smith. Won’t you take a seat?’
Her voice was pleasant, with no obvious accent, but Harry thought she detected the stubborn hint of London even so. She sat in the seat facing the woman, noting the soft click as the door closed behind her, and took refuge in the poor social graces of her character. ‘Are you Mrs Haverford?’
The other woman inclined her head. Harry guessed she was nearer fifty than forty; there were crow’s feet around her eyes and her platinum curls owed much to the bleach bottle. But her make-up was immaculate, even if the scarlet lips were perhaps a little much for a Monday morning, and the overall effect was of a woman who was used to receiving attention. Harry decided to soften her manners. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said.
‘Likewise,’ Mrs Haverford said, glancing down at the desk where Harry saw the sheet she had just completed. ‘So you’re looking for a maid’s position – is that right? And you’ve previously worked as a general maid.’
Harry nodded, even as she wondered how she could turn the conversation around to Lady Finchem. Now that she was here, facing Mrs Haverford, she was beginning to wonder whether she was wasting her time. As far as she could tell, there was nothing specific here to suggest Mildred had ever visited the offices. But it was too late to back out now – she had to continue with her plan. ‘That’s right.’
Mrs Haverford tapped a crimson fingernail on the desk. ‘You were most recently employed by a Mr and Mrs Honeywell, not a family I am familiar with, unfortunately. Why did you leave?’
The admission gave Harry some small relief. At least she wouldn’t be immediately caught out in a lie. ‘They took on a new housekeeper, who brought her own maid,’ she said, and adopted what she hoped was an injured expression. ‘I wasn’t needed no more.’
‘I understand,’ Mrs Haverford replied. ‘But you’re honest and biddable? Prepared to work hard? Loyal?’
The last word was accompanied by a fierce stare that almost made Harry flinch. She nodded again. ‘Yes, Mrs Haverford.’
The other woman pursed her lips. ‘On your feet, then. Let’s take a look at you.’
The demand surprised Harry but she obeyed all the same, taking care to round her shoulders as though she carried the worries of the world there. Mrs Haverford rose too and came around the desk to study her. Harry’s pulse quickened – her disguise was not designed to withstand close scrutiny. Would Mrs Haverford detect the gleam of blonde beneath the boot polish on her hair? Might she notice the white smoothness of Harry’s hands that belied her claim of being a maid? Hands that had never scrubbed pots or hefted a coal scuttle. Why hadn’t she thought to wear gloves, for goodness’ sake?
‘Good bone structure,’ Mrs Haverford said, placing a finger beneath Harry’s chin to tilt her face from one side to another. ‘But how blue your eyes are. Quite remarkable.’
Harry took her chance. ‘My friend Mildred says they’re bluer than the sky.’
Was it her imagination or did the name cause a shadow to cross the older woman’s features. ‘They’re certainly very noticeable,’ Mrs Haverford said, frowning. She sat at the desk once more and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have anypositions that would suit you at the moment. But next week may be different. You’re welcome to call again next Monday morning.’
