Page 14 of The Missing Maid
Harry’s hopes sank. She was being dismissed without discovering anything useful. It was time to throw the dice and gamble everything. ‘Oh, but my friend Mildred heard of a job going with Lady Finchem. It’s always been my dream to work somewhere real fancy like that – Mildred said you were the woman to ask.’
This time there was no mistaking the flash of recognition, or the ice in Mrs Haverford’s tone when she replied. ‘Your friend is mistaken. There are no vacancies in that household.’ She paused to eye Harry with disfavour. ‘But it seems you have ideas above your station, Miss Smith. It’s not for my workers to decide where they will work. They go where I tell them and they never, ever question it.’
The genteel veneer slipped with her irritation, revealing traces of a rougher accent that wouldn’t have been out of place in the docks. Filing the information away, Harry lowered her gaze and took care to look chastened. ‘Yes, Mrs Haverford. I didn’t mean to —’
‘A good housemaid knows her place,’ Mrs Haverford cut in. ‘I suggest you learn yours before coming here again.’ She rang a small golden bell and no sooner had the tinkle died away than the door behind Harry was opening. ‘Show her out, please, Margot.’
A hot tide of frustration washed over Harry as she left the room. She had no intention of risking another visit to the agency but now that she had met her, she felt certain Mrs Haverford knew something of what had happened to Mildred at the Finchem house. Exactly what that was remained a mystery and Harry suspected she could not unlock it. To do that, she would need help – help from someone who was already inside…
The crowd in the waiting room had grown in her absence – several newcomers were clustered in the middle of the room and the air was moist. Harry cast a hurried gaze across the benches – George Newlyn was still leering in the corner but there was no sign of Beth. She tried to make eye contact with one or two of the other women but they avoided meeting her gaze. ‘I was hoping to see Beth,’ she said, trying to sound casual. ‘Does anyone know where to find her?’
No one answered. Margot folded her arms. ‘You could try the door,’ she said pointedly.
Once again, Harry looked around the room in mute appeal. She was met only by George’s gap-toothed grin. ‘I’ll tell you where she lives. Just you come and sit here so I can whisper it.’
Deciding not to dignify the offer with a response, Harry marched across the room to the door and closed it hard behind her, blocking out his wheezing laughter. Out on the street, she took several long breaths to calm her jangling nerves and cool her heated cheeks. More in hope than expectation, she glanced both ways in case Beth was there but the girl was nowhere to be seen. Harry cursed under her breath, more and more convinced she had missed an opportunity and that Beth Chamberlain might have been a useful ally.
As she crossed the road, she toyed with the idea of hanging around to watch the entrance, but the hairs on the back of her neck were prickling in warning. There had been nothing terribly unpleasant about her visit to Mrs Haverford’s offices, George Newlyn aside, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that not everything was quite as it seemed.
Weariness washed over her as she glanced up at the first-floor windows of 66 Great Portland Street and she reluctantly decided there was nothing more to be achieved there. Now that the adrenaline of pretending to be Sarah Smith was wearing off, she felt a sudden desire to scrub the make-up and boot polishaway and be herself again. Resisting the temptation to hail a cab, she made for the nearest Underground station and the safety of home.
6
As the week progressed, Harry had to concede she was at something of a loss. Her enquiries had revealed little in the way of new information and she had no idea where to go next. She approached several charitable organisations running hostels for women and girls who found themselves with nowhere to stay – while the volunteers were always sympathetic and keen to help, Harry’s enquiries ended in the same way each time: none of them recognised Mildred Longstaff.
Discouraged, Harry began to lose heart. It seemed detective work was considerably more difficult than the pen of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle suggested and, for the first time, Harry felt the magnitude of what she had undertaken. This was not a story and there was no game afoot – Sherlock Holmes could not sweep in to find Mildred in a flash of deductive brilliance. There was only Harry, and a devastated family who waited in dreadful anticipation of news. How could she have been arrogant enough to assume she would solve the mystery with ease? But she would not compound her mistake with cruelty. If she did not make a breakthrough in the following days, she would write to Esme Longstaff and report her regrettable lack of success.
On Saturday morning, she decided to lift her spirits with a visit to Selfridges Department Store. Shopping never failed to make her feel better and there was a fine suit in the window she thought would do very well for work. Oxford Street was as bustling as ever but once past the elegant clock and stone pillars that guarded the grand entrance, Selfridges itself was an oasis of blissfully fragranced calm. There were crowds here too but voices were hushed, as though her fellow shoppers were keen to preserve the illusion of gentility, and somehow it did not seem busy.
Harry lingered at the ground-floor perfume counter, tempted by a beguiling new scent from Paris that her mother would doubtless denounce as scandalous, before taking a slow stroll through the endless displays of clothing. Other shoppers passed her by, in ones or twos, couples and friends and families, pointing at dresses or pausing to stroke the fabric. The suit Harry wanted was displayed in the corner nearest Haberdashery, artfully nipped and tucked around a mannequin to show it to best effect, and she studied it critically for several minutes, imagining herself wearing it.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ The question came from an assistant only a few years older than Harry. ‘Does madam know what size she requires?’
Nodding, Harry opened her mouth to reply but she was interrupted by a hoarse shout from the direction of Haberdashery, and the pounding of running feet. She looked up to see a group of young women running towards them, coats flapping, their expressions determined as they pushed aside anyone who got in their way. Behind them, a man was following, waving his arms and shouting. ‘Stop them!’ he bellowed furiously. ‘Stop, thieves!’
Instantly, Harry understood what was happening. These shoppers were not in Selfridges to buy the items on display. Theywere members of the infamous shoplifting gangs that plagued London – fashionably dressed women and girls of various ages who wore coats and dresses with concealed pockets in order to steal whatever caught their eye. If apprehended, they had been known to fight and scratch their way out with more fury than caged tigers, leaving injured shop assistants and chaos in their wake. It was the first time Harry had encountered them in the flesh, although she knew much about them from the front pages of the newspapers, and she found herself rooted to the floor in shocked fascination.
‘Not again!’ the assistant at her side moaned as the thieves drew near. ‘They was in here yesterday an’ all.’
They were making for the door, Harry realised, hoping to reach the street where they would undoubtedly scatter like rats. Faces flashed past and she had a confused impression of breathless fear and laughter, as though they were half enjoying this desperate chase. The thought caused a bubble of indignation to rise in Harry. Without thinking, she stepped neatly sideways and stuck out her foot.
It made contact with an ankle. There was a squawk of panic, which turned into a tumult of cries as several bodies crashed to the floor. The lead runners looked back but did not stop. Those on the ground scrambled back to their feet as the mob of pursuing security guards and shop assistants bore down on them. The girl nearest to Harry clutched at her leg, glaring balefully up at her from beneath an oversized, floppy hat that was not at all fashionable. ‘You’ll pay for that,’ she snarled.
Harry raised her eyebrows. ‘I rather think you will, actually,’ she said, and reached out to snatch the hat from the girl’s head.
Several things happened at once. The hat came away in Harry’s hand, setting a cascade of bright coppery hair free. The nearest security guard roared in triumph as he spotted his fallen quarry. The assistant at Harry’s side squeaked like a startledmouse. And the girl glanced briefly upwards into Harry’s startled eyes before jabbing out a fist to land a vicious rabbit punch beneath her ribs. Harry doubled over, gasping in shock and pain, the air temporarily dragged from her lungs. A second later, the hat was ripped from her grasp and the thief was on her feet again, wrapping her voluminous brown coat around her and tearing along the aisle towards the exit.
Harry straightened, blinking back tears and staring after her in stunned disbelief. Unless she was very much mistaken, the girl she had just been face to face with was Mildred Longstaff.
Wheezing and clutching her midriff, Harry lurched after her, almost colliding with the guard as she did so. Mildred was fast – shoppers were scattering before her and she had a clear path to the door. Harry gritted her teeth and ran faster. If the girl reached the street there were any number of places she might hide. Harry had to keep her in sight at all costs. ‘Mildred!’ she shouted, hoping that hearing her own name might cause the girl to slow. It made no difference. If Mildred had heard, she showed no inclination to stop. Which made sense, given she might very well be arrested for shoplifting if she did. Harry kept up her pace, eyes fixed on Mildred’s copper hair. If she could just catch her…
She had gained some ground by the time Mildred burst through the grand entrance and vanished from view. Another infuriated roar split the air – Harry assumed the gang had targeted items of high value. Ignoring the guards, she hurried after her.
The scene that greeted her outside the store was one of jarring normality. Pedestrians strolled along the pavements, and taxis mingled with motor cars on the road, chugging noisily past. Harry peered first one way, then the other, and growled in frustration. How could Mildred have vanished already? Then a flash of incongruity caught her eye the other side of OxfordStreet, a figure in a large hat scattering the tide of walkers. Determined not to let the girl get away, Harry was about to step out in pursuit when the blare of a horn sent her leaping back. She gasped as a red double-decker bus thundered past, followed by a gust of fume-laden wind that had her rocking on her heels.
By the time Harry had recovered her composure, Mildred was gone.
‘You ought to take more care, miss,’ a passer-by admonished, his expression disapproving, but Harry barely heard. She was scanning the other side of the street, trying to second-guess her prey. The girl might have taken refuge in one of the other shops but Harry thought it unlikely – her instincts would have been screaming at her to get away. It was much more likely she would making for the Bohemian kaleidoscope of Soho, hoping to become anonymous among the drinking dens and pubs.
