Page 19 of The Missing Maid
Harry spent the remainder of the afternoon typing her usual humdrum correspondence but her mind kept returning to Mildred’s case. Her meeting with Esme had only reinforced how many aspects of the crime did not fit together, as though she was trying to complete one jigsaw puzzle with the pieces of another. How had Mildred been able to obtain the position in Lord Robertson’s household after leaving Lady Finchem’s in disgrace? Who had coerced Mildred into writing to her family about it? Why had she risked her newfound role by committing the exact same crime that had seen her sacked before? And strangest of all, how had she gone from being the sweet, lovinggirl Esme described to a spitting, snarling wretch who denied even her own name?
Nothing made any sense and Harry was starting to feel very much out of her depth. What she needed more than anything was to speak to Mildred again, in the hope that desperation might shake some sense into her, and the idea spurred her into action. She might not be able to call on Sherlock Holmes for help but she was not without friends and acquaintances. Perhaps it was time to call in a favour.
8
Oliver Fortescue had not changed much in the year or so since Harry had last seen him. She stole a glance sideways from the passenger seat of his car, watching his brow furrow in concentration as he navigated the streets of North London on Saturday morning. His hair was as black as ever, flopping slightly over his forehead the way it had always done. His nose was perfectly straight and noble, as though carved by Michelangelo himself, and his skin was lightly tanned, even in November, which reminded Harry of his fondness for impromptu trips to the Côte d’Azur, although she doubted he had much time for that now he was a celebrated City lawyer.
‘Tell me again how you got caught up with this girl,’ he said, steering them onto Camden Road. ‘I’m not sure I quite caught the connection when you rang yesterday.’
Harry took a breath. She had anticipated this question and had her explanation ready. ‘You know how it is,’ she said carelessly. ‘Mildred is originally from Foxley, which is a village on our estate. Her plight caught my eye, that’s all. I wanted to help.’
Oliver raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Very decent of you. Although I must warn you, I’m not sure how much help either of us will be. I reviewed the police report this morning, and the court records, and I’m afraid it looks like an open-and-shut case.’
‘Perhaps,’ Harry said. ‘But as I said to you on the telephone, there are one or two things that don’t add up. I think it’s worth hearing Mildred’s side of the story, which is why I came to you.’
‘Naturally,’ Oliver said, smiling. ‘You’d have had trouble getting into Holloway otherwise. Now, don’t forget you’re masquerading as my legal clerk. Keep your eyes and ears open but for God’s sake don’t drop me in it. The deputy governor is a friend of my father.’
‘I won’t,’ Harry said fervently. ‘And thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.’
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I wouldn’t do it for just anyone, you know,’ he said, and glanced across at her again. ‘You owe me.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
But Oliver’s attention had shifted to the road ahead. ‘Okay, there it is.’ He frowned at her. ‘I hope you’re ready for this, Harry. It’s not going to be a pleasant experience.’
She looked out of the window at the grey, forbidding monster that loomed in front of them. Inside, hundreds of women were serving sentences for crimes she did not want to imagine. Rumours abounded of rats in the kitchens and canteens, seldom-emptied buckets instead of toilets for bodily necessities, and globules of porridge or thin pea soup for every meal. Of course it was not going to be pleasant. ‘I’m ready,’ she said quietly, as Oliver manoeuvred the car through the iron gates and parked in the shadow of the prison.
Up close, Holloway was even more intimidating. Built in 1852, it was a Gothic monstrosity designed to strike fear into the heart of Victorian criminals, in the hope that it might deterthem from doing wrong. Heavy stone walls rose up around a vast arched door, topped with hulking crenellations and dotted with leaded windows that were barely wide enough to admit light. Beyond the door, towers rose to dwarf the outer walls and Harry would not have been surprised to see archers patrolling the battlements. ‘It looks like a fortress,’ she said, unable to suppress a tremor of trepidation.
‘It is a fortress,’ Oliver said grimly. ‘But it’s designed to keep people in rather than out. Come on, let’s get this over with.’
He rang the bell and gave his name through a small grate in the huge wooden door. A smaller door cut into the wood creaked open. Oliver showed his identification, and they were let in. There was no need for him to remind Harry to say nothing as they followed a guard across a small courtyard to reach the inner door – the greyness and misery of the place pressed down on her as they walked, and made her feel as insignificant as the lichen that stained the walls. The next door employed the same architectural style as the outer gate, although some concession to aesthetics seemed to have been made – a pair of rearing carved griffins faced each other on pillars to either side of the arch – but they did little to lift Harry’s sense of dread. How awful it would be to pass through this door knowing it would be your home for the foreseeable future, she thought with a shudder.
Once inside, they found themselves in a large entrance hall with a wide staircase and a number of doors that Harry guessed led to visiting rooms. Her prediction was proved correct when she and Oliver were shown into one of these rooms; it was small, cold and smelled as though someone had left a bowl of rancid cabbage in a corner for a week. The floor was covered with black and white tiles, the walls were a grimy beige and the only furniture consisted of a table and two chairs. The grim-faced prison guard who had accompanied them to this point surveyedthe room impassively then sniffed at Harry. ‘Looks like you’ll have to stand.’
‘She will not,’ Oliver snapped, with a crisp authority that took Harry by surprise. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him sound so commanding. ‘Unless you want me to report your insolence to Deputy Governor Short, have another chair brought here immediately and get someone to open a window. It smells like something died in here.’
To his credit, the guard snapped to attention. A few busy minutes later, there were three chairs at the table, the narrow, high windows had been opened and the floor had been liberally mopped. The smell lingered but it was now masked by the eye-watering stench of bleach. ‘Almost satisfactory,’ Oliver declared, wrinkling his nose. ‘Bring Mildred Longstaff, please.’
They waited in silence, a fresh, even more sullen guard observing them from just inside the door. Harry didn’t know what strings Oliver had pulled to get access to Mildred and now that they were inside the prison, she was slightly concerned that the girl might react with hostility to the sudden arrival of a stranger. Moreover, she was not at all sure how Mildred would respond to her presence. Harry had seen her on the run for shoplifting, after all. It was likely she might consider Harry a threat instead of an ally. But it was far too late for such considerations now. Time was of the essence and she would just have to hope the girl recognised a lifeline when she was thrown one.
Their original chaperone reappeared. ‘Mildred Longstaff,’ he announced, and waved towards the table. ‘Sit there.’
Oliver and Harry both stood as a red-headed young woman reluctantly approached, head bowed. She wore a black, shapeless skirt with some sort of tunic over the top and Harry could not tell whether the clothing had been provided by theprison or belonged to Mildred; the part of her that loved fashion could not imagine anyone wearing such items willingly.
But all such trivial considerations were washed clean away when the girl looked up. At that moment, Harry’s world tilted on its axis and it was all she could do not to gasp. The hair tied back in a severe bun might be the exact shade of auburn, and the features of the face were similar enough to fool a casual observer, but this was not the same girl Harry had encountered first in Selfridges, and then again at Elephant and Castle. She gaped, utterly flabbergasted, as Oliver offered a brisk smile, oblivious to Harry’s confusion. ‘Mildred, I’m Oliver Fortescue, your lawyer, and this is my assistant. Won’t you take a seat?’
The girl stared at him. ‘My lawyer? I didn’t – I can’t afford a lawyer.’
There was no trace of the harsh London accent she had used before, Harry observed, feeling faintly dizzy. Her voice was totally different – softer and considerably more deferential. In fact, she sounded very much like an older Esme Longstaff.
‘Your costs are being met in this case,’ Oliver said. ‘Please, sit down. We’re here to help you.’
Mildred’s eyes flickered between Harry and Oliver, as though she couldn’t decide whether to trust them. ‘Met by who?’ she said, the words little more than a whisper. ‘Please, I need to know.’
Oliver frowned. ‘This meeting is being offeredpro bono. That is to say there is no charge. Where we go from here depends very much on you, Mildred. Now, if you’ll sit down, we can make a start.’
Still distrustful but evidently realising she had few options, she slid into the empty chair facing them. The door closed, leaving the three of them alone. Harry took the opportunity to study Mildred, taking in the pallor of her skin and the bloodless lips, both of which contrasted vividly with her coppery hair andgreen eyes. And then Harry could have slapped herself because she had been so utterly, unforgivably stupid. Of course Mildred Longstaff had green eyes – her family had told Harry so at their first meeting and she had forgotten. Perhaps if she had taken the photograph Esme had shown her all those weeks ago – but no, that had been of Mildred as a much younger girl. Even so, Harry felt dull and senseless. She had been a fool – a slapdash idiot unworthy of the title detective. For hardship and fear could do much to change a person’s appearance but they could not change the colour of their eyes. Whoever the girl in Selfridges had been, she was not Mildred Longstaff.
