Page 25 of The Missing Maid
Mr Babbage sat back in his seat. ‘That’s settled, then,’ he said, and flapped a hand. ‘Off you go. Give Mr Holmes my regards.’
As Harry made her way back to her office, she settled on two courses of action. One, that she would give Simeon Pemberton absolutely no reason to remark upon her work or punctuality again, and two, she would do everything in her power to find out which doorman had ratted her out. As she was rapidly coming to appreciate, knowledge was power and there might come a time when she was able to turn such information to her advantage. Her conversation with Mr Babbage had made one thing clear: while it was reassuring to know he was in her corner, it was time for Harry to take steps to protect herself. If that meant a little digging around at the bank, so be it.
10
Harry turned herself into Sarah Smith for her trip to Camden Town on Thursday evening. Once again, it was not an area of London she’d had reason to frequent, but she’d heard of the market and knew it was a place of considerable poverty. Much the same as Elephant and Castle, the junction outside the Underground station was bustling and congested, despite the later hour. Buses jostled with lorries and cars; a horse and cart was slowing everything down and a policeman was trying to hurry the driver along. Mindful of her near miss with the bus on Oxford Street, Harry took extra care in making her way across the roads; her mother would be mortified if she were run over in such unfathomable clothing. But she made it to Caroline Street without risk to life and limb, although there were some suggestive comments from a drunk man as she passed the Mother Red Cap public house that made her grit her teeth.
The dull grind of traffic faded as she got further away from the junction, although she could still hear the sharp blare of horns. Caroline Street was narrow, one of several back-to-back roads packed with dingy houses, although Harry felt more domestic pride was shown by those who lived there than inTea Cutter Row, even if the deprivation was just as bad. The windows were clean – as far as she could tell under the dim glow of the street lamp – and each doorstep bore clean white edges, as though they had been freshly scrubbed and marked with the donkey stone just that evening. These people might be poor but they had standards. She checked her notebook: Beth had given 4 Caroline Street as her address. Harry raised her hand and knocked on the door.
As much as she hoped Beth might be at home, Harry did not expect her to open the front door. The young woman peered out at her, frowning. ‘Can I help you?’
Harry concentrated on reproducing Sarah’s accent. ‘I hope so. Don’t suppose you remember me but I was at Mrs Haverford’s a few weeks back, looking for work.’
A faint glimmer of recollection dawned on Beth’s face. Her frown deepened. ‘I do remember, as it happens, but I don’t see why you’re standing on my doorstep. There’s no job here.’
‘It’s you I came to see,’ Harry replied. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Look, it’s a bit delicate. Is there somewhere we can go and talk?’
Instantly, Beth scowled in suspicion. ‘What about?’
Harry took a breath. She had considered a number of stories to persuade Beth to share what she knew of Mrs Haverford’s business and each one had sounded flimsier than the last. Part of the trouble was that she had no idea how loyal Beth was to the shadowy Bureau; in fact, she was risking much based on a whispered half-sentence and a gut feeling she could be trusted. ‘About what’s going on in Mayfair,’ she said, pausing to gauge Beth’s reaction. ‘I think you know what I mean.’
‘I’m sure I don’t,’ Beth retorted, folding her arms. ‘And even if I did, I wouldn’t go blabbing about it on the street where anyone could hear me.’
‘So invite me in,’ Harry urged. ‘Tell me what you know.’
Still the younger woman looked unconvinced. ‘What’s it to you?’
This was it, Harry sensed. Whatever she said now would determine whether Beth invited her inside or slammed the door in her face. ‘The first time we met, I told you I was looking for a friend who’d been accused of stealing. Do you remember?’
Beth’s gaze narrowed. ‘I remember.’
‘You asked if she’d been working in Mayfair,’ Harry went on. ‘And then you warned me about working in the fancy houses round there.’
‘Did I?’ Beth said carelessly, but Harry caught a gleam in her eye that told her the girl knew where the conversation was going. ‘Can’t think why.’
Harry ignored that. ‘My friend’s name is Mildred Longstaff. She’s currently in Holloway Prison, awaiting trial for the robbery of Lord Robertson.’
The door moved fast but Harry was faster. She stuck her foot into the gap, wincing a little at the impact but grateful for Sarah’s no-nonsense boots. ‘She didn’t do it, Beth. Someone set her up and I mean to find out who.’
‘You’re mad.’ The other woman shook her head.
Harry couldn’t really argue with that – there was a small part of her that was wondering whether she had taken leave of her senses. ‘Probably. But I’m going to find out all the same.’ She fixed Beth with a frank stare. ‘Because this time it was Mildred who caught the blame, but next time it might be you or me or any of a hundred other innocent women and girls who work in the city. And I don’t think any of us want to go to prison.’
Beth hesitated as though torn. Her gaze bore into Harry until finally she sighed. ‘Wait here,’ she said, making to close the door again.
Harry wedged her foot more firmly in the gap. ‘Not a chance. How do I know you’ll come back?’
Beth smiled. ‘You’ll just have to trust me, won’t you? Like I’m trusting you.’
There wasn’t much Harry could do, short of forcing her way inside the house and she wasn’t about to try that. Reluctantly, she pulled her foot free and allowed the door to close. Minutes ticked by. Harry waited, listening to the distant rumble of the traffic and wondering if Beth was even now sending a message that would summon the criminals behind the Robertson burglary. But then the door opened and Beth appeared again, wearing a hat and coat and what looked suspiciously like lipstick. ‘Look lively, then.’
‘Are – are you inviting me in?’ Harry asked in confusion.
Beth rolled her eyes. ‘Not unless you want the whole conversation to be overheard by my mother and three younger sisters.’
‘Then where are we going?’
‘The pub,’ she said, and grinned at Harry’s startled expression. ‘Don’t worry, they know me in there. No one will mistake us for prostitutes.’
