Page 26 of The Missing Maid
‘Oh good,’ Harry replied faintly. On the rare occasion she went out drinking in London, she met friends for cocktails in chic hotel bars. But she was not Harry White now, she reminded herself. Sarah Smith could certainly visit a public house. ‘How far is it?’
Beth stepped onto the street, closing the front door behind her. ‘You probably passed it on the way here. The Old Mother Red Cap, opposite the station.’
She should have guessed, Harry thought, her heart sinking as she hurried to catch up with Beth. With a bit of luck, the drunk she had encountered on her way to Caroline Street would be long gone.
The saloon bar was less dingy than Harry expected but the air was still thick with smoke, tempered by the sweet smell ofhops. A bar lined the back wall, with shelves lined with stacks of Woodbine cigarettes and bottles that reflected in mirrored glass behind them. Yellowish china pump handles stood tall above the polished wood of the bar itself, presided over by a burly man who looked to Harry as though he was one impertinent comment away from a good brawl. Sawdust covered the floor, to soak up spilled beer, she supposed, and tables had been dotted here and there, with chairs and benches that were mostly occupied. Other drinkers were standing in clusters, men in caps with scarves knotted around their necks and a pint pot in their hands; the buzz of conversation was constant, interrupted every now and then by a burst of laughter or loud exclamation.
It didn’t seem like the kind of place women would be drawn to and yet, to Harry’s mild surprise, she and Beth were not the only ones; she guessed that perhaps a third of the drinkers were female, mostly middle-aged or older. Several of the men looked across as Beth and Harry entered, one or two nodded in greeting as they edged inside, but there was no repeat of the raucous comments Harry had endured earlier. At least, not yet.
‘There’s a table over there,’ Beth said, craning her head over the crowd. Employing a judicious elbow here and there, she cut her way towards the corner. Harry followed and couldn’t prevent an involuntary flinch at the rough wooden seats surrounding the sticky-looking table. The reaction did not escape Beth’s notice. ‘Sorry, were you expecting a cushion? You won’t get no airs and graces in here – this is a drinker’s pub.’
‘I can tell,’ Harry said, looking around her. Now that she was adjusting to the environment, she was beginning to appreciate the novelty of being somewhere so different from her usual world. Her brothers would not approve of what she was doing, although for wildly differing reasons. Lawrence would be concerned about her reputation and would insist that she hurried along home, Sebastian would show some initialamusement that would eventually be replaced by caution, and Rufus would ask her to buy him a drink before borrowing whatever cash she had and abandoning her to join the house gambling ring.
Beth grinned at Harry. ‘Speaking of drinks, I’ll have a pint of mild, thanks.’
Harry supposed that was only fair, since she was the one who had caused Beth to go out. Edging her way through the crowd, she delved into the pocket of her skirts and withdrew a handful of coins, inspecting it anxiously. She hadn’t brought much money, mindful of the fact that Sarah Smith was meant to be poor, but now she was concerned she wouldn’t have enough to buy Beth’s drink and get the Underground back home. But the prices chalked above the bar were mercifully cheap, some way short of those Harry would expect to pay in a hotel bar. She bought two pints and carried them back to the table.
Beth took a healthy draught of beer and smacked her lips together. ‘So, Sarah Smith, how did you know where to find me?’
The question wasn’t unexpected. Harry had dismissed the idea of claiming George Newlyn had told her as a lie too easily disproven. Once again, she told the truth. ‘From the newspaper. I was looking for information about Mildred, trying to work out how she came to be in such a mess, and I saw your advert.’
The young woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Quite the little detective, ain’t we?’ she said, although Harry thought she sounded slightly impressed. ‘So what is it you want from me?’
She leaned forwards. ‘Something is rotten in Mayfair, maybe even in the whole of London. What do you think it is?’
‘You don’t need me to tell you about that,’ Beth said, shrugging. ‘Thieving isn’t a new thing.’
‘No, but this is different,’ Harry said. ‘The thieves didn’t just break in when the house was empty, they put someone on the inside.’
‘Your friend,’ Beth pointed out. ‘Maybe she’s not as lily-white as you think.’
‘Or maybe someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make it look that way,’ Harry argued. She paused, wondering how much to trust Beth. ‘Like I said, next time it could be you or me or even one of your sisters. None of us is safe.’
Beth was quiet for a moment. ‘All right. What do you want to know?’
Harry marshalled her thoughts. Beth had already told her she didn’t know Mildred, which wasn’t a surprise given Mildred had said she’d never visited Mrs Haverford’s Bureau. But Polly was another matter. ‘There was another maid at the first house Mildred worked in – a girl called Polly. Do you know her?’
Beth’s forehead crinkled. ‘I know a few Pollys. Got a description?’
Harry cast her mind back to her visit to Lady Finchem. The maid had not made a strong impression and it was only afterwards that her interest had been aroused. ‘Small,’ she said vaguely. ‘A bit mousy, in looks and in personality.’
‘Could be any of them,’ Beth snorted dismissively. ‘But I think I know the one you mean. Works for some old politician, right?’
It couldn’t be a coincidence, Harry thought. ‘That’s right. Friend of yours, is she?’
‘Nah. I’ve seen her at the agency from time to time, that’s all. Not since she got that job, mind you.’
Harry tucked the information away. She’d known from Dobbins that there was a link between Mrs Haverford and the Finchems but it was satisfying to have it confirmed. ‘I thought she might have seen something that could help Mildred.’
Beth gave her a shrewd look. ‘Leave off. You think she’s in on it.’
There was no use in denying it: Beth was sharper than a dressmaker’s needle. ‘Possibly,’ Harry conceded. ‘Someone must have planted the stolen bracelet under Mildred’s pillow and they did share a room.’
‘No idea,’ Beth sniffed. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me, though. She’s from south of the river. Some very light-fingered families in those parts.’
‘South of the river?’ Harry echoed.
The other woman tipped her head. ‘Southwark, Camberwell, somewhere like that. A thieves’ paradise, my old dad calls it, although he says the East End is worse. Steal the shirt off your back without you even noticing in Bethnal Green, he reckons.’
