Page 2 of The Missing Maid
Harry dragged her gaze from a fire safety poster and fixed her attention upon him, wondering what the letter suggested. ‘Are you not in need of secretarial support?’
‘Well, no,’ he huffed. ‘That is to say yes, there is a vacancy but it’s not… I didn’t expect—’ He broke off to eye her helplessly and took a deep breath. ‘We can’t have a lady of your… your credentials working down here, Miss White. Only an idiot would have suggested we could.’
She allowed herself a brief flicker of amusement. ‘I think we agree on that.’
‘There must be some mistake – a miscommunication,’ Mr Babbage went on, frowning to himself. ‘Because there is a job to be done but…’ He trailed off, fixing his gaze on the letter once more, then glanced up at Harry and sniffed. ‘Wait here. No, on second thoughts you’d better come with me.’
Harry didn’t quite heave a sigh of relief when they took the service lift to the first floor and returned to the quiet elegance of the corridors she knew well, but she felt the tension in her muscles ease. Mr Babbage led her past a number of closed doors before he found the one he wanted. Instructing her to wait, he disappeared inside, leaving her to study the unadorned wood panels with no inkling of who worked within. When he reappeared a few minutes later, a weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. ‘I’ve found you an office,’ he explained, heading back the way they had come. ‘I daresay it’s not what you’re used to up on the fifth floor, but it’ll be a darn sight betterthan anything we’ve got in the post room.’ He glanced sideways as though sizing her up. ‘Yes, a darn sight better.’
He must be wondering what her crime had been, Harry thought, feeling the faint fire of indignation warm her cheeks. Whatever Mr Pemberton’s letter said, she knew it wouldn’t be anything resembling the truth. ‘What is the position I shall be filling?’ she asked.
Mr Babbage huffed. ‘Didn’t Pemberton tell you? It’s a secretarial role, mostly filing and correspondence. Replying to letters, that kind of thing.’
She frowned, remembering the noise and chaos of the basement. ‘Then why send me to the post room?’
‘Why indeed?’ Mr Babbage grumbled. ‘Although strictly speaking, the correspondence doesn’t relate to the business of the bank so maybe that’s it. Stuff and nonsense if you ask me but it falls under my remit, right enough. I’ve just never known what to do about it and it’s getting out of hand.’
Harry felt her brow crease even further. Letters that weren’t Abbey Road Building Society business? Stuff and nonsense? What could that mean?
‘Ah, here we are,’ her companion said as they arrived at a shabby door set just before the bend of the corridor. It bore the number 221 but looked very much like a broom cupboard to Harry. Even so, Mr Babbage slotted a key into the lock and pushed the door aside to peer past. ‘Not what you’d call plush but you’ll be comfortable enough.’ He shook his head. ‘More comfortable than downstairs, at least.’
Moving back, he gestured to Harry to take a look. Beyond the light from the corridor, the room was shrouded in darkness. She felt for the switch just inside and flicked it upwards, filling the small space with weak yellow light from an overhead bulb, and she realised her first assessment had almost been right – it practically was a broom cupboard. There was a chair and adesk, with a typewriter taking up most of its surface. A narrow filing cabinet stood in one corner with a forlorn black telephone resting on top. There were no windows, no skylights, no view to the outside world. The walls were blank, with the occasional oblong smudge that suggested a picture might have once hung there. At least there was a carpet, Harry thought as she stepped inside and her heels sank into the crimson wool. She wouldn’t have been entirely surprised at bare floorboards.
‘Well,’ Mr Babbage said from the doorway, ‘I’ll leave you to settle in. One of the lads will be along shortly with the first batch of letters – all you need to do is type a short reply and then file the original with a copy of the response.’
Harry stared at him. ‘What kind of letter? How will I know what to say in my reply?’
Mr Babbage coughed. ‘All will become clear, Miss White. Ring down once you’ve opened a few and we can discuss a standard response.’ His eyes met hers then and she saw pity in his gaze. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be very dull work. Dull but necessary, for all that it’s stuff and nonsense.’
Almost subconsciously, she stiffened her spine. ‘I’m sure I shall do my best.’
He gave a little shake of his head as he walked away. ‘Call down to my office when you’re ready. Goodbye for now.’
Harry gazed after him for several long seconds, then surveyed the room again. After a moment or two, she drifted towards the desk and ran her fingers across the keys of the typewriter. They were dust-free and the ribbon seemed to be new. She sat in the chair, listening to the silence. Nowhere in the bank could be considered noisy – apart from the recently discovered basement, Harry allowed – but on the fifth floor there had always been a discreet background buzz. The genteel murmur of conversation in offices and corridors, the clack-clack-clack of typewriter keys, the clip of well-heeled shoes onthe polished wooden floor and the ring of the telephone. But in this apparently forgotten corner of the building, there was no sound. She might be the only person there.
The drawers of the filing cabinet were empty. Harry lifted the telephone, listened briefly to the dialling tone, then sighed and drummed her fingers on the metal of the cabinet. Her previous work at the bank could not be described as interesting – her brothers frequently asked her how she bore it – but she had always taken a quiet satisfaction in an immaculately typed, neatly filed document, enjoying the knowledge that while she was not stretching herself, she was good at the work. She liked earning her own money too; the granddaughter of a baron had no title to inherit and needed to make her own way in the world. Usually this was by marriage to a suitably wealthy husband but Harry had no intention of being forced to settle for such a match. So her job, though frowned upon by her family, was more than just employment – it was a declaration of independence. And that was why she was determined not to let this sudden change in role disturb her.
Things would work out, she decided, and carefully removed her hat. Seeing nowhere to hang it, and making a mental note to requisition a coat stand, she laid the hat in the empty filing cabinet and reached into her handbag to retrieve the Agatha Christie novel she had been enjoying on the train that morning. It wasn’t her habit to read on the bank’s time, but what else was there to do?
Almost an hour passed before Harry heard the squeak of a wheel in the corridor. It was followed by a knock at the door. She lowered the paperback. ‘Come in.’
Slowly, the door was pushed back and a youth peered in at her, dressed in the same familiar red and gold livery that the bank’s doormen wore. Harry didn’t recognise his amiable, freckled face but that was hardly surprising; as Mr Pemberton’spersonal assistant, she hadn’t been responsible for handling the post. ‘Got a sack of mail here,’ the youth said, gesturing vaguely at the shiny brass trolley behind him. ‘Where do you want it?’
Harry almost laughed. The office was barely big enough for the furniture it contained – there weren’t many places for him to leave a sack. But she swallowed her amusement and pointed to the corner on his left. ‘Over there, please.’
She watched with undisguised curiosity as he hefted the hessian sack from the trolley and deposited it on the carpet. It was full, just as his grunt of effort suggested, and once again Harry found herself wondering at the nature of the letters contained inside. Stuff and nonsense, Mr Babbage had said, but the sheer volume confused her. Who were all these letters to, if not the bank? And who could they be from?
‘That’s the lot,’ the post boy said, scratching beneath his brocade-trimmed hat with the cheerful air of one who has completed his task. ‘For now, at any rate. But I reckon you’ll be a regular stop on my delivery route now, given how much people write to him.’
The words only increased Harry’s mystification but she managed a polite smile. ‘Then I suppose I’d better introduce myself. I’m Miss White.’
‘How d’you do? Most people call me Bobby,’ the youth replied. His eyes travelled around the room, taking in the single light bulb and lack of decoration in thoughtful silence before his gaze came to rest upon the novel splayed cover upwards on the desk. ‘Like them kind of books, do you? Detective stories and that?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’
Bobby looked pleased with himself, as though he’d solved a puzzle. ‘That must be why they give you this here job.’ He gave himself a little shake and stepped backwards into the corridor. ‘Cheerio, then. Prob’ly see you tomorrow.’
The squeak of the trolley receded, leaving Harry alone to stare at the bulging sack. None of this made sense – what could her taste in literature have to do with anything? But now at least she had something to do. Getting to her feet, she took the few steps needed to cross the room and tugged the rough brown material apart.
