Page 34 of The Missing Maid
Harry cycled through her possible responses and settled on honesty, at least for that moment. ‘Your letter?’
Esme blinked, her green eyes even more puzzled. ‘Yes. I wrote to you on Thursday, begging you and Mr Holmes to intercede once more on Mildred’s behalf. Is that not why you are here?’
No doubt the letter would be waiting for her on Monday, Harry thought. ‘I’m afraid we have yet to receive it,’ she said. ‘I was simply in the area and thought to see how you were faring.’
Esme clapped her hands together. ‘Then my prayers have been answered.’ She stepped backwards. ‘Please do come in. You find us just home from the morning service but if you give me a moment, I will bring some tea.’
Harry held up her hand. ‘Don’t trouble yourself on my account. But tell me, is there a reason you wrote again – a development of which I’m not aware?’
The young woman reached for her hat pin. ‘Why don’t you wait in the living room? My parents will join you shortly and we can tell you everything.’
Left with no option, Harry did as she requested. The room was unchanged from her last visit, although the fire had burned low during the family’s absence. She added a log, stirring the embers until they flared bright, and topped it with a few lumps of coal. There were not many in the scuttle, she noticed, and made a mental note to have some sent from Abinger Hall. Once flames had begun to lick the wood, she left the hearth and perched on one of the faded sofas, listening to the creak of floorboards overhead. At last, the door opened and Mr and Mrs Longstaff came in.
They had aged in the weeks since she had last seen them, Harry observed as she greeted them. Mr Longstaff’s hair seemed greyer, his eyes more sunken. Mrs Longstaff had lost what little colour she had – her face was unnaturally pale, her skin waxen. Her mouth was pinched with worry and her eyes were surrounded by dark circles that suggested sleep had been a stranger. Harry felt a surge of compassion as she considered them and she was glad she had followed the impulse to call upon them before returning to London.
‘Have you come with news?’ Mr Longstaff’s voice was gruff with barely suppressed hope as he addressed Harry. ‘It has been some time since we heard from Mr Fortescue. Has there been a breakthrough?’
Harry wished with all her heart that she did not have to disappoint him. ‘Nothing substantial, I’m afraid. Enquiries are continuing, of course.’
Upon the sofa, Mrs Longstaff made a restless motion. ‘Enquiries. What use are they when our girl languishes in hell?’
Her husband placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You must forgive us our impatience. We had hoped, given Mr Holmes’ famous powers of deduction, that he might have solved the case by now.’
Harry felt the hot burn of shame. Of course they would expect a speedy resolution – in the stories, Holmes knew from the speck of dirt on the toe of a boot who had committed the crime, as well as the how and the why. His superhuman intellect allowed him to leap to conclusions that amazed the more pedestrian Dr Watson, and ran rings around Scotland Yard. Not for the first time, Harry felt the heft of what she had undertaken. Detective work in real life was not like fiction at all – she had bitten off far more than she could chew and she had nothing to hide behind now, apart from the character in whose name she had come. ‘As you know, Mr Holmes is not in London, which makes his investigations somewhat slower. But please rest assured we are on the trail of the real criminals and hope to clear Mildred’s name soon.’
The door opened again, and Esme reappeared. Harry was unsurprised to see she carried a tray of tea. She waited until the girl had placed the tray on a table and took her notebook from her bag. ‘You mentioned a letter, Miss Longstaff. What was your reason for writing?’
Esme busied herself handing out the teacups. ‘It was an act of desperation,’ she said quietly.
Mr Longstaff harumphed. ‘You have been to visit Mildred just as we have, seen the dreadful place where she is being held.’ It was not a question but, even so, Harry nodded. ‘Then you understand the depth of our concern. Mildred does not belong there, among the common criminals and debtors.’
Esme’s eyes flashed at him. ‘I have told you, Papa, that not everyone sent there is guilty. Mrs Pankhurst was confined there a number of times while campaigning for the vote and I am sure no one would describe her as common, nor a criminal.’ She paused and seemed to recollect herself. ‘But you are right that it is no place for my sister. Her letters to us confirm that.’
Harry felt a quiver of interest. ‘Mildred has written to you?’
‘A number of times,’ Esme replied. ‘With each letter, she grows more despairing.’
‘May I see them?’
‘I thought you would ask,’ Esme said, and pulled a bundle of thin envelopes from her pocket. ‘They are difficult for us to read, loving Mildred as we do, but I have nevertheless pored over them. Perhaps you will understand our impatience better after reading them.’
The paper was cheap, almost translucent, and Harry had to concentrate hard to read the words scratched out in blunt pencil. In each letter, Mildred’s fear bled from every line, although it was clear she had made some effort not to worry her family. Nevertheless, she made mention of the food, which tasted of nothing, and the lack of sanitation, of the disinterest among the guards and the rats that scuttled along the corridors at night. Her reports of Oliver were favourable – it was clear she set much store in his advice – but Harry could see what Esme meant: Mildred was losing hope.
The most recent letter was postmarked Tuesday and it made Harry frown almost before she had finished the first few lines. It comprised of a single page and, unlike the others, which had evidently been composed with care, the sentences were painfully long and their meaning harder to define. They still made sense in a jumbled sort of way but Harry had to read several sections over again to understand them.You three will doubtless think that I am confused and sometimes I fear you are right, although not always completely right for as you, Esme – my heart and my conscience – well know that is not life.
Harry stirred uneasily and glanced at Esme, who was watching her. ‘Naturally, you appreciate our concern.’
Harry studied the letter again. ‘It certainly seems as though she is struggling. Are you fearful for her state of mind?’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Mrs Longstaff cried, clutching at the frill of her blouse.
‘Of course,’ Harry said heavily. ‘Is that why you wrote to me – to Mr Holmes? To see what we could do?’
Esme nodded. ‘In part, yes. We hoped you might visit with Mr Fortescue, set our minds at rest. Family visits are only permitted every second Wednesday but lawyers may go at almost any time.’
‘But then the woman from the Prison Reform Society came,’ Mr Longstaff interjected suddenly. ‘She was very interested in Mildred’s letters and we thought perhaps she might arrange a visit.’
‘The Prison Reform Society?’ Harry repeated, frowning. The newspapers were full of such earnest organisations, those who felt prisons should not be places of humiliation and degradation and campaigned to improve conditions. Harry’s grandmother had friends who were members but she had never heard of them making house calls. ‘How did she come to find you?’
