Page 5 of The Missing Maid
She gave herself a mental shake. That would never work – she was not even a man, let alone anyone’s idea of a master detective. But Mr Babbage had dubbed her secretary to Sherlock Holmes. What was to stop her taking a little liberty with the title and replying to Miss Longstaff in that capacity? She could request more information, do some digging in her spare time and see what she could find out. No one at the bank needed to know. It wasn’t as though anyone was checking up on her, after all – apart from Bobby and Mr Babbage, no one seemed to remember she was there.
Rolling another sheaf of papers into the typewriter, Harry sat without moving for several minutes. The difficulty was that time was now pressing. Mildred had been missing for almost two months already, and correspondence between the Longstaff family and Holmes to gather further details might take weeks. Harry was due to return home to Abinger Hall that weekend – what if she took a trip to Foxley village and presented herself to Miss Longstaff as Sherlock Holmes’ assistant? She could askquestions of the family, perhaps even request a photograph of Mildred… it would be a much more efficient approach than writing and awaiting a reply. And she could do it all under the guise of R. K. Moss – no one need know her true identity. Making up her mind, Harry began to type.
Wednesday 5th October, 1932
Dear Miss Longstaff,
Thank you for your recent letters to Mr Holmes regarding your sister, Mildred. Unfortunately, Mr Holmes is no longer available for consultation. He is retired from detective work and has for some years been living in Sussex, where he is a much-respected beekeeper.
He has, however, asked me to investigate on his behalf and share any findings with him, in order to try to locate your sister. Accordingly, I shall visit you at 2p.m. on Saturday 8th October, at your home.
Mr Holmes is keen to render his assistance and has asked me to assure you there will be no fee. I look forward to meeting you.
Yours faithfully,
R. K. Moss
Secretary to Sherlock Holmes
Harry reread the letter several times once it was complete, anxiously considering its tone. She had tried to use the trademark arrogance of Holmes to overcome the lack of social grace in demanding an interview at such short notice – there wasn’t time to allow Miss Longstaff to write back. Would Holmes’ reputation for brusqueness, combined with the family’s undoubted gratitude at receiving his attention, be enough to get Harry past the front door? Time would tell, she supposed. The lack of a fee would help – in the first instance, she had no ideahow much assistance she could truly offer and in the second, she had a sneaking suspicion that taking any kind of payment on behalf of a fictional character might amount to fraud. Better to avoid that altogether, she felt. But it still took her until lunchtime to pluck up the courage to add the envelope to the pile of others that would soon be collected by Bobby to be processed in the post room. And it took all her strength not to run after him once he had taken it, whistling cheerfully as he trundled along the corridor.
She stared at the closed door of the office for a long time, wondering whether she’d made a terrible mistake. Eventually, she filed her copy of the standard letter with all the other standard replies she’d sent so far, hid the letter from R.K.Moss inside a folder at the bottom of the filing cabinet, and opened the next envelope.
3
It was a perfectly crisp autumn day when Harry navigated the lanes from her family home to the village of Foxley. The roads were strewn with coppery leaves that had flung themselves from the branches and the sky was a deep cornflower blue. Another time, Harry might have savoured the luxury of her brother’s cherry red MG, which he’d grudgingly allowed her to borrow without too much interrogation; driving was one of her great pleasures, inspired by the motoring adventures of Baroness Campbell von Laurentz, who had written a book on the subject and had been a frequent visitor to Abinger Hall during Harry’s formative years. But right now she found the enormity of what she was about to do dampened her spirits. What if the Longstaffs saw through her ridiculous assertion that she was working for Sherlock Holmes and called the police? Or worse, what if they laughed in her face?
Nevertheless, she found a parking spot on the edge of the village, tucked her golden curls under her hat and straightened the no-nonsense skirt suit she’d chosen for its dullness. With a bit of luck, she looked the part. All she needed now was to convince Miss Longstaff and her parents that she wasR.K.Moss, secretary to the greatest ever detective. The thought made her feel exhilarated and ill at the same time.
The door was opened almost before Harry’s knock had died away. A young woman of around seventeen stood there, pale but composed in a neat, emerald-green dress that matched the colour of her eyes yet contrasted beautifully with her striking auburn hair. ‘Yes?’
Harry considered her. From the style and tone of the correspondence, she had assumed Esme Longstaff was older than Mildred, perhaps in her twenties. ‘Miss Longstaff? Miss Esme Longstaff?’
The girl frowned. ‘Yes, I’m Esme Longstaff.’
Harry cleared her throat. ‘I’m R.K.Moss. I assume you got my letter?’
‘Oh,’ Miss Longstaff said, her cheeks reddening a little. ‘But I thought…’
She trailed off and Harry understood the cause of her uncertainty. It seemed they were both guilty of making assumptions about the other. ‘You were expecting a man, perhaps?’
Miss Longstaff’s blush deepened. ‘No! That’s to say, we wondered but—’ She seemed to pull herself together and stood back to allow Harry to enter. ‘It doesn’t matter. Thank you for taking the time to see us. Won’t you come in?’
Harry did as she asked. The hallway was narrow, with a low ceiling and whitewashed walls. She wiped her feet and declined an offer to leave her hat and jacket, then followed Miss Longstaff into a small parlour crowded with a pair of faded chintz sofas, several occasional tables and a dark wood dresser against one wall. A fire smouldered in the small fireplace.
‘My parents,’ Esme said as Harry edged her way into the room. ‘Mama and Papa, this is Mr Holmes’ assistant.’
The couple exchanged looks. Anticipating further frowns, Harry strode towards them. ‘R.K.Moss,’ she said again, interjecting as much authority as she could muster into her voice. ‘A pleasure to meet you. Mr Holmes sends his regrets – he’s not as young as he was and doesn’t travel these days. His arthritis, you understand.’
The detail seemed to mollify them. ‘Of course,’ Mr Longstaff said from his position beside the fireplace, and shook Harry’s outstretched hand. ‘We’re grateful you could come.’
Esme shook her head. ‘You must have had a long journey. Can I offer you some tea?’
Somewhat guiltily, Harry recollected her uneventful fifteen-minute drive. But there was no way she could refuse the offer without appearing rude so she smiled. ‘That would be most welcome.’
Once Esme had left the room, Harry turned to her parents, who were older, less vibrant versions of their daughter. Mr Longstaff’s hair was grey, his face lined, but his eyes were the same vivid green as Esme’s. Harry could easily imagine Mrs Longstaff turning heads in her younger years but she now gave the impression of a once-bright painting that had faded with the passing years. ‘Mr Holmes was most distressed to hear of your situation,’ Harry said, surreptitiously crossing her fingers. ‘Perhaps you could give me some background information while we await tea. How long is it exactly since you heard from Mildred?’
Mr Longstaff pressed his lips together. ‘About three months now. She went to London for work, took a job as a maid at a fancy house in a well-to-do area. At first, everything was fine – she wrote twice a week, sent money when she could.’ He fixed Harry with an almost fiery look. ‘We didn’t ask her to – told her not to but she sent it anyway. Said she wanted to help with Esme’s studies.’
