Page 8 of The Missing Maid
‘Excellent,’ Harry said, and started towards the stone staircase. ‘Thanks again, Seb. You’re a good sport.’
On the drive back from the village, Harry had decided an indirect approach would work best with Lady Finchem. If she arrived on her Mayfair doorstep as R.K.Moss, demanding information about a disgraced maid, she would not get very far and ran the risk of drawing attention to both herself and her investigation. But if she called on behalf of her grandmother, Baroness Abinger, the door was certain to be opened and an audience granted with Lady Finchem herself. Before that, however, Harry needed more background and there was no one better to consult than her own mother. Evelyn White’s knowledge of London society was encyclopaedic; even a whisper of scandal would not have escaped her gimlet gaze.
The entrance hall was empty when Harry pushed back the door, its spotless tiled floor gleaming in the sunlight. The air was rich with the scent of furniture polish and roses, a particular mix that always told Harry she was home. A grand staircase embraced the wood-panelled walls, curving upwards to split left and right, its red carpet adding a vibrant splash of colour, and a magnificent chandelier hung from the beamed ceiling. Once upon a time Harry supposed it must have been lit with candles – she could only imagine what a pain it had been to tend. Craning her head back, she allowed herself to be distracted by the sunbeams dancing on the crystals. And then a door opened and the butler materialised.
‘Hello, Chesterton, I was just about to call for you,’ Harry said.
‘Indeed, Miss White,’ he replied with his usual impeccable politeness. ‘How may I help?’
‘I’m looking for my mother. Have you seen her?’
Chesterton nodded. ‘I believe she is in the library. Shall I have some tea sent up?’
‘Maybe later,’ Harry said, reaching up to unpin her hat. ‘Thanks, though.’
She found her mother exactly where Chesterton had suggested she would, curled up on a sofa with one of the family’s two Labradors at her side. Tiggy’s tail thumped lazily when Harry approached but she didn’t get up and Harry could hardly blame her; a spot by the fire was not to be relinquished lightly. Winston did get up and bounded over to greet her, ever hopeful that there might be a treat in his immediate future. Harry ruffled his golden ears and surreptitiously fed him one of the biscuits she always kept handy when she was at home. Both Tiggy and Winston were supposed to be working dogs but neither had displayed the least inclination to retrieve anything other than a ball, and they were now beloved pets.
‘You’ll make him fat,’ Evelyn said, as Tiggy raised her glossy black head to fix Harry with a reproachful look.
‘He walks too much for that,’ Harry replied, crossing to offer the second biscuit to Tiggy. ‘They both do.’
The library was one of Harry’s favourite rooms. Lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that carried an answer to almost any question, and a thousand stories besides, it usually had a roaring fire in the grate and somehow seemed to retain its warmth even on the coldest winter day. It was no hardship to sink onto the settee opposite her mother and absorb the peace of the room. No hardship, that was, until Evelyn raised her blue-eyed gaze from the book she had been reading and fixed Harry with a penetrative stare. ‘The Honeywells said they invited you to dinner last week but you declined on the grounds of ill health. Is anything the matter?’
Harry picked at a loose thread on the arm of the settee. ‘There’s nothing the matter with me but Julian Honeywell is an insufferable bore and his wife drinks too much.’
Her mother tutted. ‘Most of the people I know fall into one of those categories.’ She paused. ‘Many of them fall into both. But I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the Honeywells have a sizeable estate in Hampshire, as well as a son just a few years older than you.’
Subtlety had never been her mother’s strong point but this was flagrant even for her. ‘Good for them,’ Harry said evenly. ‘I’m still not going to dinner with them, much less marrying poor Philip, so you can stop scheming. Apart from anything else, you know very well that I’d have to give up work if I ever got married.’
‘Would that be so terrible, darling?’ Evelyn’s eyes were wide. ‘I know you modern girls value your independence and I really do applaud you for sticking it out so long, but surely the novelty is wearing off now. Aren’t you just a tiny bit bored?’
Harry’s thoughts flew instantly to the multitude of unanswered letters, to the standard reply she typed out over and over each day. The correspondents themselves weren’t boring – she was often amused, shocked and horrified by their scandalous accusations and desperate entreaties – but she had to concede the work itself was not diverting. If it hadn’t been for her steely determination not to allow Mr Pemberton to get the better of her, she might have resigned weeks ago. And yet if she had, she wouldn’t have discovered the letter from Esme Longstaff, which was proving to be anything but boring. She shook her head. ‘No.’
Evelyn studied her steadfast expression for a moment, then sighed. ‘I can see there’s still no reasoning with you. But there’s no need to cut your nose off – why not accept the odd evening invitation? I’m sure Lawrence or Sebastian would be happy to accompany you when they’re in town.’
Harry almost laughed. She could imagine how thrilled her elder brothers would be at the thought of being dragged todinner with the insufferable Honeywells. Their evening plans were more likely to involve one of the new nightclubs that seemed to be springing up everywhere, and Harry would rather not know what went on there. It was time to change the subject, she decided. ‘Speaking of invitations, do you know much about the Finchems?’
The conversational leap was clumsy enough to make Harry wince but her mother didn’t seem to notice. ‘Henry Finchem drinks too much and his wife is an insufferable bore. But they’re very well connected – Henry is in the House of Lords and has a house on Farm Street, as well as an estate in Wiltshire and something in Scotland.’ She tapped her book thoughtfully. ‘Old money. Two grown-up sons, as I recall.’
Was that why the housekeeper hadn’t called the police? Harry pondered as she filed the new information away. Perhaps Lord Finchem’s role in Westminster made him wary of the inevitable publicity that would arise from a police investigation. ‘Are Lord and Lady Finchem in London currently?’
‘I imagine so. Parliament has been awash with debate about the hunger marches, if the newspapers are to be believed, and Lady Finchem revels in feeling important. She’ll be in London all right.’ Evelyn raised a curious brow. ‘Why do you ask?’
Harry smoothed her skirt. ‘They came up in conversation,’ she said carelessly. ‘I forget where but I thought I might see if Lady Finchem wanted to contribute to Grandmother’s charity efforts.’
‘Probably,’ Evelyn said, shrugging. ‘Although I can’t see why you’d start with the Finchems. There are plenty of society ladies who would fall over themselves for an excuse to drop the Abinger name into polite conversation. Eugenia Honeywell, for example.’
Her mother’s determination to pair her off with the first man she deemed eligible made Harry want to grind her teeth. But perhaps it was something she could use. ‘Two sons, did you say?’
She watched her mother through her lashes, waiting to see if the bait would be taken, and was gratified to see the line twitch. ‘Then again, why not set your sights high?’ Evelyn said. ‘I’m sure Lady Finchem would be happy to help. Let me see now, tea at the Ritz is always a good idea.’
It undoubtedly was, Harry thought, but it wouldn’t allow her to visit the scene of the crime. ‘I’d be happy to call on her in Mayfair,’ she said. ‘You can tell so much about a family from their home, don’t you think? The family as a whole.’
Once again, the inference was not missed. Evelyn’s eyes gleamed with a faraway look, causing Harry to wonder whether she was imagining a romantic first encounter with the Finchem heir in the hallway. ‘I’ll write to Phyllida immediately,’ she said, and paused. ‘Shall I join you? Good first impressions are so important, after all.’
‘No!’ Harry hoped she didn’t sound as alarmed as she felt – she could hardly draw the conversation round to Mildred with her mother breathing down her neck. ‘I mean, of course they are but I think I can manage to take tea without embarrassing myself or the Abinger name.’
For a moment, Evelyn looked doubtful, then she smiled. ‘Of course you can, darling. Do wear something smart, however – perhaps the blue hat with the peacock feather? It brings out your eyes so beautifully.’
