wiv all the important news, about the deficit and unemployment, and about Mr. Gandhi’s walk to the sea for salt. All the papers ’ad the murder story, wiv all the ’orrible details. Would’ve turned anyone off their breakfast.”
Maisie tapped her pencil on the palm of her hand. Billy said nothing, knowing that Maisie was disengaging her mind from his. She looked out of the window at the evening sky. Perhaps it wasn’t such a coincidence that Billy had mentioned Mr. Gandhi. Khan had spoken of the man and his idea of
CHAPTER FOUR
The previous September Lady Rowan had insisted that Maisie leave the rented bed-sitting room next to her Warren Street office and live in their Belgravia mansion’s second-floor apartment. At first Maisie declined, for she had been a resident of the house before, when she came to live in the servants’ quarters at the age of thirteen. And though the veil of class distinction that separated Maisie and her employer had been lifted over the years—especially as Lady Rowan became more involved in sponsoring Maisie’s education—the memory of those early days in their relationship lingered like a faint scent in the air. The offer was well meant, yet Maisie feared that the change in status might be difficult. Finally, however, she had allowed herself to be persuaded.
One evening just after taking up residence, Maisie had waited until the downstairs staff were having a cup of nighttime cocoa in the kitchen, then quietly slipped through the door on the landing that led to the back stairs. She made her way up to the servants’ quarters, to the room she’d occupied when she first came to 15 Ebury Place. The furniture was covered in sheets, as the girls who usually slept in this room were currently at Chelstone, the Comptons’ country estate in Kent. Maisie sat on the cast-iron-framed bed she had once wearily climbed into every night, with work-worn hands and an aching back. It was Enid she thought of, her friend and fellow servant who had left the Compton’s employ to seek more lucrative work in a munitions factory in late 1914. Maisie had seen her for the last time in April 1915, just a few hours before she was killed in an explosion at the factory.
Maisie consulted her watch. She had to hurry. She wanted to look her best to gain an audience with the possibly indisposed Mrs. Fisher, and to do that she must appear on a social par with her.
She had purchased several new items of clothing recently, an expenditure that nagged at her, for she was not given to frivolous spending. But as Lady Rowan pointed out, “It’s all very well wearing those plain clothes while you’re snooping around London or tramping through a field, but you’ve important clients who will want to know they are dealing with someone successful!”
So Maisie had invested in the burgundy ensemble that subsequently seemed to pick up lint all too quickly, a black dress suitable for day or early-evening wear, and the deep-plum-colored suit she now laid out on the bed. The long-line jacket had a shawl collar that extended down to a single button at just below waist level and set to one side. Maisie chose a plain cream silk blouse with a jewel neckline to wear under the jacket, and a string of pearls with matching earrings. The jacket cuffs bore only one button, and revealed just a half inch of silk at each wrist. The matching knife-pleated skirt fell just below the knee. The cost of her silk stockings made her shudder as she put them on. She took care to lick her fingers quickly before running her hand through each stocking, to prevent a hangnail catching and causing an unsightly pull.
Maisie drew the line at matching shoes for each outfit, instead selecting her best plain black pair with a single strap that extended across her instep and buttoned with a square black button. The heels were a modest one-and- a-half inches.
She collected her black shoulder bag, her document case, an umbrella— just in case—and her new plum- colored hat with a black ribbon band gathered in a simple rosette at the side. The cloche she’d worn for some time now seemed tired, and though perfectly serviceable for an ordinary day’s work, would not do today. This hat had a slightly broader, more fashionable brim, and revealed more of her face and midnight blue eyes. Maisie took care to pin back any tendrils of hair that looked as if they might creep out and go astray.
Maisie set off to walk to Cheyne Mews, exercise she enjoyed, for this morning the sky was robin’s-egg blue, the sun was shining, and though she passed only a few people, they smiled readily and wished her a good morning. Gradually the number of pedestrians thinned out, until Maisie was the only person making her way along the avenue. A light breeze ran though the trees, causing newly unfolded leaves to rustle, and she was suddenly aware of a chill in the air, a chill so strong that it caused her to stop. She rubbed her arms and shivered. A sensation seemed to run across the back of her neck, as if an icy finger had been drawn from just below one earlobe across to the other, and Maisie was so sure someone was standing behind her that she turned quickly. But there was no one.
She was quite cold by the time she reached 9 Cheyne Mews, a typical mews house in which horses had once been stabled, facing a brick street. Now the only means of transportation evident to Maisie was a sleek new Lagonda parked outside the Fisher residence. She knew from George, the Comptons’ chauffeur, who regularly regaled her with news of the latest automobile inventions, that this was an exclusive motor car, capable of more than ninety miles per hour. The Lagonda had been parked without due care; one of the front wheels rested on the narrow pavement. Unlike the neighboring houses, the three-storey house was plain, unadorned by windowboxes. There was just one step up to the front door. Maisie rang the bell and waited for the maid to answer. When no one came, Maisie rang the bell again and then a third time, at which point the door finally opened.
“Sorry M’um. Begging your pardon for keeping you waiting.” The young maid was flushed and in tears.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Fisher.” Maisie inclined her head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, M’um.” Her bottom lip trembled. “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure.” She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her lace apron and dabbed her eyes.
“What is it?” Maisie placed a hand on the maid’s shoulder, a move that caused the girl to break down completely.
“Let’s get you inside, and then tell me what’s wrong.”
Standing in the narrow hallway, the maid blurted out her fears. “Well, the lady hasn’t got up yet, and I’m new here, see, and the cook, who knows her better than me, doesn’t get here till half past eleven. The lady told me yesterday afternoon that she didn’t want to be disturbed until nine this morning, and look at the time now! I’ve knocked and knocked, and I know she had a drink or two yesterday afternoon, and I know she would’ve kept going—I’ve learned that already—and she’s got a temper on her if she’s crossed, but she did say—”
“Now then, calm down and show me to her room.”
The maid looked doubtful, but when Maisie informed her that she had once been a nurse, the maid nodded, rubbed her swollen eyes, and led Maisie up a flight of stairs to the first floor where the main reception and bedrooms were situated. She stopped outside a carved door that looked as if it might have been brought from an
