Buckingham Palace Gardens (8 page)

All the same, she would rather have told him now. He was a good sleuth, really good. He would have done this far better than she. But he despised being in service. They had had lots of arguments about it. She thought it was just silly pride to prefer being cold and hungry, living in some rot-smelling rooms and drinking water from a well that might not even be clean, just to say for yourself whether you came or went. Better to have a warm room, good food every day, and be as safe as anybody is, at the price of being told what to do.

Everybody had to obey rules, no matter who you were. They were just different sorts of rules. He couldn't see that. Stubborn, he was. But then she wouldn't really want him much different, even if more sensible. She smiled in the dark as she thought of him. She would be able to tell him all about it soon. She would make notes, just to remind herself—about the Palace, not the detecting. That was secret from everybody—except Mr. Pitt, of course.

She must have finally gone to sleep because she was jolted awake by a knock on the door, and a moment later Norah was standing by her bed with a candle in her hand. She waited until Gracie actually climbed out and stood up in her nightgown, bare feet on the floor.

“Can't 'ave yer late on yer first day,” she said cheerfully, and, satisfied, turned to leave. “Breakfast's in the servants' 'all at 'alf-past six. Don't miss it or yer'll be 'ungry.”

Gracie thanked her, then she poured the water she had fetched the night before. She set about getting ready, as well as she could, in both body and mind.

The uniform dress was a trifle large, especially around the waist, but with the apron tied it looked very smart. It was perfectly ironed, with not a suspicion of a crease, and the lace was as good as a lady's. The cap felt uncomfortable, but when she peered at herself in the small glass on top of the chest of drawers, she was surprised how much she liked the look of it. She was self-conscious, but rather pleased all the same.

The servants' hall was less grand than she had imagined it, and considerably more utilitarian, but then she had never worked anywhere but in the Pitts' house. Her visions of large and wealthy establishments was based solely upon Charlotte's sister's house, where she had stayed briefly several years ago. The Palace was somewhat similar, and that was in a way comforting. The large beams across the ceiling were also hung with dried herbs, and there were polished copper pans and utensils on the farther wall.

There were a dozen other people there, including Ada, who was pretty and very smart in a clean black dress, which flattered the curves of her figure. Her lace-edged apron was tied tightly around her waist. Gracie was shown her place at the table and joined them silently. Mr. Tyndale stood at the head, Mrs. Newsome at the foot. Mr. Tyndale waited a moment while everyone composed themselves, then he offered the daily prayer. He hesitated before the end, and Gracie, with her eyes closed, wondered if he was going to mention the dead woman, but had changed his mind.

They all obediently sat down and were served with porridge, then toast and jam and tea. She had expected more conversation. Were they always as subdued as this, or was it because of the murder? How much did they know about it? She watched them guardedly as she ate, trying not to be observed doing so.

“Is them police still 'ere?” one of the maids asked nervously.

“'Course they are!” a dark-haired footman told her. “They're gonna be 'ere till they find which o' the guests killed 'er, aren't they!” That was a challenge, not a question.

“An' 'ow are they goin' ter do that, then?” Ada asked him. “Nobody saw it, or we'd know already, wouldn't we!”

“I dunno!” the footman said sharply. “I in't a policeman, am I! They gotta 'ave ways.”

Gracie plunged in. “I 'spect they'll ask questions.”

“Well, you don't 'ave ter worry.” The footman grinned. “It weren't none of us. One o' the gentlemen's gentlemen was up 'alf the night, an' 'e swears as none of us came down the stairs.”

“You watch yourself, Edwards,” Mr. Tyndale said warningly. “You're a bit too free with your comments.”

“Sorry, Mr. Tyndale,” the footman apologized quickly, but he was looking at Gracie under his lashes.

“Of course it wasn't one of us,” Mrs. Newsome added. “Nobody ever entertained such an idea.”

“I entertained a few ideas,” Ada said under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Newsome put down her knife and regarded Ada coldly.

“I wouldn't entertain the idea, ma'am,” Ada replied with practiced innocence.

Someone giggled.

“Am I going to have to require you to leave the table?” Mrs. Newsome said frostily.

“No, ma'am,” Ada whispered.

The rest of the meal was concluded in silence. Finally they were told they might leave. Gracie excused herself, aware that both Mr. Tyndale and Mrs. Newsome were watching her, although for entirely different reasons.

It was Ada's task to look after her, tell her what to do and show her where to begin. Either she was fortunate or Mr. Tyndale had seen to it that she was employed in the guests' area of the wing rather than the kitchens or the laundry. First they collected all the appropriate brooms, brushes, pans, dusters, and polish they would need, then went up the stairs to begin.

“We gotta clean the sitting room and the bedrooms,” Ada told her. “'Course, we gotta be sure as the guests in't in there, nor their maids neither.”

“Do they all have their own maids?” Gracie asked.

Ada gave her a withering look. “'Course they do! Where d'yer come from then?”

Gracie wished she had bitten her tongue before she spoke. She changed the subject very quickly. They were in the long upstairs corridor. She looked around in awe, not quite sure what she expected. It was spacious, with a higher ceiling than anywhere she had been before, and all decorated with elaborate gilded plaster, but other than that it was not unusual. There were no crowns in the plaster molding, no footmen in their dark livery and white gloves waiting for orders; in fact, no one else at all. It was completely silent. One of the doors was narrower than the others.

“Is that the cupboard there?” she asked in a whisper.

Ada gave a convulsive shudder. “Yeah. We can't go inter it, thanks be ter Gawd. I'd faint at the thought, I would. But it means we gotta bring all the linen up fresh from the laundry every day, which is all more work.” She looked Gracie up and down. “You in't never seen nothing like the work there is 'ere. We gotta do the sittin' room first, before any o' them gets up an' wants it.”

She started walking again. “Come on, then! The gentlemen was in it last night an' we never got to finish it 'cos o' bein' asked questions all day by that police. Scruffy lookin' object 'e is, an' all. Must 'ave a wife wi' two left 'ands, by the look of 'is shirt collar. Still, I s'pose 'e were clean enough, an' that's more'n 'e might a' bin.”

Gracie resented the slur on Pitt's shirts bitterly, but she could hardly say so. She had ironed them herself, and they had been perfect when he put them on.

They were in the sitting room now and Ada looked around critically. “Smells summink awful, don't it? It's them cigars Mr. Dunkeld 'as. I dunno 'ow 'is wife stands it. 'E must taste like dirt.”

“I don't s'pose she's got no choice,” Gracie replied. Pitt did not smoke and she was aware of the heavy, stale odor here. It was a beautiful room, floored with ancient wood worn rich and dark with time and polish. Rows of huge, gold-framed portraits and still-life paintings hung on the walls. There was a magnificent fireplace with an ornate, carved, and inlaid marble mantel and a considerable number of heavy sofas and armchairs. There were small wooden tables here and there for convenience, and their polished tops were as bright as satin, except for the odd one soiled by wet glasses or ash. There was also ash in several places on the carpet, and at least one stain as if something dark like wine had been spilled.

Ada noted Gracie's stare. “You should've seen it the night o' their ‘party,'” she said with a curl of her lip. “In't nothing now.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Well, don't stand there gawpin' at it! Get on wi' cleanin' it up.”

“Wot is it?” Gracie asked, looking at the stain, her imagination racing. Wine? Blood?

“That in't none o' your business!” Ada snapped. “You work 'ere, Miss Pious. Yer gotta learn ter keep yer opinions ter yerself an' don' ask no questions. There's two sets o' rules in life: one for them, an' one for us, an' don't you never forget it. Don't matter wot you think. Understand?”

Gracie drew herself up stiffly. Already she did not like Ada, but that was unimportant. She was here to help Pitt, and Mr. Narraway. “I don't care 'ow it got there,” she said coldly. “I gotta know wot it is ter get it out proper. Is it wine, or coffee, or blood—or wot is it?”

“Oh.” Ada looked somewhat mollified. “That's 'is nibs' favorite chair, so it'll be brandy, I 'spect. Soap an' water'll do most things, baking soda for smells, an' tea leaves for general dust an' stuff.”

“I know that,” Gracie said with dignity, then instantly regretted it. She might need Ada's help later on. It almost choked her to apologize. “Not that I in't grateful ter be told,” she added. “I wouldn't want ter do it wrong.”

“Yer wouldn't, an' all,” Ada agreed heartily. “Mrs. Newsome'd 'ave yer! An' don't dawdle around. We in't got all day. They won't all be stayin' in their rooms till luncheon today. We got catchin' up ter do.”

Gracie bent obediently and set about lifting stains, sweeping up ash, polishing wood and marble, while Ada spread the damp tea leaves all over the rugs to absorb the dust, and then swept them all up again.

Gracie looked at the fireplace. It was tidy enough because there were no fires necessary in sitting rooms at this time of year, but the marble did not look clean. Should she say so, or would it be viewed as criticism of Ada's skills?

“Wot yer staring at?” Ada demanded. “Won't do itself!”

“Is that good enough?” Gracie gestured toward the marble.

“It'll 'ave ter be,” Ada replied. “Takes a day or two to do it proper. Got ter leave the paste on. Can't 'ave that when we got guests.”

“Wot d'yer do it with?” Gracie asked.

Ada sighed impatiently. “Soap lees, turpentine, pipe clay, and bullock's gall. Don't yer know nothing, then?”

“I do it with soda, pumice stone, an' chalk mixed wi' water,” Gracie replied. “Comes up straightaway.”

“Ain't you the smart one!” Ada was clearly annoyed. “An' if it stains it worse, oo's gonna get the blame, eh? This is Buckingham Palace, miss. We do things the right way 'ere. Don't you touch that fireplace 'ceptin' wi' wot I tell yer. D'you 'ear me?”

Gracie swallowed. “Yes.”

“Yer do all the light mantels, an' make sure yer do 'em proper,” Ada said, pointing to the glass over the gaslamps. “I want 'em like crystal, right? No marks, no smears, no scratches. An' if you break one yer'll pay for it out o' yer wages…fer the next year!” She stood with her arms folded, watching until Gracie picked up the cloth again and began to work.

Gracie knew she had made an enemy. It was a bad start. Her mind raced as to what on earth Mr. Narraway thought she could do to help Pitt. She knew very well that over a length of time servants learned a lot about their masters, or mistresses. You saw faults and weaknesses, you learned to know what people were frightened of, what they avoided because they could not face it, and what made them laugh. You certainly knew who they liked and who they did not. It was easy with women. How a woman dressed and how long she took to do it, how many times she changed her mind, told you all kinds of things.

But was that any use?

A servant could watch people in unguarded moments. Having a servant in the room was regarded as being alone. But how long would she have to spend coming and going, fetching things, cleaning and tidying up, before she saw or heard anything that mattered?

It was a horrid realization, being as unimportant as a piece of furniture. It meant people didn't care in the slightest what you thought of them. She imagined what Samuel would say! Charlotte Pitt had never treated her like that.

But one of these wealthy and important men was a lunatic who mutilated women and left them bleeding to death in cupboards. She felt shivery and a little sick at the thought. Like a picture flashing before her mind came the memory of finding that terrible body in Mitre Square. She had never been so frightened in her life. That was ripped open too, like the other Whitechapel victims. Why did anybody do something like that?

“'Urry up!” Ada said peremptorily. “We gotta be out of 'ere before anyone wants ter use it, an' we ain't nowhere near finished yet. Get them dirty dusters up, an' them glasses. Make sure there in't no rings left on the tabletops, or Mrs. Newsome'll 'ave yer skin.”

“There's a scratch on the top over there,” Gracie pointed out, indicating an elegant Sheraton table.

“Yeah. Done it the other night when their tarts was 'ere.” Ada's voice was sharp with disapproval. “Dunno why they can't just keep 'em in the bedroom. In't like they could sing, or nothin'.”

“Do you like working here?” Gracie said quickly.

Ada looked surprised. “'Course I do! Meet some very good sort o' people. Never know where it could take yer, if yer lucky and play yer 'and right.”

“Where could yer work better than 'ere?” Gracie was amazed.

“Not work, yer dozy cow!” Ada said in disgust. “Yer wanter work all yer life? I wanter marry someone with a nice steady job an' 'ave an 'ouse o' me own. No one ter tell me when ter get up an' when ter go ter bed.”