chemistry of all the rest is changed. Perhaps ruined . . .
Edith Hankey was staring at May Fawcett as though unable to believe the impertinence of what she had just heard. Finally she burst out: ‘Archibald? You dare to call him Archibald. May Fawcett, how dare you! You never would while he was—’ Her voice wobbled.
Miss Fawcett turned on her with a triumphant, cruel smile. ‘Oh yes, I would. Why not? He was in love with me, see.’
Aha, thought Auguste. Now we shall hear the pheasants fly. The big bang and the birds fly out.
‘May,’ said Chambers sharply.
Auguste’s eyes turned swiftly to him. What was this?
May
, not Miss Fawcett?
Chambers’ intervention was ignored.
Edith Hankey had risen to her feet, to tower in personality if not inches above the girl. ‘You forget your place, my girl. You taken leave of your senses? In love – with you? It was me with what he had an understanding.’
The girl looked at her contemptuously, the crisis having temporarily swept away all thought for the morrow. ‘We was in love. We was going to get married, just as soon as we could get a house on the estate.’
Mrs Hankey’s face was purple. ‘You? You wicked little liar. He was going to marry me, miss.
Me
.’
‘You!’ retorted Miss Fawcett with withering scorn. ‘What would he want you for? A man likes something pretty in his bed, not a ripe old bird like you.’ And with that she burst out crying, while Mrs Hankey was reduced to a quivering jelly of shock and rage.
‘Who cares how he died anyway?’ wept May. ‘He’s dead.’
This realisation subdued Mrs Hankey’s impotent anger and she sat down suddenly, first her chin, then her lips beginning to quiver. Ethel Gubbins rose to her feet and rushed straight to her, casting a scathing look at May.
‘You shouldn’t say such things, Miss Fawcett. You really shouldn’t. We’re all upset . . .’ She put her arm round Mrs Hankey, an action unthinkable in other circumstances. ‘Now you come to my room and lie down, Mrs Hankey. I’ll look after you. A good cry will do you good.’
Another scathing glance, this time delivered at the men, presumably for the uselessness of their sex, and Mrs Hankey was escorted out of her room along the corridor and up to Ethel’s on the first floor. Her footsteps could be heard clicking along the corridor in rhythm with the loud sobs that were now beginning to erupt. The remaining upper servants studiously avoided each other’s eyes. No Greeves. Now no Mrs Hankey. Authority was temporarily mislaid.
Ernest Hobbs, the new power in the land as Greeves’ acting successor, was the first to break the silence. ‘Mr Didier, hrumph, the time.’
Five pairs of eyes went to the small French clock on Mrs Hankey’s mantelpiece. Their owners took in its message simultaneously. Ten minutes to seven.
Five people reached the door almost at the same time. May Fawcett, hastily scrubbing at her face with a handkerchief, was marginally first. ‘Her dress,’ she shrieked. ‘The bath. If that little hussy’s forgotten the water again—’ Her scurrying steps echoed down the corridor, hotly pursued by John Cricket in the pursuit of similar sartorial duties for His Grace.
Auguste Didier was shaken. He had all but forgotten for the first time in his life.
Dinner. It was time for
le Dîner
.
Adjusting his apron and his cap, Auguste paused at the entrance to the vast kitchen to survey his kingdom. He was tall for a Frenchman, five foot nine inches, and slim for a cook. To his staff he was a god and to the females on it a double god, for his dark, warm French eyes breathed an exoticism into their humdrum lives. Today this god would have news of The Murder, for such the lower servants were now convinced it must be. They had not seen him yet, his assistants. They were moving without that air of total dedication, so necessary for perfection. He frowned. The familiar blast of warmth from the ranges and gas stoves hit him, acting as a
Edith Hankey was staring at May Fawcett as though unable to believe the impertinence of what she had just heard. Finally she burst out: ‘Archibald? You dare to call him Archibald. May Fawcett, how dare you! You never would while he was—’ Her voice wobbled.
Miss Fawcett turned on her with a triumphant, cruel smile. ‘Oh yes, I would. Why not? He was in love with me, see.’
Aha, thought Auguste. Now we shall hear the pheasants fly. The big bang and the birds fly out.
‘May,’ said Chambers sharply.
Auguste’s eyes turned swiftly to him. What was this?
May
, not Miss Fawcett?
Chambers’ intervention was ignored.
Edith Hankey had risen to her feet, to tower in personality if not inches above the girl. ‘You forget your place, my girl. You taken leave of your senses? In love – with you? It was me with what he had an understanding.’
The girl looked at her contemptuously, the crisis having temporarily swept away all thought for the morrow. ‘We was in love. We was going to get married, just as soon as we could get a house on the estate.’
Mrs Hankey’s face was purple. ‘You? You wicked little liar. He was going to marry me, miss.
Me
.’
‘You!’ retorted Miss Fawcett with withering scorn. ‘What would he want you for? A man likes something pretty in his bed, not a ripe old bird like you.’ And with that she burst out crying, while Mrs Hankey was reduced to a quivering jelly of shock and rage.
‘Who cares how he died anyway?’ wept May. ‘He’s dead.’
This realisation subdued Mrs Hankey’s impotent anger and she sat down suddenly, first her chin, then her lips beginning to quiver. Ethel Gubbins rose to her feet and rushed straight to her, casting a scathing look at May.
‘You shouldn’t say such things, Miss Fawcett. You really shouldn’t. We’re all upset . . .’ She put her arm round Mrs Hankey, an action unthinkable in other circumstances. ‘Now you come to my room and lie down, Mrs Hankey. I’ll look after you. A good cry will do you good.’
Another scathing glance, this time delivered at the men, presumably for the uselessness of their sex, and Mrs Hankey was escorted out of her room along the corridor and up to Ethel’s on the first floor. Her footsteps could be heard clicking along the corridor in rhythm with the loud sobs that were now beginning to erupt. The remaining upper servants studiously avoided each other’s eyes. No Greeves. Now no Mrs Hankey. Authority was temporarily mislaid.
Ernest Hobbs, the new power in the land as Greeves’ acting successor, was the first to break the silence. ‘Mr Didier, hrumph, the time.’
Five pairs of eyes went to the small French clock on Mrs Hankey’s mantelpiece. Their owners took in its message simultaneously. Ten minutes to seven.
Five people reached the door almost at the same time. May Fawcett, hastily scrubbing at her face with a handkerchief, was marginally first. ‘Her dress,’ she shrieked. ‘The bath. If that little hussy’s forgotten the water again—’ Her scurrying steps echoed down the corridor, hotly pursued by John Cricket in the pursuit of similar sartorial duties for His Grace.
Auguste Didier was shaken. He had all but forgotten for the first time in his life.
Dinner. It was time for
le Dîner
.
Adjusting his apron and his cap, Auguste paused at the entrance to the vast kitchen to survey his kingdom. He was tall for a Frenchman, five foot nine inches, and slim for a cook. To his staff he was a god and to the females on it a double god, for his dark, warm French eyes breathed an exoticism into their humdrum lives. Today this god would have news of The Murder, for such the lower servants were now convinced it must be. They had not seen him yet, his assistants. They were moving without that air of total dedication, so necessary for perfection. He frowned. The familiar blast of warmth from the ranges and gas stoves hit him, acting as a
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