Paige Robin - Death At Epsom Downs

“Very well, then,” Charles said, “if we are not able to learn the veterinary surgeon’s name by other means, we shall travel to Epsom and impose a few questions on Rickaby.” He paused. “I should think a talk with Jesse Clark might be profitable, as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Murray replied. “If he isn’t at the stables, he lodges at Chubbs, on Highgate Street, off Fitzroy Street.”

Bradford looked at Murray. “I say, old man,” he said, bemused, “is there anything at all that you don’t know?”

“Oh, I’m sure, sir,” Murray replied sadly, and applied himself to his sausages.

Her mistress gone to luncheon, Amelia had taken the back stairs down to the butler’s pantry to inquire of Mr. Williams the hours at which tea and dinner would be served, and about the arrangements for breakfast in the mornings, and hot water, and necessary laundry. A few minutes later, the staff of twenty-minus the butler and the footman, who were serving luncheon upstairs-gathered for their own lunch in the servants’ hall, and Amelia joined them. With a quick query, she discovered that Mrs. Langtry’s personal maid was a stout young woman with cheeks like a cottage loaf. Her name was Margaret Simpson, and Amelia took care to sit beside her.

With so many at table and the butler absent, lunch was a noisy affair, the mutton hash being passed, and potatoes and gravy and stewed cabbage, and bread pudding at the end, with plenty of hot coffee. Amelia was grateful for the clatter, since it gave her an opportunity to talk to Margaret, who welcomed her little confidences and seemed flattered by her attention. Amelia understood why, when it emerged that Margaret was not Mrs. Langtry’s personal maid after all, only an upstairs maid who had been temporarily elevated to the position when Mrs. Langtry’s own maid, Dominique, fell ill and was left behind in London.

But this substitution proved a boon, as Amelia discovered, for the gossipy Margaret lacked the tight-lipped loyalty that Dominique would undoubtedly have displayed. Margaret had come to work at Regal Lodge shortly before Mrs. Langtry acquired it, and, with just a little urging, seemed eager to show off her knowledge of the household and its workings. After lunch, she offered to show Amelia around, and the two of them fell into an easy, friendly conversation that grew even more confiding as they went through the belowstairs area-the kitchen, the scullery, the pantries, the laundry-then up the narrow linoleum-covered service stairs to the second floor.

“If you don’t mind my sayin’ so,” Amelia remarked as they climbed, “twenty seems a large staff for this ’ouse. Only five bedrooms upstairs, is it?” She already knew the number of bedrooms, for she had counted the doors on her way to lunch, subtracting one for the service door.

“It is big,” Margaret agreed without rancor. “Until ’is Nibs comes, or Bertie, as she sometimes calls ’im. She calls all the great men by some silly name er other. A bit cheeky, don’t ye think?”

“ ’Is Nibs?” Amelia asked, blinking, as they entered the second-floor hallway. “You mean-” She stopped.

Some three years before, Amelia had attended Lady Charles-Miss Ardleigh, she was at the time-during a visit to the Countess of Warwick’s Easton Lodge, where the Prince of Wales had also been a guest. Amelia had seen and heard the Prince and been much impressed by his stoutness, his gutteral voice, and the curious way he rolled his r s. The servants there-quite disrespectfully, Amelia thought-called the Prince “ ’Is Nibs” and “Bertie” because that was what the countess called him.

“O’ course that’s ’oo I mean,” Margaret said. “When ’e comes, the staff ain’t big enough by ’alf. ’E brings five er six of ’is own servants, and they takes our quarters, so us maids ’as to crowd all in together.” She made a dissatisfied face. “What’s worse, we ’as to wait on them, too, as well as ’im and ’er. Makes fer plenty of ’ard work, b’lieve you me.”

With a flourish, as if this were her own private secret, she opened the nearest door. “This is where ’e sleeps when ’e comes. Mrs. L. too, o’ course.” She pushed Amelia into the room and closed the door behind them. “We shouldn’t be ’ere, so we need t’ be quiet.”

Amelia murmured an appropriate appreciation and looked around, making careful mental notes in case her mistress might want to know what she’d seen-although these intimate details were definitely not the sort that could be shared with the readers of The Strand. Mrs. Langtry’s suite was large and ornately decorated, with Oriental rugs laid over the thick gold carpet, gold damask draperies at the windows, and a pair of matching mirrored dressing tables. Three walls were hung with costly looking Oriental tapestries, while against the fourth stood an enormous four-poster bed with a royal-purple and gold bedspread, the letters HRH and a crown inscribed on it. On one of the dressing tables lay a pair of gold-backed brushes, also inscribed with the letters HRH.

“Oooh…” Amelia breathed a shivery sigh and wrapped her arms around herself. “Oh, to think of it! Right ’ere in this very room!” She gave Margaret an admiring glance. “I’ll bet you could tell a few stories, couldn’t you, now?”

“She’d ’ave me ’ead if I did,” Margaret replied. Her frown was darkly disapproving. “Ye should ’ear ’em in ’ere together, laughin’ an’ rowdyin’ around like a farmer and ’is wife rollin’ in the ’ay wiv the cows lookin’ on. And ’im with a sweet Princess and a sainted mother at ’ome.”

“I ’spose it’s ’cause they’re Quality,” Amelia said, sobered by Margaret’s censure.

“ ’E is,” Margaret said, with emphasis, “so we can’t expect better of ’im. But she’s a parson’s daughter ’oo was raised to know right. She should niver ’ave gone to actin’. That wuz ’er downfall.” She sighed. “While we’re ’ere, you’ll want to see the bath.”

The bathroom was large and bright, its white tile floor and walls sparkling. Like the one in Lady Charles’s suite, it was equipped with a water closet and gas hot-water heater. This bathtub, however, was big enough for an elephant, and the taps were gold, while the thick, luxurious towels were emblazoned in gold with the royal insignia. The two women contemplated the splendor, Margaret with a proprietary, albeit censorious, air, Amelia in outright admiration, wishing that she could show it to Lady Charles.

At last, Amelia turned to Margaret. “Wot’s she like? Mrs. Langtry, I mean.” She put on a starry-eyed look. “I’ve seen ’er on the stage ever so many times, but never thought to be standin’ right ’ere, where she baths.” She grasped Margaret’s hand. “Wot’s she really like, dear?” she asked in a coaxing tone. “Tell me, please.”

“Well,” Margaret said hesitantly, then stopped.

“Tell me, Margaret, you must!” Amelia begged. “Is she kind? Is she as soft and lovely in ’er ’eart as she is in ’er person? She must be soft and lovely,” she added artlessly, “or the Prince wouldn’t love her, now, would ’e?”