Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

‘You bring ’er back ’ere by ’alf-past five, you ’ear me, young man? I don’t care ’oo you are, special police or not,’ the cook said fiercely, staring at Stoker as if he were an errant bootboy.

Stoker smiled, but Maisie got the answer in before he could speak.

‘Yes, Cook. Mr Stoker’s a Special Branch policeman. ’E wouldn’t never do nothing wrong.’ She lifted her chin up even higher and met Cook’s eyes directly, something she would not normally dare to do. But today she was in her best dress, the only one that she never used for work. The footman had polished her boots for her until the cat could see its face reflected in them. Mrs Kynaston’s new lady’s maid had put her hair up so that it was tidy, even at the back where she couldn’t see it herself. She was going out to tea with Mr Stoker, to be asked some important questions, so important they couldn’t be asked where other people might overhear them.

Stoker became serious again. ‘We shall have tea, and then I shall bring her back,’ he promised.

Cook gave Maisie a stern warning. ‘You be’ave, Maisie. Don’t you go gettin’ ideas above yourself or givin’ no cheek, you understand? And if you go repeating gossip what’s none o’ your business, you’ll find yourself out on the street with no place. You watch your tongue, and that imagination o’ yours.’

‘Yes, Cook. I won’t say nothin’ at all but the truth.’ Then, without waiting for the Cook to add anything more, she turned and walked away, her chin high, her back as straight as if she had been carrying books on her head.

Suddenly Stoker wished he had had a daughter. An old love of his had wanted to marry and settle down. She had been pretty, with dark eyes like this odd little scullery maid’s. Stoker had been frightened by the idea of such responsibility. He had hesitated too long. By the time he had come back from the voyage Mary had found someone else. It had hurt for a long time.

He caught up with Maisie and they walked together, he being careful not to outpace her. They went down Shooters Hill Road towards Blackheath until they came to the tea shop, where he had already reserved a table for them.

‘This yours, then?’ she asked as he pulled out the chair and she sat down, more than a little self-consciously arranging her skirts.

‘For now it is,’ he told her. ‘Would you like tea? And some cakes?’

She was too impressed to speak as the waitress stood ready to take their order. She had never been waited on before, or called ‘Miss’.

‘Tea for two, and your best cakes, please,’ Stoker requested. He was loath to admit it, but he was enjoying himself. But time was short, and he had a lot to ask her. He could not afford to wait until they began tea.

‘We found a hat up at the gravel pit we thought was Kitty’s,’ he began. ‘But then we learned that it wasn’t. Some stupid man put it there on purpose, just to get himself noticed.’

Maisie frowned. ‘That’s wicked. ’E just wanted ter make us all scared and sad, so’s ’e’d be talked about? Is ’e daft, or summink?’

‘I’d say so. But we found the receipt for the hat, and for the red feather, so we know it wasn’t hers.’

Her eyes were bright. ‘So mebbe she in’t dead, then?’

‘I’m going to believe she isn’t,’ he said firmly.

‘But some poor cow is, eh?’ She bit her lip. ‘An’ yer still gotter find out ’oo she is, an’ ’oo done that to ’er?’

‘If it isn’t Kitty, and isn’t anything to do with the Kynaston household, then it’s the police’s job to find out,’ he replied.

‘’Cos you’re special, right?’

He drew in breath to explain it a little less self-importantly but, seeing her bright face, changed his mind.

‘Something like that,’ he agreed awkwardly. ‘But I still want to find Kitty, and prove she’s alive.’

She put her head a little to one side. ‘Ter save Mr Kynaston?’

He found himself slightly uncomfortable. Her eyes were bright, almost black, and both quick and innocent at the same time. He hesitated as to how he should answer her. He needed information from her, and yet she was second-guessing him. If she caught him in any deception at all he would lose her trust, and therefore her honesty. He would also find that painful. He was getting soft.

‘Mostly,’ he agreed. ‘But I’d like to find Kitty just to know she’s all right as well.’

The tea came, with a whole plate full of little cakes and pastries. Maisie looked at them, then up at Stoker, then back at the plate.

‘Which one would you like?’ he asked.

‘The chocolate one,’ she said instantly, then blushed. ‘’Course, if you like it, the one with the pink sugar on it’d be all right.’

He made a note not to take the one with the pink icing, which he rather liked the look of too.

‘I’ll take the apple tart,’ he assured her. ‘You begin with the chocolate.’ He considered asking her if she would pour the tea, then changed his mind. He did ask her how she liked hers, and then poured for each of them.

She ate the chocolate cake slowly, savouring each mouthful.

‘To find Kitty, I need to know more about her,’ he began. ‘I know a few things. She could sing really nicely. She liked the sea, and ships, and used to collect pictures of ships from all over the world — with different kinds of sails.’

Maisie nodded with her mouth full. As soon as she had swallowed she answered. ‘Real clever with ’er ’ands, she was. Course, bein’ a lady’s maid an’ all, she could sew real well, even mend lace when it got tore.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Please find ’er, mister. Tell us she’s all right … I mean … alive, an’ well …’

‘I will,’ he promised, and knew even as he was saying it how rash he was being.

Maisie sniffed. ‘P’raps she just went off wi’ that great dollop, ’Arry. D’yer think?’ She looked at the last piece of the chocolate cake on the plate. ‘But why couldn’t she ’ave told us? Why don’t she even write a letter, nor nothing?’

‘Are you sure she can write?’ he asked.

‘Yeah! She used ter write lists an’ things. She were teachin’ me.’ She looked again at the last piece of her cake.

‘Why don’t you finish that, and then take the pink one?’ he suggested. ‘I’m going to have that one with the raisins.’

She looked at him to make sure he meant it, then did as he said, taking a delicate sip of her tea in between.

He hid his smile. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe he should be looking not for where Kitty would go, but for where Harry Dobson would choose.

‘What was he like, this … dollop?’ he asked.

Maisie giggled at his use of her word. ‘’E were all right. Crazy about Kitty, ’e were. Thought as the sun shone out of ’er eyes. An’ I s’pose that’s worth something, in’t it? She just smiled at ’im, an’ ’e were made.’

‘But he wouldn’t suit you?’ he concluded. ‘Why not?’

She looked down at the pink-iced cake, a little embarrassed. ‘I in’t never goin’ ter be pretty like ’er, but I want ter better meself, all the same. I’d want someone wi’ a bit o’ fire, like; someone as wouldn’t let me run rings around ’im.’ She stopped, ashamed of her words. It was too self-revealing to say what she meant to somebody who didn’t know her — or any man at all, for that matter.

‘You might have to work hard to find someone you couldn’t run rings around Maisie,’ Stoker warned. ‘But I heard that Kitty was ambitious too. Was that wrong?’

Maisie sighed. ‘I s’pose when yer fall in love yer kind o’ lose yer wits. Least that’s wot they say.’ She bit into the pink cake, then looked at it. ‘This ’as got cream in it, all squashy and sweet.’