The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [230]
Phillips stalked from one room to another, grand and grim. Mrs. Boden said the poor man had taken it very hard that such a thing should happen in his household. Since it was obviously not one of the family, to which no one replied, obviously it must be one of the servants—which automatically meant someone he had hired.
Mrs. Willis’s icy look stopped any speculation she overheard. It was indecent and complete nonsense. The police were quite incompetent, or they would know perfectly well it couldn’t be anyone in the house. To discuss such a thing would only frighten the younger girls and was quite irresponsible. Anyone overheard being so foolish would be disciplined appropriately.
Of course this stopped no one who was minded to indulge in a little gossip, which was all the maids, to the endless patronizing comments of the male staff, who had quite as much to say but were less candid about it. It reached a peak at tea time in the servants’ hall.
“I think it was Mr. Thirsk, when ’e was drunk,” Sal said with a toss of her head. “I know ’e takes port from the cellar, an’ no good sayin’ ’e doesn’t!”
“Lot o’ nonsense,” Lizzie dismissed with scorn. “He’s ever such a gentleman. And what would he do such a thing for, may I ask?”
“Sometimes I wonder where you grew up.” Gladys glanced over her shoulder to make sure Mrs. Boden was nowhere in earshot. She leaned forward over the table, her cup of tea at her elbow. “Don’t you know anything?”
“She works downstairs!” Mary hissed back at her. “Downstairs people never know half what upstairs people do.”
“Go on then,” Rose challenged. “Who do you think did it?”
“Mrs. Sandeman, in a fit o’ jealous rage,” Mary replied with conviction. “You should see some o’ the outfits she wears—and d’you know where Harold says he takes her sometimes?”
They all stopped eating or drinking in breathless anticipation of the answer.
“Well?” Maggie demanded.
“You’re too young.” Mary shook her head.
“Oh, go on,” Maggie pleaded. “Tell us!”
“She doesn’t know ’erself,” Sal said with a grin. “She’s ’avin us on.”
“I do so!” Mary retorted. “He takes her to streets where decent women don’t go—down by the Haymarket.”
“What—over some admirer?” Gladys savored the possibility. “Goon! Really?”
“You got a better idea, then?” Mary asked.
Willie the bootboy appeared from the kitchen doorway, where he had been keeping cavey in case Mrs. Boden should appear.
“Well I think it was Mr. Kellard!” he said with a backward glance over his shoulder. “May I have that piece o’ cake? I’m starvin’ ’ungry.”
“That’s only because you don’t like ’im.” Mary pushed the cake towards him, and he took it and bit into it ravenously.
“Pig,” Sal said without rancor.
“I think it was Mrs. Moidore,” May the scullery maid said suddenly.
“Why?” Gladys demanded with offended dignity. Romola was her charge, and she was personally offended by the suggestion.
“Go on with you!” Mary dismissed it. “You’ve never even seen Mrs. Moidore!”
“I ’ave too,” May retorted. “She came down ’ere when young Miss Julia was sick that time! A good mother, she is. I reckon she’s too good to be true—all that peaches-an’-cream skin and ’andsome face. She done married Mr. Cyprian for ’is money.”
“’E don’t ’ave any,” William said with his mouth full. “’E’s always borrowin’ off folks. Least that’s what Percival says.”
“Then Percival’s speakin’ out of turn,” Annie criticized. “Not that I’m saying Mrs. Moidore didn’t do it. But I reckon it was more likely Mrs. Kellard. Sisters can hate something ’orrible.”
“What about?” Maggie asked. “Why should Mrs. Kellard hate poor Miss Octavia?”
“Well Percival said Mr. Kellard fancied Miss Octavia something rotten,” Annie explained. “Not that I take any notice of what Percival says. He’s got a wicked tongue, that one.”
At that moment Mrs. Boden came in.
“Enough gossiping,” she said sharply. “And don’t you talk with your mouth full, Annie Latimer. Get on about your business. Sal. There’s carrots you