Chapter One
I had often thought myself rather hard done by in my working hours. Being the head cook meant early starts and long days, especially if my mistress Dorothy Drew was entertaining. But as we all sat down to breakfast that morning, I looked across the table at the nursemaid, Mary. I observed the dark circles under her eyes and thought perhaps I didn’t have such a hard time of it.
“Was it a bad night again?” I asked, pushing the teapot towards her.
“What?” Mary yawned. “Oh, sorry. Yes, terrible. The little madam had me up at least five times.”
I found Mary rather annoying – she was prone to drama and emphatic statements – but I could sympathise with her on this issue. Dorothy’s adopted daughter, Isadora Elena Drew, was only four months old but my goodness, she ruled the household.
Mary was staring dully at her bowl of porridge. I took pity on her and poured her a cup of tea.
“Thanks,” she said, yawning again.
Verity, my best friend and Dorothy’s lady’s maid, wasn’t at the table. Sometimes she took her breakfast in her room, just as Dorothy did. Even as I thought it, the bell for Dorothy’s room jangled on its spring.
Alice, my kitchen maid, sprang up. “I’ll go.”
She was a good girl, helpful and efficient. I shook my head at her, smiling. “Don’t worry. Finish your breakfast, I’ll take it up.”
Although it was technically Alice’s job to make up the breakfast trays, it was something I liked doing and prided myself on. Spreading a snowy-white cloth over the silver tray, I piled it with the breakfast things; a plump-bellied silver teapot, a delicate china cup and saucer, a plate of bacon and eggs covered with a silver cover. Toast was being kept warm in the range – I plucked out a few slices and popped them into the china toast rack. Tiny pots of marmalade and jam and a few yellow curls of butter. Last but not least, a bud vase with a late-summer rosebud in it. There. Perfect.
I carried it carefully up the stairs. This house was a townhouse, tall and thin. Dorothy’s bedroom was on the first floor and I shifted the tray to the side table set by the door for that very purpose, before I knocked.
Dorothy’s voice bade me enter. The autumn sunshine was streaming through the windows as I entered the room. Dorothy was sitting up in bed, cradling Isadora in her arms. Verity was tidying the dressing table. She tipped me a discreet wink as I came in.
“Oh, Joan, good morning.”
I would say this for Dorothy: she was always polite. Having worked for some awful people in the past, I really appreciated a good employer. And I had worked for her for years now.
Isadora was beginning to make squeaking sounds, her little fists pumping the air. Dorothy looked down at her, fondly.
“Verity, she needs a bottle. Could you please fetch one? And where’s Mary?”
Thinking of poor Mary, drooping over her porridge, I hastened to say that she was having her breakfast.
“Oh, yes. Well, madam here was very naughty last night, weren’t you, you little blighter?” Dorothy’s face as she gazed down at her daughter was transformed, luminous. I had never seen her look so well and so happy and my heart swelled. After all the pain and misery of the past few years, at last my mistress was content.
Of course, it probably helped that she didn’t have to get up to tend to the baby in the night herself. But that was what having money did for you. It made your life a thousand times easier.
“I’ll get a bottle,” said Verity. She tipped me another wink as she passed me.
“I’m absolutely ravenous,” said Dorothy. She eased herself and the baby out of bed and laid the child in the cot that stood in the corner of the room. Isadora didn’t approve of this and began to wail. Both Dorothy and I winced.
Dorothy bent over the cot, trying to soothe her baby, but I was pretty certain that the noise would continue until sustenance was proffered. Luckily, Verity was soon back with a warmed bottle and she took Isadora and sat with her in the chair in the corner, while Dorothy tucked into my nice breakfast.
I had no reason to linger in the room but I hesitated for a moment, watching Verity with the baby. Verity had a knacky way with her, her hands sure and deft as she held the glass bottle to the baby’s mouth. It was odd, because neither of us really had any experience with babies – we were both orphans. That was why we had met, in the orphanage, so many years ago now.
“I can take over now, Verity.” Dorothy looked rather possessive as she set aside her breakfast tray. It was no wonder, given her feelings for her daughter. Verity smiled in acknowledgement and passed Isadora back to her mother. Dorothy bent her head over her child. Her hair was longer now, not the flapper bob that she’d sported for many years, and it suited her, curling gently around her face. Altogether, she was softer in looks, made tender by motherhood.
“Send Mary up to me when you can, girls.”
Verity and I nodded in acknowledgement before we left the room. As it happened, Mary was coming up the stairs as we walked down them, still yawning.
“I’m so glad I don’t have to do the night shift,” said Verity, with a shudder.
I giggled. “Yes, Dorothy does love that baby, but she also loves her sleep.”
“Well, she’s got the money to pay for help. I quite like having another girl in the house, now Nancy’s gone.”
Nancy, our former parlour maid, had married Andrew, Dorothy’s chauffeur, and had left service. As we walked back into the kitchen, I wondered for a moment why married women were expected to leave their roles. Of course, that was what made a lot of girls desperate to get married; the chance to get out of service. Andrew was just draining his cup of tea at the breakfast table and I thought, well, why doesn’t he have to leave work?
Anyway, I had no time to ponder this conundrum. I had menus to plan and things to do. Alice and Annie, our new tweeny, were already washing up, the good girls.
Verity nudged me. “By the way, apparently Dorothy’s having an old friend over for tea later. So, you’ll need to do all the dainty sandwiches and everything else.”
“That’s fine. Thanks for letting me know.” I would send Annie out to the market to see if I could get some smoked salmon. Luckily, we already had several cucumbers in the refrigerator, spoils of a market garden at the end of the summer. “Who is it who is coming?”
“An old friend of hers. Some posh chap.”
I rolled my eyes. “Aren’t they all?”
Verity giggled. “Well, I think his name is Cedric Davenport. He’ll be here about four.”
Cedric Davenport. There was something oddly familiar about that name, the surname at least. Just the faintest bell being rung in my mind. I frowned, thinking, but it was hopeless, the elusive memory I had of it – was it from reading something, perhaps? – was slipping away.
“Right,” was all I said. “I’ll make sure tea will be ready.”
Verity went back upstairs to attend to Dorothy’s dressing and I turned my attention to the kitchen.
“Well girls, you probably heard that madam is having a friend for tea this afternoon. Alice, would you make up some fresh scones for that, please? Annie, you can observe her – it’ll be good for you to know the recipe.” I had been going to ask Annie to go to the market but suddenly realised I’d like to go myself – to get out of the house while I could. It was a lovely autumn day, after all, golden sunshine gleaming through the first rich hints of colour in the leaves of the trees on the streets. “I’ll leave you girls to it – I’m going shopping.”
Chapter Two
The busy London streets were warm enough but you could still feel the change around you, the season subtly moving from summer to autumn. Just the hint of a nip in the air. The night fogs we’d been having had been terrible, real pea-soupers, but today the air was relatively good. I wondered that Dorothy hadn’t decided to move out to the country, especially for the shooting season. But she was so taken up with the baby that she probably hadn’t even thought of it. She had many friends and acquaintances here in London, too, the most recent of which was the theatre and film director Frankie Delaney.
At the thought of Frankie, I began to smile. She had directed a play that I had written, Death at the Manor, and it had done well, even for a short run. I was so proud of it, and of myself. Those words had taken a good deal out of me and golly, had it taken a long time to write – fitting it about my work, painstakingly tapping out the sentences on the old typewriter that Dorothy had kindly given me. But I had done it, I had written it and Frankie had made it come to life on the stage. Not the West End, obviously, I wasn’t that successful, but it had had a good run in repertory and Frankie, the last time I had seen her, had mentioned, thrillingly, that there might be a chance of a film adaptation.
The thought of that was so exciting that I stopped short in crossing the road and only the blare of a car horn brought me back to my senses. Jumping, I scurried to the opposite pavement.
Thoughts of Frankie meant I inescapably thought of Tommy, Verity’s actor uncle and someone I loved dearly. He and his … his friend, Simon were in Spain, fighting in the Civil War. Verity and I had begged them not to go but they were not to be turned. I felt my mood dim, despite the sunshine. I had heard Verity crying at night, more than once, and knew it was through the worry about her uncle. I myself had wept more than a few times, too. But at the same time, I was proud of them both. So brave.
I shoved the thought of battlefields out of my mind with an effort and concentrated on the journey. Covent Garden was my destination and luckily it wasn’t too far a walk from Dorothy’s Mayfair townhouse. I would get a bus back though, laden as I would be with parcels and bags of food.
I loved the market; not just the stalls and tables heaped with food and goods but also the people. It was a bustling world of its own, complete with songs and entertainment from the street performers. I kept a tight hold of my handbag, though – pickpockets abounded. The fishmonger was down in the basement of the central building –probably to keep the fishy odours from bothering the crowds on the main floor – and I made my way down the steps. There was more than one stall selling fish but this one was the best, with the freshest fish and seafood, kept on slabs of gleaming ice.
The fishmonger himself was a rather cheeky chap with an eye for the girls and a good line in patter. He recognised me straight away.
“My, my, my, if it isn’t the lovely Miss Hart. How I’ve missed your beautiful face!”
“Oh, get along with you, Fred. You say that to all the girls.”
He winked at me. “None so beautiful as you, Miss Hart. Miss Heartbreaker, I should call you.”
People around the stall were grinning and I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s as well and good but I’m hoping you can oblige me with some smoked salmon.”
Fred chuckled and turned to grab his roll of greaseproof paper. “Nothing simpler, Miss Heartbreaker. Having one of your fancy society teas, are you?”
“Something like that.” I watched his hands, rough but clean, deftly slice away glistening pink ribbons of salmon.
“Now, how about a lovely crab? Fished last night and sent over just this morning from Billingsgate.”
He hefted a large brown crab at me, wiggling his eyebrows up and down in what he clearly thought was an amusing manner. I chuckled. “Well, why not?” A crab salad would be good – something a little bit luxurious for the tea.
I began to wonder about Dorothy’s guest, Cedric Davenport, as Fred wrapped up the crab. I had heard that name before but I was blessed if I could work out where. She hadn’t mentioned him before, or I thought she hadn’t, but Dorothy’s friends were so numerous that it was possible I’d just forgotten his name.
“Thank you, Fred.” I took out my purse and paid him. He gave me a wink.
“Don’t be a stranger now.”
Fred was actually quite good-looking, but I wasn’t interested. For a start, I had Inspector Marks to consider and secondly, although I felt like a crashing snob for thinking it, I could never see myself walking out with a fishmonger. The smell, for a start!
I gave him a wink back – I could do that at least – and turned away, tucking away my purchases in my string bag. Now, what else did I need? I would put on scones, cream and jam atop them, cucumber sandwiches … Luckily yesterday had been a baking day and there was plenty of bread available. Then the crab salad and smoked-salmon sandwiches … Something else that was sweet? I could whip up a quick ginger cake when I got back to the house. Or would the scones be enough? Was it only to be the two of them, Dorothy and Mr Davenport? Just in case, I stopped off at the spice stall on my way home to pick up some more ginger and crystallised sugar.
As I left the marketplace, I saw the headline of the latest newspaper being sold from a stand on the corner of the street. Davenport Disappearance, Police “Baffled”. The urchin selling the papers was bawling out the headline as if the crowds surrounding him had gone deaf.
Of course. Davenport – that was where I had read it, in the newspaper. I interrupted the shouts of the boy to buy my own copy of the paper, tucking it in my bag along with the newly purchased food.
Chapter Three
“Helena Davenport?” Verity leant over my shoulder as I sat at the table, reading the lead article. “As in the socialite?”
“That very one.” I had finished the article and folded up the paper, handing it to Verity. “Here, read all about it, as they say.”
“I’m too busy. Can’t you summarise for me?”
I rolled my eyes. “V, I’ve got a high tea to prepare. Let’s not get into a competition about who’s busier than the other.”
“Helena Davenport? That’s the lady that went missing a week or so ago, isn’t it?” Alice asked. She’d gained confidence in the past year – once, she wouldn’t have dared open her mouth without prompting.
I nodded. “Yes. A bit mysterious. She went out to meet a friend one day and never came back home.”
Verity, giving in, sat down at the table and unfolded the newspaper. “Davenport. The chap coming today must be her husband.” She frowned. “Odd. Why is Dorothy having him over for tea?”
“Can’t you ask her?” I caught sight of the time from the clock on the dresser and got up. “Anyway, I’ve got a cake to make. Girls, you need to make a start on the sandwiches.”
Annie and Alice moved obediently to the refrigerator to remove the salmon and cucumber. I pulled the big yellow mixing bowl from the bottom of the dresser and started to assemble the components of my ginger cake.
There was a jangle from the bell that was marked Drawing Room. Verity sighed. “That’ll be Dorothy.” She waved the paper at me. “May I take this?”
“Of course.” I nearly added, see if you can find out what’s going on, but I didn’t want to say it in front of the younger girls. They didn’t really know about the – well, the cases that Verity and I had been involved in, and I had no intention of enlightening them.
As I mixed the cake in the bowl, I thought about the past. Asharton Manor, where I had first met Inspector Marks (Tom, I scolded myself inside the privacy of my own head. You can call him Tom, you foolish girl). Merisham Lodge and the drama and danger of our time there, where Verity had saved me from a killer. Then the murder at the theatre and our time in the country after that. What a time it had been! And now, here we were. Dorothy, a mother. Verity, beginning to pursue her acting career. Me, head cook now and an established playwright. How odd, that we should have ended up in this situation …
“Mrs Hart, are these enough sandwiches, do you think?”
Startled, I brought my consciousness back to the present. Annie was holding out a mound of crustless cucumber sandwiches. “Oh – yes, that looks enough to feed the five thousand.” She smiled, a little sheepishly. “And you don’t have to call me Mrs Hart, you know. I’m fine with ‘Joan’.”
Annie blushed and bobbed her head. All cooks were given the Mrs honorific, whether or not they were married. Who knows why? A gesture of respect, I suppose. My thoughts twitched themselves onto another line. Of course, it wasn’t beyond the possibility that I might one day be a Mrs. But not a Mrs Hart …
I realised I had been staring dreamily into space when I heard Annie and Alice giggle. Snapping myself back to the present, I found myself laughing. “Sorry girls, miles away. Let’s get on.”
***
We carried up the food to the dining room in plenty of time before Mr Davenport was due to arrive. Alice spread the table with the best lace tablecloth and Annie buffed up the silver as I placed the dishes over the snowy drift of the cloth.
“Do you want me to wait at table, Mrs … Joan?” asked Annie, stumbling slightly over my name.
I considered. Technically, of course, Dorothy didn’t actually need anyone to wait at the table for afternoon tea, but it could be done. I realised I was quite keen to set eyes on the mysterious Mr Davenport – and to find out what it was that he wanted from Dorothy.
I shook my head. “I’ll do it, girls. You’ve been working so hard today, you need a bit of time off. Take the afternoon off and come back in time for dinner.”
That made me very popular. The girls skittered off, laughing and giggling. I smiled and turned back to the laden table, to make sure everything was in order.
The doorbell rang. Mrs Anstells, the housekeeper, would, of course, answer it. I hurried downstairs to fetch the tea tray. I could hear the murmur of voices and footsteps on the floor above me as the visitors made their way to the dining room. I had already prepared the tray and the coffee pot, but checked my appearance in the little fly-spotted mirror kept on the dresser before I took it up.
I wore my hair tightly pinned back when I was working and that was never the most flattering look – nor did the cap I wore perched on top of my hair pins particularly flatter me. But for all that, I could see that I had changed a little since we came back to London from the country. Could I actually have become better looking? I had heard that love could do that to you, but I had never believed it. There was a pink flush on my cheeks and my eyes – always my best feature – were clear and sparkling. Inspector Marks had fetched that out of me. Tom, Joan, how many times?
Anyway, I couldn’t stand there dilly-dallying. I hoisted the heavy tray and made my way back upstairs to the dining room.
***
Dorothy and Mr Davenport were already seated at the table and in deep conversation. I looked around for the baby but realised that Mary had probably put her down for her afternoon nap.
Dorothy looked up at me and smiled. “Oh, Joan, good girl. Pour us out a nice cup each, I think we could both do with it.”
“Of course, my lady.” As I poured the tea into delicate bone-china cups, I took a curious look at Cedric Davenport. He was as dark as Dorothy was blonde, handsome, with a firm chin. Possibly around her age. For all that, he looked careworn, anxious, beset by care. But if his wife had disappeared, his appearance was understandable.
Once the tea was poured, I retreated quietly to stand beside the sideboard. Dorothy might dismiss me (politely – Dorothy was always polite) but if I was lucky, she might, just might forget I was there and carry on her conversation anyway. I could only hope. I was curious about this Mr Davenport and his missing wife. I wanted to find out what was going on.