Snobbery with Violence

∨ Snobbery with Violence ∧

Four

As a rule, the men-servants in large houses expect gold. These gratuities are really a great tax on peoples purses; and the question whether to accept an invitation is often decided in the negative by the thought of the expenses entailed, not by railway tickets and cabs, but by the men and the maids.

– LADY COLIN CAMPBELL,

ETIQUETTE OF GOOD SOCIETY (1911)

“I wonder why our king got suspicious,” said Harry to his manservant after reading the earl’s telegram.

“Perhaps one of his servants talked.”

“He assured me they were all very loyal.”

“A royal visit would mean a great deal of money in tips for the servants, not to mention the prestige of having served His Majesty. They may have felt balked and bitter that such a visit was cancelled.”

“We’d better deal with it, anyway. Know anything about dynamite, Becket?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Where would I find out?”

“I read somewhere, sir, that they were blasting a new railway tunnel on the underground railway at Liverpool Street Station. Perhaps one of the workers there might be able to supply you with some dynamite and instructions as to how to use it, if discreetly bribed.”

“Good man, Becket.”

Harry, disguised in clothes purchased at a second-hand clothes store, made his way late in the afternoon to Liverpool Street Station. He located the site of the new tunnel, located the gate where the workers would come out and waited patiently. At seven o’clock, dirty, weary men began to file out. Leaning against a hoarding, Harry studied their faces. He at last picked out a man older than the rest. His face was crisscrossed with broken veins and his nose was bulbous, all the signs of a heavy drinker. He followed him as he walked from the station, keeping a steady pace behind him. He was feeling decidedly weary as he trudged along, his bad leg aching, wondering if the man lived at the ends of the earth, but his quarry finally opened the doors of a pub in Limehouse and walked in. Harry gave it a few minutes and then walked in as well.

The air was full of the smell of pipe smoke and cheap cigarette smoke. The smoke lay in wreaths across the dingy pub, which was lit by flickering gas lamps.

The smell of unwashed bodies struck him like a blow in the face. He went to the bar and ordered a pint of porter and looked around. The man he was chasing was carrying a full pint to a corner table. Harry picked up his drink, walked over and sat down.

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“What about?” The man took a pull at his beer. “Who are you?” he growled. An evil-looking prostitute with sagging breasts and black teeth leaned against Harry’s shoulder. “Fancy a good time, guv?”

“Shove off,” said Harry.

♦

He waited until she had gone.

“My name’s Bill Sykes,” said Harry.

“Bin reading Dickens, “ave you?” sneered his companion.

Harry cursed himself. He should have guessed that a dipsomaniac, like many of his kind, would turn out to have come down in the world.

“My mother did,” said Harry. “Your name?”

“Pat Brian.”

“Mr. Brian, I have an offer for you. How would you like to earn two hundred guineas?”

“Garn.”

“The truth.”

“What d’ye want for it?”

“A quantity of dynamite, enough to blow up, say, a bridge and a building, and instructions on how to do it.”

“How did you know I was a blaster? Come on. Who’s bin talking?”

“No one. Lucky guess.” I am a rank amateur, thought Harry. He could have turned out just to be one of the labourers.

“Two hundred guineas. What’s it for?”

“The two hundred guineas are for you to supply the material and instructions, keep your mouth shut and not ask questions.”

“Two hundred guineas!” Pat stared into his beer and then took a long pull. “I could quit. I could get back to Ireland. Buy a bit o’ land, I could.”

“When could you get the stuff?”

Pat finished his drink. “Come along o’ me. Going back to Liverpool Street.”

“Have you a key to the site?”

“Don’t need one, guv. Know a way in. How do I know you’ll pay?”

Harry slid a wash-leather bag out of his pocket and passed it over. “Look in there. Under the table.”

Pat fumbled with the bag under the table. His eyes widened. He stuffed the bag in his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he jeered. “You’d best walk out of here. One shout from me that you’re the perlice, and they’ll murder you.”

Harry sighed. He fished in his other pocket and then said levelly, “I now have a pistol pointed at your private parts under the table. Give me back the gold or I’ll blow your manhood off.”

Pat ducked his head under the table and then straightened up. He shrugged. “Worth a try. Can’t blame me, now can you, guv?”

“Get to your feet and walk to the door. I will follow. You now know too much, so if you attempt to run away, I will shoot you.”

“You’re going to force me to get the stuff for nothink,” wailed Pat, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and Cockney. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I have no luck at all, at all.”

“You’ll get your money. Now, walk!”

♦

“That person is here again,” complained Rose.

“If you mean Captain Cathcart, yes,” growled her father. “And speaking of persons, why hasn’t that Daisy creature been sent packing?”

“I am teaching her to read and write, Pa. When she has mastered both, she will find a good position, possibly as a clerk, in London. I would like a typewriter.”

There were two reasons why the earl finally capitulated and gave in to his daughter’s demands. Rose kept busy with her protegee was less likely to get into trouble, and a typewriter was considered to be a woman’s machine and was designed with scrolls of gold on black to give the machine the feminine touch.

Rose went immediately to find the earl’s secretary, Matthew Jarvis, to instruct him to order a typewriter and have it delivered as soon as possible. Matthew nodded and said he would attend to the matter immediately. Matthew was a chubby man whose clothes always seemed too tight for him. He had a round red face, a heavy moustache, and little brown eyes.

Daisy had been regaling Rose with stories of her sometimes quite horrific childhood in the East End of London. Rose had begun to wonder about people in the household, realizing they had lives and thoughts of which she had hitherto known nothing.

“Are you happy here, Mr. Jarvis?” Rose asked.

“Yes, my lady.”

“You have worked for my father for five years now Do you sometimes find the job a little tedious?”

Matthew looked shocked. “Not in the slightest, my lady.”

“Your family, do you visit them?”

“Yes, my lady. If you will excuse me, I will continue with my work. I will now be able to telephone to order the typewriter, my lord having recently had that very useful instrument installed.”

“Very good. Oh, Mr. Jarvis?”

“My lady?”

“I believe Captain Cathcart is with us, but so far I have not seen him. Where is he?”

“To my knowledge, he is working in a downstairs room in the east wing.”

“At what?”

“I am afraid I could not say.”

Curiosity sent Rose on a search of the east wing. It had been added on to the main Tudor building in the days of Queen Anne. It was usually where the guests were housed when the earl and countess held a party.

She found the captain in a little-used room at the end of a corridor on the ground floor.

“Don’t you ever knock?” he asked angrily, when she walked in on him.

“You forget. This is my home. I have no need to knock. I see you have a quantity of sticks of dynamite. Are you going to blow up the king?”

“No, I am going to create a couple of explosions. I have already written several anonymous letters to the newspapers warning them of a Bolshevik plot against the king.”

“The Bolsheviks do not advocate terrorism. It was in their manifesto.”

“Didn’t stop them killing Tsar Alexander the Second.”

“That was the last century. That was the Nihilists. The Bolsheviks have eschewed terrorism in their new manifesto.”

“Well, according to me, they haven’t. Now, if there is nothing else…”

“Just one thing. You should wear gloves.”

“I did not know there was a drawing-room etiquette to deal with dynamite.”

“You must be careful of sweating.”

“My dear goose, I am as cool as cucumber sandwiches.”

“I didn’t mean you. I mean the dynamite. Sweating is a problem with nitro-glycerine material. If it gets absorbed through your skin, you will get a nitro-glycerine headache.”

Harry, who had been kneeling on the floor, beside the cases of dynamite and percussion caps, rose to his feet. “Has it never occurred to you, Lady Rose, that your knowledge is unwomanly?”

“Not in the least. I see you are as stupid and old-fashioned as the other men in society. You would feel more comfortable were my conversation limited to discussion of the latest Nell Gwyn hat, the Camille Clifford coiffure, the Billie Burke shoes and the Trilby overcoat. Good day to you.”

I hope she never marries, thought Harry savagely, or her husband will wring her neck. But he put on a pair of gloves.

♦

He decided to go for a walk in the afternoon. The sound of voices came from the paddock at the back of the stables. He walked over and leaned on the fence. Rose was giving Daisy riding lessons. At first he did not recognize the chorus girl. Her face was free of paint and she was wearing a chic riding outfit which Rose had ordered for her from John Barker of Kensington for the princely sum of one hundred and five shillings. It had a tightly cut bodice, lightly boned to the waist, and the skirt was cut to accommodate the right knee when mounting side-saddle. Over the bodice went a very tight waistcoat.

“That’s right,” Rose was saying. “Stand on the mounting block. Oh, I nearly forgot. You must unbutton your waistcoat first. Never mount when buttoned up or the buttons will pop and fly all over the place.”

Daisy put a foot in the stirrup, grasped the pommel, heaved herself up and went straight over the other side. Rose gave an exclamation of dismay.

She rushed to help Daisy up and then both girls burst out laughing. Harry moved away, puzzled. What on earth was that little chorus girl doing with Lady Rose?

Up until that day, he had dined separately in the quarters he had set up in the east wing. He decided it was time he joined the family, and when he returned to the house he sent a note by a footman to say he would be pleased to join the earl and his family for dinner that evening.

Because of Rose’s disgrace, he expected there to be only himself as a guest. But the little earl was popular and had lately found courage to send out a few invitations. There were three guests other than Harry:the Marquess and Marchioness of Hedley, the rector, Mr. Busy, and a faded cousin of Lady Polly’s.

The marquess was a jovial man who liked to model himself on King Edward. He was heavy-set and heavy-bearded. His marchioness was a timid, crushed lady, as if her spirit had been borne down by her husband’s relentless joviality.

Rose, reflected Harry, was looking exceptionally beautiful in a white chiffon gown and with white silk roses in her hair. He wondered how Daisy fared in the rigid snobbish hierarchy of the servants’ hall.

He tried to engage Lady Hedley, who was seated on his right, in conversation. “The weather has been very fine this summer,” volunteered the captain.

“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Strawberries were fine. Yes.” Then she relapsed into silence.

“Lady Rose appears to be in full bloom tonight,” pursued Harry.

“Yes. Fine. Pity.”

“Pity?”

“All that beauty. Spinster. Can’t be anything else now.”

“Society has a short memory.”

“Not that short,” she said gloomily. She cast a sudden waspish glance in her husband’s direction and muttered, “Men with beards shouldn’t eat soup. Disgusting.”

There seemed to be nothing to reply to that, so Harry turned his attention to the pale cousin on his other side. What was her name? Ah, Miss Durwant-Flint.

“Do you live far away, Miss Durwant-Flint?”

“London.”

“Ah, where in London?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I was just making conversation,” said Harry.

“I don’t like conversing during dinner. No one should have to converse while they are eating. Barbarous.”

Harry gave up and finished his dinner in silence, which took quite a long time because there were eight courses. At last Lady Polly rose and the ladies followed her out. The gentlemen were left alone with the port.

Mr. Busy, the rector, had fallen asleep. His mouth was open. He should have been called Mr. Lazy, thought Harry.

Hedley told several smoking-room anecdotes and laughed immoderately at his own humour. Then he fixed his bloodshot eyes on Harry. “Don’t say much, do you?”

“Don’t get much chance,” said Harry coldly.

“You’re a young man. You should try to be more cheery” said Hedley, relishing the sound of the latest slang word. “Wait a bit. You’re that chap who fixes things.”

The earl looked at Harry and shook his head to convey the message that he had not been indiscreet.

Harry found he had conceived a strong dislike for Hedley, so he smiled enigmatically and said nothing.

“I asked you a question,” said Hedley.

Harry smiled and poured himself another glass of port. “And I didn’t answer,” he said.

Hedley gave him a baffled stare and then turned his attention to the earl. “Seems a shame you should all be in purdah because of little Rose. I’m giving a house party in a month’s time. Got a few eligibles coming. Young people. Send Rose.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said the earl. “I am sure my wife will be free to chaperone her.”

“Don’t need a chaperone. Her maid will do. M’wife’ll look after her.”

“Well, I suppose…”

“Just the thing she needs.”

“Oh, all right, then.”

What’s going on here? wondered Harry. Does this jovial marquess really want to do Rose a favour?

♦

The village of Stacey Magna was one of those places that look so well portrayed on chocolate boxes and were uncomfortable to live in, the thatched cottages being damp and insanitary. The inhabitants lived a quiet rural life, but were saved from the misery of poverty which plagued other agricultural villages in England, for the earl was a generous landlord and made sure everyone had enough food and that there was a school for the children.

Two evenings later, the inhabitants went to bed soon after the sun had set, to save the expense of candles, and a deep quiet settled over the houses and the surrounding countryside.

But they were all awakened at midnight by a tremendous explosion. The braver ones rushed out to see what had happened; the others cowered in their beds thinking the Day of Judgement was at hand.

It transpired that just before the main entrance to the earl’s estate, where a pretty hump-backed bridge spanned a river, the whole bridge had been blown up. Just as several men from the village were exclaiming over the smoking ruin, there was another huge explosion, bigger this time, from the direction of the railway.

They set off in that direction, keeping together, looking fearfully to left and right. When they reached Stacey Magna Station, the smoke was just clearing. Great holes had been blasted in the platforms on either side and the railway line was a twisted wreck.

The blasts were too late to feature in the morning newspapers, but they hit the headlines the day after. The press arrived but were kept firmly outside the gates of the earl’s estate. Crowds of sightseers came to see the destruction wrought by the Bolsheviks. And, of course, it must have been the Bolsheviks, for all the papers said so, and all claimed to have received anonymous threatening letters. Police combed through the debris and Detective Superintendent Alfred Kerridge was on his way to supervise the search.

The visitors brought some prosperity to the village, where lemonade stands and pie stands were set up, and the small pub, the Stacey Arms, did a roaring trade.

In all the fuss, Harry and his manservant, Becket, travelled in one of the earl’s carriages to a railway station farther up the line and caught a train to London from there.

“Glad that’s over,” said Harry. “I thought I might blow myself up by mistake. I never want to handle dynamite again.”

“If I may venture an opinion, sir.”

“By all means.”

“I was surprised you went to such lengths.”

“I had to make sure the palace thought it the work of the Bolsheviks. Anything less, and they might have suspected Lord Hadshire of getting up to tricks. The palace sent a telegram just before we left, cancelling the king’s visit ‘for reasons of national security’. By the way, I was amazed to see Daisy Levine still in residence. Lady Rose appears to have made a pet of her. Does she eat with the servants?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They must make life difficult for her.”

“On the contrary, sir, Miss Levine is somewhat of a pet in the servants’ hall as well.”

“How did she manage that?”

“She sings very prettily and delighted the servants with impersonations of Miss Marie Lloyd.”

“Indeed! I trust they treated you well, Becket?”

“At first they were hoity-toity, you not being considered a gentleman.”

“Good heavens! Why not?”

“You are employed by the earl, therefore you work, therefore you are not a gentleman. But thanks to Miss Levine, I became popular.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I play the concertina, sir. I accompanied Miss Levine. The butler, Brum, declared we were both so talented, we should be on stage at the Gaiety Theatre.”

“Amazing. I have never heard you play, Becket.”

“I did not wish to disturb you.”

“Disturb me now. Got the instrument with you?”

“Yes, sir. That round box on the rack.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t sell it when you were so poor.”

“I bought another when you paid me my back wages.”

“Let’s hear a tune.”

Becket lifted the box down and took out the concertina. He sat down and began to play ‘Goodbye Dolly’. Harry leaned back, the Boer War song bringing painful memories. “Play something else,” he said harshly.

Becket began to play ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’ while the train rocked and swayed on its way to London.

♦

At Stacey Court, Brum opened the doors of the drawing-room and intoned in a voice of doom, “Detective Superintendent Kerridge, my lord.”

“Come in. Sit down,” said the earl. “Something to drink?”

“No, I thank you, my lord. This gentleman with me is Detective Inspector Judd. He will take notes.”

Judd, a tall thin man with a black drooping moustache, carefully placed his bowler hat on a side table and took out a large notebook.

“Apart from yourself and the countess,” began Kerridge, “who else was there?”

“About twenty-five indoor servants.”

“Fll get to them later, with your permission. Did you have guests?”

“Just my wife’s cousin, Miss Durwant-Flint, and Lord and Lady Hedley.”

“Anyone else?”

“Let me think.” The earl screwed up his face like a baby about to cry. Then his face cleared. There was no harm in mentioning the captain’s name. It would mean nothing to Kerridge.

“Oh, yes, nearly forgot. Captain Harry Cathcart.”

“And is the gentleman still in residence?”

“No, he’s tootled off to London.”

“May I trouble you for his address?”

The earl tugged at a bell-rope by the fireplace, and when a footman appeared asked for his secretary to be sent to him. Matthew appeared. “Get Cathcart’s address for the superintendent,” ordered the earl.

“I may have lost it,” said Matthew cautiously.

“No, you haven’t,” said the earl, and winked furiously.

“Quite right, I haven’t,” said Matthew. “I’ll fetch it now.”

What was that all about? wondered Kerridge. He continued the interrogation but the earl said he had been asleep at the time, and as the bridge and station were miles from the house, he hadn’t heard a thing.

Later, Kerridge did not get any further with the servants, thanks, he thought, to the perpetual presence of Brum. He got only one thing. A little scullery maid said that the king was to come on a visit but couldn’t now and Brum had snapped at her and sent her from the room.

Kerridge wondered about the king’s proposed visit all the way back to London. Certainly a visit from King Edward, who would arrive with a retinue of servants, guests and hangers-on could mean a crippling amount of money to the unfortunate host, but the earl’s home and his estates showed no signs of penny-pinching. He shook his grey head. To think that the earl would blow up a railway station and a bridge just to put the king off was ridiculous. All Bolshevik sympathizers in London were being rounded up and interrogated. Still, he’d better see this Captain Cathcart and find out what he had to say.

The first motorized taxi cabs were beginning to appear on the streets of London and were regarded with suspicion by most, who preferred the horse-drawn variety. But as Kerridge was driven in the new Scotland Yard police car to Captain Cathcart’s address, he felt like a king. He wished he could take this splendid vehicle home to show his wife.

He had decided to interview the captain alone. He knew people were often intimidated by the sight of a policeman or a detective in the background, taking notes.

At the house in Water Street, Becket announced him and led him into the front room, where the captain was sitting at a desk at the window.

Kerridge’s first impression of the captain was that he was a dangerous man. His brooding saturnine good looks gave the impression of action and power.

Harry welcomed the superintendent and then sat staring at him vacantly.

“I have come about the bombing of Stacey Magna,” began Kerridge.

“Frightful, what,” commented Harry. He took out a monocle, fixed it in one eye and stared at the detective.

“Yes, it was indeed frightful. Now –”

“Caught any of these Bolshevik chappies yet?”

“No, sir, but we will…provided it turns out to be the work of the Bolsheviks. Have you known the Earl of Hadshire for long?”

“Don’t know. People come and go.” Harry let the monocle drop and fixed the detective with a vacuous stare.

“His Majesty was supposed to visit Lord Hadshire, but the visit had to be cancelled.”

“Pity.”

“Have you any reason to suppose the earl did not wish this visit?”

Harry laughed, an insolent braying laugh. Then he said, “I say, you think old Hadshire crept out during the night and blew up things to keep kingie away?”

“It is a flight of fancy, I admit,” said Kerridge. “Let’s take it further. The earl employed someone to blow up the bridge and the station.”

Harry grinned. “Go on. I’m enjoying this.”

“It is not a laughing matter, sir,” said Kerridge severely. “It was just fortunate that there was no one on the bridge at the time or in the station.”

“True, true,” said Harry. “Ask me some more questions.”

“During your stay at Stacey Court, did you see any suspicious people lurking around?”

“Only that cousin of Lady Polly’s. What a bore! I nearly fainted in my soup.”

“So you can tell me nothing to help me?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What was the reason for your visit?”

Harry glared at him. “My dear sir, one goes into the country on many visits to many households. It’s what one does.”

“I forgot, sir. Of course it is what one does when one does not have to work for a living.”

“Oh, we aren’t all lilies of the field, y’know. Viscount Hinton has been wheeling a piano-organette around the streets these many years.”

“But he doesn’t have to. He’s eccentric.”

“What about the House of Lords?”

“What about it?” jeered Kerridge. “Waste of time, if you ask me. Half the house is absent and the other half’s nearly dead.”

“Dear me, Super, you’re quite the little Bolshevik yourself.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Kerridge was shocked at his own behaviour. If his injudicious remarks got back to Scotland Yard, he would lose his job. He plodded on with the questioning, reflecting as he did so that the captain was one of the most empty-headed men he had met.

But when he got back to his desk at Scotland Yard, he turned over his conversation with the captain. He had an obscure feeling that he had somehow been irritated and manipulated into betraying his radical views. And then, there had been that odd business of the earl winking at his secretary.

That evening, before going home, he dropped in at the pub in the hope that Posh Cyril might be around, but there was no sign of the footman. He took his leave and bumped into Posh Cyril in the street outside.

“I want a word with you,” muttered the superintendent.

“Walk away and into the alley along there. Be with you in a mo’,” whispered the footman. “Got a friend in the pub and don’t want to be seen with you.”

Kerridge stood impatiently in the alley amongst the dustbins until the footman appeared.

“I need some information,” said Kerridge. “I want to know about a certain Captain Harry Cathcart. Lives in War Street, Chelsea.”

“I’ll find out what I can. Cost you.”

“Always does,” said Kerridge gloomily.

♦

Shortly before Rose was due to visit the Marquess of Hedley, her maid, Yardley, gave notice. Lady’s maids prided themselves on the appearance of their employers. Yardley felt her position in life had diminished through Rose’s disgrace. Rose did dress for dinner, but during the day went around in skirts and shirt blouses, or in riding dress.

Lady Polly felt her daughter was going too far when Rose calmly announced that Daisy would be her new lady’s maid.

“That girl is out of the gutter,” raged Lady Polly.

“Daisy is bright and intelligent and a quick learner,” said Rose. “You never talk to her. I will fetch her and you can see for yourself.”

Lady Polly was taken aback when Daisy entered the room. The blonde hair was beginning to grow out and Daisy was dressed neatly and becomingly.

“So you think you can be a lady’s maid?” demanded the countess.

“Yes, my lady. I have learned a great deal, thanks to Lady Rose’s kindness.”

Her voice was soft, with only the slightest Cockney edge.

“I do not like to think of a girl of your background chaperoning my daughter,” said Lady Polly, who had the staccato speech of her class, an icy stare put into words.

“A girl of my background is wise to the ways of men, my lady. I would have protected Lady Rose better had I been with her in London.”

“And do you know how to sew?”

“Yes, my lady. I worked as a seamstress in Whitechapel when I wasn’t on the boards.”

The countess’s own lady’s maid, Humphrey, stood behind her mistress’s chair, darting jealous looks at Daisy. She gave a little cough. “May I suggest a test, my lady? Your blonde straw hat needs retrimming. I suggest it is given to this person to see how she can work.”

“Excellent. Fetch it here and give it to the girl.”

♦

Two days later, the refurbished hat was presented to the countess. It was decorated by beautifully made scarlet silk roses. The countess was immensely pleased with it. But Humphrey snorted and said dresses were another thing. What about my lady’s ballgown, which had a torn hem, and that my lady had said was old-fashioned?

The dress was returned in another two days. The neckline had been slightly lowered and the shoulders decorated with white silk bows. The train had gone and it was now ankle-length.

“I always have a train,” complained the countess.

“Trains are going out of fashion, my lady,” said Daisy demurely. “I could not help noticing that you have very fine ankles, and if you adopt the new style, you will not need to throw the train over your arm when you are dancing or risk it being torn when you are walking about.”

The countess poked her ankles out from beneath the gown and studied them complacently. “Very good, Daisy. But you cannot be called Daisy and you cannot be called Levine because it sounds foreign. You will be called Baxter.”

“That means you can go,” said Rose when Daisy told her. “But I shall not call you Baxter.”

“I have made an enemy of Humphrey,” said Daisy. “What if she finds out you did all the sewing yourself?”

“There is no need for her to find out. We have been spending too much time over our books and typing lessons, Daisy. Now you must learn the ways of the lady’s maid. When we get to Hedley’s, you will dine with the housekeeper. Your behaviour must be precise. I allow you too much laxity. While we are at the Hedleys’, you never sit down in my presence or wear a hat in the house. You do not venture an opinion, unless asked for it. And you never even say ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good night.” We have a little time to bring you up to the mark.

“I prefer to dress and undress myself now that Yardley is leaving. But this you must never tell a soul or I shall be damned as middle-class. The lady’s maid I had before Yardley left a notebook. I shall find it for you. In it she has written all the recipes for cleaning clothes, hats and shoes. The wash for my hair is quite simple. One pennyworth of borax, half a pint of olive oil and a pint of boiling water.”

She studied Daisy for a moment and then asked, “Do you not find your life here dull?”

“Oh, no, my lady. I like dull. I can’t get enough of dull. And three good meals a day!”

“Very well, Daisy. There is one thing more. I have over-prided myself on my intelligence but I lack common sense. I made a bad mistake with Blandon.”

“I’ll tip you off if there’s another masher,” said Daisy eagerly. “Can tell ‘em a mile off.”