The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Brodie and the Regrettable Incident ANNE PERRY

“Really?” Colette raised her delicate eyebrows in an expression of surprise and implied contempt. “You allow the cook to do it for you? In France we always prefer to boil our own.” She was referring to the rice, the water from which was used to stiffen linens and muslins. “One can get so much better a consistency,” she continued, looking at Brodie with a very slight smile.

They were in the ironing room of Freddie Dagliesh’s country home. Colette was the young and very pretty lady’s maid of Mrs Violet Welch-Smith, house guest, and wife to General Bertrand Welch-Smith. Brodie was considerably older, of a comfortable rather than handsome appearance, although she had possessed a considerable charm in her youth. Now the first thing one noticed about her was intelligence, an air of good sense and a sharp but suitably concealed humour. She was lady’s maid to Pamela Selden, Freddie Dagliesh’s widowed sister. Since he was unmarried, he always invited Pamela to act as hostess when he had a house party he felt of importance, or where he was concerned he would be out of his depth. Violet Welch-Smith was a woman to give any man such a feeling.

Colette was still regarding Brodie with an air of superiority, waiting for an answer.

“Yes I do,” Brodie replied, referring to the cook and the rice-water. “Cooks, especially in other people’s houses, prefer that visiting servants do not attempt to perform tasks in the kitchen. They invariably get in the way and disrupt the order of things, upset the scullery maids, boot boys and undercooks.”

“Perhaps that is what happened at the last house where we stayed,” Colette retorted, changing the flat iron she was using on her mistress’s petticoat for a warmer one from the stove. “The food was certainly not of the quality we are accustomed to in France.” She looked very directly at Brodie. “I had not realized that that was the cause.”

Brodie was furious. Normally she was of a very equable temper, but Colette had been trumpeting the innate superiority of everything French, both in general and in particular, ever since she had arrived nearly two days ago. This was enough to try the patience of a saint … an English saint anyway, most particularly a north country one, used to plain ideas and plain speech. Unfortunately, she could not at the moment think of a crushing reply; she merely seethed inside, and kept a polite but somewhat chilly smile on her face.

Colette knew her advantage, but pushed it too far.

“Do you think your cook would be able to manage rice-water as well as preparing dinner for guests?” she said charmingly. “Would it be kinder not to ask it of her?”

Brodie opened her eyes very wide. “I had not realized you were attempting to be kind!” she said with exaggerated surprise. Then she smiled straight at Colette, this time quite naturally. “Perhaps a French cook would find it an embarrassment, but our cook is English — she is quite used to being helpful to the rest of the staff.” And with that she picked up the enamel jug sitting on the bench, and swept out with it. “I shall ask her immediately,” she called back, before Colette could think of a response.

She made her request in the kitchen, and was on her way towards the back stairs when she all but bumped into the imposing figure of Stockwell. He was the most dignified and correct person whose acquaintance she had ever made.

“Good afternoon, Mr Stockwell,” she said somewhat startled. He was eight inches taller than she, and of magnificent stature. He had probably been a footman in his distant youth. Footmen were picked for their appearance. Height and good legs were especially required. A poor leg was most observable when a man was in livery.

“Good afternoon, Miss Brodie,” Stockwell replied stiffly. She disconcerted him, and he had not yet worked out why, although he had spent some time thinking about the matter. She was really quite agreeable, even if a trifle over-confident, and opinionated above her station. It was not becoming in a woman. But she had been of great assistance to him in that terrible business of the murder of Lady Beech. A certain latitude was perhaps allowable. “A most pleasant day,” he added. “I fancy the ladies will be enjoying the garden. Spring is one of the most attractive seasons, don’t you think?”

“Most,” she agreed.

He frowned. “Is something troubling you, Miss Brodie? Is it a matter with which I could assist?” He owed her a certain consideration, a protection, if you like. She was a woman, and a visiting servant, and this was his house. Her welfare was his concern.

“I doubt it, Mr Stockwell,” she replied, her lips tight again at the thought of Colette. “I find Mrs Welch-Smith’s maid very trying, that is all. She is convinced of the superiority of all things French, and she is at pains to say so.”

“Ignorance,” Stockwell said immediately. “She is a foreigner, after all. She may not know any better.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Brodie snapped. “She is not in the least bit ignorant. She is simply …” She stopped abruptly. What she had been going to say was unbecoming to her. She closed her mouth.

Further down the corridor a maid went by with a dustpan in her hand.

“Fortunately the General’s man, Harrison, is as English as we are,” Stockwell said, looking at her sympathetically. “In fact he seems to have very little liking for France or the French. Although naturally he is discreet about his remarks — merely an inflexion here or there which the sensitive ear may discern.”

“I have barely seen him.” Brodie thought about it for a moment. “Is he the rather portly young man with the brown eyes, or the fair-haired man with the absent-minded expression?”

“The fair-haired man,” Stockwell answered. “The other is the coachman. But it is understandable you should be confused. Harrison spends at least as much time in the stable. I confess I don’t think I have seen him in the laundry or the bootroom or the pantry. And the General looked rather as if he had dressed himself. I believe he shaves himself also.”

“Then what is Harrison here for?” Brodie said curiously.

“That is a mystery which I have solved,” Stockwell replied with satisfaction, a smile on his long nosed, rather round-eyed face. “The General is an inventor, of sorts, and has brought with him his latest contraption, which is intended, so I believe, to clean and polish boots by means of electricity.”

“Land sakes!” Brodie exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

“For something to do, I imagine,” Stockwell replied. “Gentlemen are largely at a loss for something to do.”

“How does this concern Harrison?” Brodie asked.

“He is assembling the machine in the stables,” Stockwell answered. “Or at least he is assisting the General to do so — although I fancy Harrison may be doing most of the work. However, he seems to enjoy it, in fact to take a certain pride in it.” A look of puzzlement crossed his rather complacent features. “There is no accounting for the difference in people’s tastes, Miss Brodie.”

“Indeed not,” she said with feeling, and proceeded up the stairs.

Dinner was an awkward meal, in spite of the unquestionable excellence of the food: a delicate consommé, fresh asparagus from the kitchen garden, picked at it’s tenderest, fresh trout, grilled until it fell from the bone, a saddle of mutton, several kinds of vegetables, followed by apple pie and thick cream, or trifle or fruit sorbet of choice. The awkwardness was caused largely by Violet Welch-Smith. Pamela Selden could see very easily why her brother had wished assistance over the week. Violet was a difficult woman, and she believed in candour as a virtue, regardless of the discomfort it might cause. She was also an enthusiast.

“We had the most marvellous food on our recent trip to France.” She looked at her husband who was sitting opposite her across the table. “Didn’t we Bertrand?”

Bertie Welch-Smith was unhappy. He thought the remark, just as they were finishing a meal provided by their host, to be unfortunate.

“Didn’t care for it a lot, myself,” he said with a frankness his wife should have admired. “Too many sauces. Like apple sauce with pork, or mint with lamb, or a spot of horseradish now and again, that’s about all. Oh, and a good custard to go with a pudding of course.”

Pamela hid a smile. She liked Bertie Welch-Smith. He was in his middle fifties, retired from a career in the army which was brave rather than brilliant. He had reached the rank of General in the old system of his father having purchased a commission for him, and then his turn for promotion having come fortunately soon. A single escapade of extraordinary valour in the Ashanti wars had brought him to the favourable notice of his superiors. He was not a naturally belligerent man; in fact, he was not unlike Freddie Dagliesh himself — good natured, rather shy, something of a bumbler except in his particular enthusiasms. For Freddie it was his garden, a thing of extraordinary beauty with flowers and trees from all over the world. For Bertie Welch-Smith it was mechanical inventions.

“You need to cultivate your taste more,” Violet said earnestly.

“What?” Bertie was already thinking of something else.

“Cultivate your taste,” she repeated slowly, as if he were foolish rather than merely inattentive. “The French are the most cultured nation on earth, you know.” She turned to Pamela. “They really know how to live well. We have a great deal to learn from them.”

Freddie stiffened and looked at Pamela in desperation.

“I think living well is rather a matter of personal preference,” Pamela said, with a smile. “Fortunately we do not all like the same things.”

“But we could learn to!” Violet urged, leaning forward across the table. The lights of the chandeliers winked in the crystal and the silver. The last of the dishes had been cleared away. Stockwell came in with the port. The ladies did not retire, since there were only four people present altogether. They took a little Madeira instead and remained.

“Do tell Freddie and Pamela about our stay in France, Bertie,” Violet commanded. “I am sure they would be most interested.”

Bertie frowned. “I had rather thought of going for a stroll. Take Freddie to see my new machine, what?”

“Later, if you must,” she dismissed his plea. “It is a harmless enough occupation, I suppose, but there is absolutely no requirement for such a thing, you know. There are valets and bootboys to polish one’s shoes, should they require it. Which brings something to mind.” She barely paused for breath, her Madeira ignored. “Do tell Freddie how you found poor Harrison and employed him. A French valet is a wonderful thing to have, Pamela; and a French lady’s maid is even better. I cannot tell you the number and variety of skills that girl has.” And she proceeded to tell her, detail after detail.

Bertie attempted to interrupt but it was doubtful in Pamela’s mind if Violet even heard him. Her enthusiasm waxed strong, and Bertie’s eyes took on a faraway look, although Pamela guessed they were really no greater distance than the stable, and his beloved machine.

“So very modern,” Violet gushed. “We really are old-fashioned here.” Her hands gesticulated, describing some facet of French culture, her face intent.

“I say!” Freddie protested. “That’s hardly fair. We are the best inventors in the world!”

She was not to be deterred. “Perhaps we used to be,” she swept on. “But the French are now … endlessly inventive … and really useful things …”

Bertie opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked vaguely crushed.

“You should tell them about finding Harrison,” Violet glanced at him, then back to Freddie. “And French menservants are excellent too, not just capable of one skill, like ours, but of all manner of things. Bertie never ceases to sing Harrison’s praises.”

“Harrison is English!” Bertie said with umbrage. “Dammit Violet, he is as English as steak and kidney pudding!”

“But trained in France!” she retorted instantly. “That makes all the difference. His mind is French.”

“Balderdash!” He was growing pink in the face. “He speaks the language, because he spent time there. That was where we found him. But he was more than happy to return home again with us … his home. He made that very plain, at least to me.”

“I never heard him say that!”

Pamela hid a smile behind her napkin, pretending to sneeze.

“You don’t listen” Bertie muttered.

“What did you say?” Violet looked at him sharply.

“He said you don’t — ” Freddie began.

Pamela kicked him under the table. He winced and opened his eyes very wide.

Pamela smiled charmingly. “He said he won’t miss it,” she lied without blinking. “I presume he meant that Harrison won’t miss France, when he has been with you for a while. After all, you have adopted so many French ways, haven’t you? And you have a French maid yourself, so he can always speak the language, if he chooses.”

Violet looked confounded for a moment. She knew something had passed her by, but she was not quite sure what.

Pamela rose to her feet. “Shall we go for a stroll in the garden?” she suggested. “There is a clear sky and a full moon. I think it would be very beautiful.”

Freddie sighed with relief. Bertie’s face broke into a smile. Violet was obliged to agree, more so, civility demanded it.

The following morning Brodie woke Pamela with a hot cup of tea, and drew the curtains to a brilliant spring day, with light and shadow chasing each other across the land. A huge aspen, green with leaf, shivered in the breeze and the garden glistened from overnight rain. Pamela’s clothes were ready, since she had decided the previous evening what she would wear. After a few exchanges of pleasantries Brodie left to run the bath, and came face to face with Colette on the landing, looking efficient and very pretty, and to Brodie’s eyes, a trifle smug.

She looked even more pleased with herself two hours later when Brodie encountered her in the kitchen. She had just come in from the back door and, glancing towards it, Brodie saw a nice looking, if rather foreign, young man in the yard, somewhere between the coal chute and the rubbish bins. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as though undecided whether to leave or return, but Colette did not look back, and indeed she flushed with colour as she caught Brodie’s eye. But there was no way to know if it was annoyance or embarrassment. Brodie thought the former.

A junior housemaid, a girl of about twelve, passed by with a bucket full of damp tea leaves for cleaning the carpet. They were excellent for picking up the dust. She nodded to Brodie respectfully, and walked past Colette as if she had not seen her. Brodie assumed she was another victim of the superiority of all things French. What did the French clean their carpets with? She had heard they did not drink tea! Coffee grounds would hardly serve. The very thought of it was unpleasant.

The cook was giving orders for the day’s menus. She was a buxom woman with a face which atfirst glance seemed benign. But Brodie knew her well enough to be aware that a fierce temper lurked behind the wide, blue eyes and generous mouth. At the moment it was drawn tight as she caught Colette’s smirk at the mention of custard for the suet pudding. “Yes?” she said challengingly.

Colette shrugged. “In France we ’ave more of the fruit and less of the suet,” she said distinctly, but without looking at anyone. “It is lighter, you understand? Better for the digestion, and of course for the form.” She was petite herself, beautifully curved, and moved almost like a dancer on a stage. Brodie felt a little squat and clumsy beside her. “Although you could be right,” Colette went in with a delicate little shiver. “After all, the climate, it is so damp! Maybe you need all the suet fat to keep you warm.” And without allowing time for anyone to think of a retaliation, she swept out, giving her skirts a little flick as she turned the corner.

“Oh!” the cook let out a snort of exasperation. “That girl! I swear if she comes in here one more time and tells me how good French cooking is, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll not be responsible!”

The kitchen maid muttered her agreement and heartfelt support.

Stockwell arrived looking portentous. It was his job to keep the entire household in order, and domestic difficulties were his to deal with. He had anticipated trouble in his address to the servants in general, in this morning’s prayers before breakfast, but it appeared that might prove insufficient. He should have known the cook by now, but habit and duty were too strong. “I am sure you will always be responsible, Mrs Wimpole,” he said smoothly. “You are the last person to let us down by behaving less than perfectly.” He straightened his shoulders even further. “We must not allow other nationalities to think we do not know how to conduct ourselves … even if they do not.”

Mrs Wimpole snorted again and banged her wooden spoon so hard on the kitchen table she all but broke it. The scullery-maid dropped a string of onions and gave a yelp.

“We all have our own difficulties to bear,” Stockwell said sententiously.

“Leastways Mr ’Arrison in’t French,” the bootboy said venomously, looking at Stockwell as boldly as he dared. “And no visitin’ General in’t makin’ a machine wot’il take away yer job from yer.” He looked thoroughly unhappy and frightened, his blue eyes wide, his blond hair standing slightly on end where the housekeeper had cut it rather badly — when Stockwell had been absent, up in London with Freddie.

“It won’t take your job, Willie,” Brodie said comfortingly. “I don’t suppose for a moment it works and, even if it did, do you imagine any gentleman would use it himself?”

“Mr Stockwell is all-fired keen on it, Miss,” Willie said doubtfully. “ ’im or Mr ’Arrison and the General is out there in the stables playin’ wif it every chance they gets.”

“They are assembling it, Willie,” Stockwell broke in. “That is entirely different.”

“I don’t see no difference,” Willie replied, but he did look rather more hopeful.

“Of course there is a difference,” Brodie reassured him. “In fact there is no relation. Putting it together is invention — a very suitable occupation for a gentleman, keeping him out of the house and harmlessly busy. Operating it every day to clean shoes would be work, and entirely unsuitable. Whoever heard of a gentleman cleaning his own boots?”

Willie was almost mollified. There was only one last hurdle to clear.

“Wot if ’e ’specs Mr Stockwell ter use it, seein’ as it’s a machine, an invention, like, and Mr Stockwell’s clever, an is ’is butler, an’ ’e don’t keep a separate valet?”

Stockwell stiffened.

“Butlers don’t clean boots,” Brodie pronounced without hesitation. “Regardless of how clever they are.”

“Oh … well I s’pose it’s alright then.”

“Of course it’s all right,” Brodie said briskly. “There is no reason whatever for you to worry.”

After a late and excellent breakfast of the sort Bertie Welch-Smith most enjoyed — eggs, bacon, sausages, kidneys, crisp-fried potatoes and tomatoes, followed by toast and sharp, dark Dundee marmalade and several cups of strong Ceylon tea, all of which he had sorely missed in France — he and Freddie went out to the stables to tinker with the machine.

“Ah!” Bertie said, with satisfaction, patting his stomach. “Can’t tell you, old chap, how I missed a decent breakfast in France. Don’t mistake me, food’s very good, and all that, but I do like a proper cup of tea in the morning. Don’t care for coffee much, what? And I like a little real marmalade, some of the stuff you can taste, not all these damn pastries that fall to bits in your hand.”

“Quite,” Freddie agreed. He had never been to France, but he did not approve in principle. There weren’t many people he disliked. One had to be either dishonest or unkind to offend Freddie; but he did dislike Violet Welch-Smith, although he would not have dreamed of letting Bertie see that. Bertie was both his guest and his friend, and therefore sacred on both counts.

They strolled side by side in the sun towards the stables and the marvellous machine.

“And then you must come and see my magnolias,” Freddie said hopefully. “I’ve got some purple ones which really are very fine, if I say so myself.”

“Certainly, old boy,” Bertie agreed. “Delighted!” He did not know what a magnolia was, but that was irrelevant. Freddie was a good fellow.

Brodie busied herself about her duties. There was delicate personal laundry to be done. There was a spot of candlewax on the gown Pamela had worn the previous evening, and she must take it to the ironing room and press it between blotting paper with a warm iron. She would have to remove the pink with a little colourless alcohol. Gin was best. It was a tedious job, but it was the only way. Then naturally there would be a great deal of other ironing to do. A lady’s maid’s accomplishments were many, but Pamela very seldom desired to be read to or otherwise entertained. She always found more than sufficient to occupy herself. Anyway, she was obliged to accompany Violet, and listen continuously to her endless account of her sojourn in France, and its sophisticated pleasures.

Just before midday, Brodie was walking through the hall towards the conservatory to deliver a message, when she saw a newspaper lying on the table near the umbrella stand. It was the local newspaper, and it had obviously been read and cast aside because it was open at the centre page. She glanced at it and her eye was caught by an advertisement for an exhibition of modern inventions, to be held in the town. Apparently it was most remarkable for the variety and ingeniousness of the machines. In fact, in two days’ time the French Ambassador himself was going to open the exhibition formally. In the meantime, it was possible for local people to attend a preview on the following afternoon, if they should so wish.

Brodie was not interested in machines. On the whole, she considered them inferior to a mixture of industry and a little common sense. But perhaps she should keep abreast of ideas, even if only to know what they were, and ease the minds of poor souls like the bootboy.

Tomorrow was her afternoon off. There was really very little for her to do here. All but the most urgent of jobs could wait until she returned home. It would be a pleasant diversion from having to be civil to Colette. The matter was decided. She made a mental note of the time and the place, and continued to the conservatory on her errand.

Stockwell also saw the newspaper, but the copy that caught his eye was the one that Freddie had read and cast away, folded where he had finished it. Stockwell bent to tidy it quite automatically. Books and papers out of alignment, pictures crooked, odd socks, a smear on a glass, all scraped his sensibilities. As he folded the papers neatly, his eye fell on the advertisement for an exhibition of the latest inventions to be held in the town hall, preview possible tomorrow, for local persons with a scientific interest. Stockwell most certainly had a scientific interest. He was eager to acquaint himself with all things modern, and to keep up with the latest challenges and conquests of the intelligent man.

If Mr Dagliesh would permit it, he would make a brief sortie into the town and observe what was on display. The household would take care of itself quite adequately between, say, two o’clock and half-past four tomorrow afternoon. He would be home again in plenty of time, to make sure that everyone did their duty at dinner. There was no need to mention it to anyone except Mr Dagliesh. Mrs Wimpole would be about her own skills in the kitchen, the footmen did not need to know anything except when he would return, and it was not a suitable matter to discuss with Miss Brodie. After all, scientific inventions were hardly women’s business.

The evening was long, and punctuated with moments of definite unease. Violet Welch-Smith kept repeating recipes for food that was supposed to be remarkably good for the health, which embarrassed her husband, though not greatly. He was too rapt in his satisfaction with his boot polishing machine, which Harrison had assured him was now perfect. Freddie endeavoured not to listen, simply to make agreeable noises every time Violet stopped talking long enough. Pamela kept the peace as well as she could — and her temper as well as she thought possible.

Brodie had the curious experience of seeing Colette’s admirer again. It was just after ten in the evening and she was coming back from fetching a petticoat she had inadvertently left in the ironing room, when she saw Colette standing in the passageway with her back to the light, and not a foot away from her was the man Brodie had seen her with before. This time he was facing the light and she saw his features quite distinctly. He was very dark with fine brows and a slightly aquiline nose. She judged he would normally be a very pleasant looking man, but at this moment his expression was one of earnestness bordering upon anger, and he was whispering fiercely to Colette, something which seemed not to please her at all.

“Auguste, c’est impossible!” she said furiously.

Brodie did not speak French, but the meaning of that phrase was clear enough, as was Colette’s defiant stance, hands on hips, chin raised, shoulders stiff.

Something must have distracted Auguste — perhaps the light reflecting on Brodie’s face or the faintest of rustles as the fabric of her dress brushed against the wall. He turned and left so quickly, melting into the shadows of the passageway back to the door, that, had she not seen the look on Colette’s face, she might have supposed he had been a figment of her imagination and not a real person at all.

Brodie disliked Colette profoundly, but to tell tales was a contemptible thing to do, something she had never stooped to since one dismal episode in her youth which she preferred not to think of now. She contented herself with looking at Colette meaningfully — to Colette’s discomfort — and then, with a decided swing in her own step, she continued on her way.

The following afternoon Brodie, with Pamela’s good wishes, dressed in her best afternoon skirt and jacket, a green which became her very well, and set out to walk briskly into the town. It was only a matter of some two miles or so, and she expected to accomplish it in half an hour. It was an extremely agreeable day, mild and bright with a steady breeze carrying the heady scents of hawthorn blossom. There were still primroses, pale on the dark banks of the ditches. Birds sang, and far away over the fields a dog barked. Other than that there was no sound but the wind in the trees and her own brisk footsteps on the road.

The exhibition was very well signposted and she found it immediately. There were few people attending, which was fortunate. It would give her time to look for the General’s device without being hurried on.

The first machine which caught her attention was a travelling electric stairlamp, made by M. Armand Marat, obviously a Frenchman with a name like that. In fact about everything she saw in the first room appeared to be invented, designed or made by a Frenchman.

She passed to the second room, but, before she could examine the machines in it, she saw the back of a very upright man of robust physique, his clothes immaculate, his hair greying and perfectly barbered, a completely unnecessary furled umbrella in his hand. What was Stockwell doing here? She considered retreating, then was furious with herself. Why on earth should she allow Stockwell’s presence to dictate what she should do? She would not be driven out!

“Good afternoon, Mr Stockwell,” she said decisively.

He turned around very slowly, his face almost comical with surprise. “Miss Brodie! What on earth are you doing here? Has something happened?” Now he looked alarmed.

“Yes, something has happened!” she said disgustedly. “It appears that the French have stolen a march on us. All the inventions in this miserable place are French! There is barely a single exhibit that is English that I have seen! It is most disconcerting.”

“I agree,” he said unhappily. “It is most regrettable. However, I can think of nothing whatever to do about it, except take defeat like gentlemen … and ladies. To concede defeat with grace at least has dignity, and that we must never lose, Miss Brodie. Stiff upper lip in times of hardship.”

Brodie disliked conceding defeat at all, even if she were rigid to her eyebrows.

“Is there nothing British here at all?” she asked.

“Only the General’s boot polishing machine,” Stockwell said grimly. “I fear it is hardly a great cultural step forward for mankind, nor will it be of particular benefit to anyone at all. As you quite reasonably pointed out to young William, it is merely a toy for gentlemen, until they tire of it and find a new one. Probably the best that can be said of it is that it is not dangerous. No one will cut off their fingers, or set fire to the house with it.”

Brodie sighed. “I suppose we had better have a look at it, since we are here anyway.” She gazed around her. “Where is it?”

“It is in the next room, where the curator is. Although what harm he imagines could come to any of these, I don’t know. I suppose someone might try to use one of them?”

Brodie gave him a withering look.

He shrugged.

Side by side, but not touching, they made their way to the third room and its exhibits. The curator was standing in the centre. On the wall by the door as one would leave was a poster declaring proudly that the event would be opened officially by the French Ambassador to the Court of St James, on April 12th, which would be … the day after tomorrow.

“Well, which is it?” Brodie whispered, staring around her at the extraordinary array of machines and contraptions of every size and shape that were established against the wall. Not one of them looked obviously useful. Some resembled clothes mangles, others tin boxes with wires, yet others elaborate typewriters. One looked rather like a bicycle stood upside down on its saddle, with two rather small wheels. Stockwell pointed to it.

“That is it,” he said very quietly, so the curator would not hear him.

Brodie’s heart sank. It really did look extraordinarily cumbersome — more fun than a brush and cloth and a good jar of polish, but a great deal less convenient. She was now quite convinced that William’s job was in no jeopardy.

“Oh dear,” she murmured sadly.

They walked over with affected casualness and stared at the contraption. Viewed from only a yard away, it was even more like a bicycle. It was possible to see quite easily which were the moving parts, where the brushes were, and where one was intended to place one’s foot in order to have one’s boots very highly polished. There was a metal foot with many joints, and a ratchet to alter its size according to the boot in question, but it would still be an awkward and rather time-consuming task to place the boot accurately. It was so much easier simply to put one’s hand into a boot or shoe, and polish with a brush in the other hand. Brodie refrained from comment.

“Ah …” Stockwell said thoughtfully. “I believe I see the principle upon which it works. Simple, yet clever. It would obtain a most excellent shine.”

“Yes,” Brodie agreed loyally. After all, it was a British invention and the General was one of the household. “It certainly would. Unparalleled.” She continued to look at it in the hope she could see something she could admire more genuinely. The longer she looked at it, the less hope did she feel.

Stockwell must now have been feeling the same, judging by the despair in his face.

Brodie went over the mechanism in her mind once more, envisioning precisely how it would work, when switched on. There seemed to be a part whose function she could not see; in fact the more she considered it, the more convinced she was that it was not only redundant, but it would actually get in the way when the thing was set in motion. There were two parts of it, metal parts, which were bound to touch when they moved in the only way they could. She pointed it out to Stockwell.

“You must be mistaken, Miss Brodie,” he said quite kindly. After all, how could she be expected to understand how a machine would work.

“No I’m not, Mr Stockwell,” she replied. She was very good at judging the length of a thing with her eye. Good heavens, she had sewed from exact measurements for enough years. She knew the length of a skirt, the size of a waist or the width of a hem to an exactness. “It will strike that piece there!”

“Really!” he said with diminishing patience. “Do you imagine Mr Dagliesh and the General have not tried it out?”

Actually, Brodie thought that was very likely, since she was more than ever convinced that the rising bar would catch against the angled cross bar — not violently, but sufficient to graze it — and since they were both apparently metal, to strike a spark. It also looked long enough to touch the bar immediately above, but perhaps that did not matter. That might be where it was meant to rest. However, with the best will in the world, which she had, she could not admire it with any enthusiasm.

Stockwell was still regarding her crossly, waiting for an answer.

“I suppose they must have,” she conceded reluctantly, and then with a parting shot. “I don’t understand what that piece is for?” She pointed to the metal bar against which the moving part must rest when it had completed its cycle.

Stockwell’s face took on a look of indulgent superiority.

“It is part of the structure, Miss Brodie, necessary for the strength of the machine when it is in motion.”

“I don’t see how.” His tone troubled her. “Surely that piece above it is sufficient for that purpose? It is not going to bear either weight or stress.” Her mouth compressed into a thinner line.

“It must do, or it would not be there!”

“What stress? Surely the piece above it serves that purpose?”

“Do not concern yourself, Miss Brodie,” he said coldly. “Machinery is not the natural talent of women. It is hardly to be expected that you should understand the principles of engineering. It reflects no discredit upon you.”

She had not for an instant considered it might. It was discredit to the machine she had in mind. But she could see from the set of his face that he did not understand it either, and therefore would brook no argument. However, he added one word too many. “I am sure you can appreciate that, Miss Brodie!”

“No,” she said abruptly. “It is not myself I am questioning, it is the machine. I am afraid it is not quite right, and may let the General and Mr Dagliesh down when the French Ambassador comes to test it.”

“Balderdash!” Stockwell retorted, pink in the face now and plainly discomfited. “I think, Miss Brodie, that we have looked at this exhibit long enough. I am going to have a cup of tea. I observed a very agreeable establishment a mere five minutes away. If you wish to join me, I do not mind.”

It was an uncharacteristically ungracious invitation, made under duress, but Brodie accepted it, partly because she would not be dismissed like that, but mostly because she was extremely ready for a cup of tea. It had been a long, thirsty walk into town, and would be the same on the return, especially if she were to try to keep up with Stockwell’s pace.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly in reply.

He looked a little surprised, but after a moment’s hesitation offered her his arm. He would never have dreamed of doing so in the house, but this was different. Here they were practically socially equal.

She accepted it as if it were her due.

They walked together across the street and along the pavement without speaking any further, but when the tea was ordered by Stockwell, and poured by Brodie, he broke the silence at last, tentatively to begin with.

“Miss Brodie …”

“Yes, Mr Stockwell?”

“I have observed a … person … around the house and grounds lately, a foreign-appearing person, who seems to be paying attention to Mrs Welch-Smith’s maid. Have you noticed anything?”

“Yes I have,” she said quickly — mention of Colette thawing her annoyance with Stockwell very rapidly. After all, it was a very secondary matter. “I have seen him twice now. I heard her address him as ‘Auguste’, and say what I believe was ‘it is impossible’.”

He leaned forward. “You believe? Did you not hear clearly?”

“What I think she actually said was ‘c’est impossible’.”

“I see. No doubt you are correct about the meaning, but it could refer to anything, even another meeting between them. But let us be diligent, Miss Brodie, and be warned. It is not unknown for servants of a certain character to open the way for accomplices to rob a house. We must be ever aware of the possibility. I shall have the footmen be extra alert where locks are concerned …”

“That will be no use if she lets him in,” Brodie warned. “And …”

“And what?” he said urgently. “There is something else? Strive to remember, Miss Brodie. Crimes are solved by deductive reasoning, and prevented by acute observation beforehand.” He blinked very slightly. “I am still reading the exploits of Mr Sherlock Holmes in the Strand Magazine. I find him most satisfying in his logic, and somewhat instructive as to the processes of detection. Please, inform me of all you recall of this person ‘Auguste’.”

Brodie thought very carefully before she began. It was most important that she did not allow her feelings to colour her memory, for the sake both of truth and most particularly of honour — in front of Stockwell of all people. “It is more a matter of impression,” she said, guardedly. “He was a good looking man …”

“I have seen him,” Stockwell interrupted. “I have no difficulty in accepting that Colette may be enamoured of him. I wish to know something of use … relevant to … to detection! Perhaps I have not made myself clear …”

“You do not need to!” she said politely. “If you had permitted me to finish it would have become apparent.”

He flushed faintly pink, and stared back at her. He was not going to go further than that. An apology was out of the question. He waited.

She cleared her throat. “He was very neat about his person, well shaved, well barbered, his shirt collar clean and pressed, his tie straight … that was as much of him as I observed. The shadows made it impossible to see the rest of his apparel clearly enough to describe. He gave me the impression of a service clerk in some form of business, or …” she hesitated. “That is not quite right.”

“Yes?” he prompted, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Yet he had rather more confidence than I would have expected in a man of such an occupation. He left very quickly upon seeing me, as if he did not wish me to look at him too closely, yet I detected in him no feeling of alarm, certainly not of guilt. When I look back on that, it is curious.”

“It is indeed,” he agreed, drinking his tea “Are you quite sure of that, Miss Brodie?”

“Yes, I believe so. And the oddest thing is that, rather than stop flirting with each other when they became aware of me, that was the moment they started. Before they saw me — or to be more accurate, before she saw me — they were talking earnestly, as if about some matter of importance. There is a good deal of difference between a woman’s attitude when she is talking to a man simply to play, and the subject matter is irrelevant, and when she means what she says.”

“I was aware of that.” He pursed his lips. “I have dealt in my profession with a large number of young housemaids and footmen. This what you describe is most puzzling. We require to know a great deal more about Colette and her admirer, if that is what he was; although now I begin to believe he may be something else. The question is, is he deceiving her too, pretending to be enamoured of her, but, in truth, merely using her to gain access to the house, or is she a knowing accomplice. And what of the valet, Harrison? He is an unusual man.” Stockwell frowned, puzzlement marked deeply in his normally smooth, even, and complacent face.

“In what way?” she asked, sipping her tea, but not taking her eyes from his. “I have barely seen him. He is never in the laundry or ironing rooms … or the stillroom or bootroom either, for that matter.”

“Quite,” he agreed. “It seems to me that the General does the greater part of his own valeting, while Harrison is in the stables attending to that invention of theirs. Now it is safely installed, he is back in the house, but I still see little of him. However it was his remarks, his expression to which I refer.”

“What remarks?” Tacitly, she offered him more tea, and he accepted. She poured it while he answered, after she had disposed of the now cold dregs in the slop basin.

“He says very little about France. Thank you,” he said, referring to the tea. “But when anything French is mentioned, a look of distaste, almost of anger, crosses his face. I am not certain if it is his own personal feeling, or if he is merely embarrassed that Colette, and Mrs Welch-Smith, should be so eager to praise everything French while in the house of an Englishman. They do it to a degree which borders on offence.”

“It is well across the border!” Brodie said tartly, helping herself to a fresh scone, butter, jam and clotted cream — a very English delicacy in which she would not normally indulge. She would have to abstain from pudding at supper.

“You are correct,” Stockwell agreed graciously. “I am afraid several of the staff are beginning to be ruffled by it. There is some peacemaking to be done.”

Brodie sat in silence, thinking. There was indeed a mystery. Perhaps something genuinely unpleasant threatened. She and Stockwell must join forces, as before.

“This time we must prevent any crime before it happens, Mr Stockwell,” she said very sincerely.

“I have every intention that we shall do so, Miss Brodie,” he agreed with feeling. “We must be equal to the task. As before, I shall find your assistance. You shall be my Watson!”

On the contrary, she thought to herself, I shall be your Holmes! But she had more tact than to say so.

The evening did not go smoothly. When Brodie returned to the house, more than a little footsore, Colette surveyed her tired face and wet feet with disdain, and made a remark about the glamour and excitement of Paris, and the charm of the French countryside, where of course the climate was kinder. Sunshine was so very good for the spirits.

Brodie glared at her, and went upstairs to change into dry shoes and her uniform dress. Even in the days of her youth she had never had a figure like Colette’s, or the art to tie a bow till it looked like a frill of lace for the occasions when an apron was required.

After dinner, quite by chance, as she was returning from the stillroom, Brodie again saw the mysterious Auguste. He was walking along the passage from Stockwell’s pantry towards the back door. He had not seen her, and she had time to study him quite carefully, making mental notes to observe with skill, not mere curiosity. To begin with he was quite tall, and he walked with an elegance. Certainly he did not sneak or cower. His jacket was well cut, but, as he passed under the lamp on the wall, she could see that it also was not new. She glanced very quickly at his feet. One could sometimes tell much about a person’s station in life from their boots. His were very well worn indeed, and now wet.

“Good evening, Monsieur,” she said briskly.

He froze, then very slowly turned and stared at her. He was obviously abashed at having been seen, but he did not look guilty, rather annoyed at himself.

“Good evening, Madam,” he replied courteously. His voice was pleasant enough, but heavily accented.

“I assume you are looking for Colette?” Brodie continued.

For a moment he was taken aback. She thought he was even going to deny it. Then he made an awkward little movement, half a bow. “No thank you, I was just about to go.” He indicated the way to the door.

She looked him up and down closely. His suit fitted him too well for him to conceal anything of size in his pockets. At least on this occasion he had not robbed the household.

“Goodnight, then,” she answered pleasantly, and resumed her way towards the kitchen. She was pleased to see Colette there, busy preparing a special egg-and-milk drink which Mrs Welch-Smith liked before retiring. She was looking for the nutmeg.

“Second drawer in the spice rack,” Brodie said tartly.

“Oh!” Colette spun around. “How do you know what I wanted, Miss Brodie?”

“Well, that’s black pepper you have in your hand! Or maybe you like pepper in your milk in France, even last thing at night?”

“Of course not!” Colette snapped. “Although, if you know anything about cuisine, you would not need to ask! Really, such an idea! All the delicacy would be lost. But then, English cooking is hardly an art — is it!”

“Well, it is obviously not one you know,” Brodie returned. “Nor is a decent respect for the household of your host, or you could not make such an unseemly remark. But then French manners are hardly an art either!”

Colette drew in her breath to retaliate.

Brodie got there first. “And another thing, while we are discussing it, it is not done in England for a visiting maid to have her followers in the house without permission — which would not be granted. I dare say Monsieur Auguste is a perfectly respectable person, but it is a principle. Some maids can attract a very dubious class of followers …”

Colette was furious, but oddly she did not explode with outrage. She seemed on the verge of speech, and then to hesitate, as though undecided, even confused.

“Many houses have been robbed that way,” Brodie added for good measure.

Extraordinarily, Colette started to laugh, a high pitched giggle rising towards hysteria.

Stockwell appeared at the door, his face dark with disapproval.

“What is going on here?” he demanded.

Brodie was annoyed at being caught in what was obviously a quarrel. It was undignified. And by Stockwell, of all people.

She was prevented from replying by the arrival of Harrison, General Welch-Smith’s valet. He was a pleasant-featured man with fair hair and large, strong hands. At the moment there was a sneer on his lips.

“Saw that follower of yours going across the yard,” he said to Colette. “You’d better make sure you don’t get caught, my girl! French may have the morals of an alley-cat, but English don’t like their servants having strange men in off the streets. Imagine what the mistress’d have to say if I brought some dolly-mop into the house! Get caught having a quick fumble in the cupboard under the stairs, and the mistress won’t be able to protect you, no matter how well you can use a curling tong … the General’ll have you out!”

Colette looked at him with utter loathing, but she seemed to have nothing to say. She turned on her heel, but, when she stopped at the door, the milk and nutmeg temporarily forgotten, the look in her face was not one of defeat, but of waiting malice, as if she knew she would triumph in the end.

Brodie went to bed unhappy and profoundly puzzled. There was too much that did not make sense, and yet when she examined each individual instance, there was nothing to grasp. Who was Auguste? He did not behave like a man in love. Why did Colette seem to think she had some peculiar victory waiting for her? Why had Harrison been living in France so long if he disliked the French as he seemed to? She realized in thinking about it that she had heard him make other disparaging remarks, and there had been a light in his eyes of far more than usual irritation or disapproval. There was some deep emotion involved.

How on earth was the General’s machine going to work when one piece was going to strike another as soon as it was set in motion? And what about the extra cross bar? So far as she could see, it offered no additional strength, no purpose, and certainly no beauty.

She went to sleep with it all churning in her mind, and woke in the middle of the night with the answer sharp and horribly clear, as if she had already seen it happen: the two pieces striking would ignite a spark … the extra piece had a hideous use … it was not metal but dynamite! It would explode — a mechanical bomb — killing the French Ambassador, or at the very least seriously injuring him.

General Welch-Smith would be blamed, naturally. He designed the machine. He made it, with Harrison’s help. He had just returned from a long sojourn in France.

And Freddie Dagliesh would also be blamed, by implication. The General was staying in his house, they had been friends for years; Freddie had assisted in the last minute touches to the machine. It was quite horrible.

Perhaps Colette knew of it? That could be why she had that look of secret triumph in her eyes. Then who was Auguste? An accomplice? He must be.

But an accomplice to whom? Surely the General had not really done this? Why? What had happened to him in France that he could even think of such an idea?

The reason hardly mattered. The thing now was to prevent it from happening. She must tell Stockwell. He was the only person who would believe her. Then together they would tell … who? Not the General, certainly. And would Freddie give a moment’s credence to such a tale?

She and Stockwell must do it alone, and there would be no opportunity to speak in the morning. They would all be far too busy with their own duties. She needed time to persuade him of the inevitable logic of what she had deduced. He could be stubborn now and again. And he would be appalled at being woken in the middle of the night. It was conceivable there had never been a woman in his bedroom, in his adult life, except a housemaid to clean it. If he had ever had any personal relationships they would most assuredly have been conducted elsewhere, and with the utmost discretion.

She sat up and fumbled in the dark for matches to light the candle. There were gas lamps downstairs, of course, but on the servants’ level — even the superior servants such as herself — it was candles. She succeeded, then reached for her shawl; there was no time to bother with the fuss of dressing, chemises and petticoats and stockings. Wrapped up with a shawl for decency more than warmth, she tip-toed along the corridor to the farther end where she knew Stockwell’s room was situated. There was a connecting door between the male servants’ quarters and those of the female servants, as decorum required, but it was not locked.

She was watching ahead of her so carefully, that she caught her toe against the leg of a side table where ewers of water were left. She almost cried out with pain, and there was a distinct rattle as china touched china.

Good heavens! What on earth would anyone think if she were found here? She was right outside Stockwell’s door. How could she possibly explain herself? She couldn’t! The General’s invention was going to explode and kill the French Ambassador! She could hear the laughter now, and see the total contempt in their eyes. It was almost enough to make her turn back. She had a blameless reputation! It would be a lifetime’s good character gone — and for what?

To save one man’s life and another man’s reputation, that was what.

Dare she knock?

What if someone else were awake and heard, and thought it was their own door?

They would answer it. They would see her standing here in her nightgown and shawl, her hair down her back and a candle in her hand, waiting at Stockwell’s bedroom door. She would never be able to live it down! She could hear the young maids’ comments now! Hear their laughter. They would never let her forget it! Silly old woman — absurd — at her age!

That was it. It was decided! She put her hand on the knob, turned it and went in. She closed it behind her very nearly without sound. Stockwell was lying curled over on his side in the middle of the bed, blankets tucked up to his chin, nightcap — a little askew — on his head. He looked very ordinary and very vulnerable. He would probably never ever forgive her for this.

“Mr Stockwell …” she whispered.

He did not move.

“Mr Stockwell …” she said a trifle more loudly.

He stirred and turned over.

Heavens alive. What if he saw her and cried out? That would be the worst of all possibilities. “Don’t say anything!” She ordered desperately. “Please keep quiet!”

Stockwell opened his eyes and sat up slowly, his face transfixed with horror. His nightcap slipped over one ear.

She could feel her face burning.

“I had to come!” she said defensively.

“Miss Brodie!” The words were forced between his lips. He was aghast. He opened his mouth to continue, and could not.

“I know what is wrong!” she said urgently. “With the machine! With the General’s machine! It is going to explode … and kill the French Ambassador … and General Welch-Smith will be blamed. I don’t know … perhaps he should be. But Mr Dagliesh will be blamed also, and he shouldn’t. We must do something about it before that can happen.”

To do him justice, he did not ask her if she had been at the port, but his expression suggested it.

“Imagine it in your mind!” she urged. “Visualize how the contraption will work. The French Ambassador places his foot on the rest, presses the button and the polish cloth rubs his boot, then the second piece starts to move.” She waved her hands to demonstrate. “It has to come down, in order to buff the leather. It strikes the cross bar, only very lightly, but sufficiently to cause a spark.” She leaned forward a little. “Now — visualize the other piece … unnecessarily double, you recall …That is the dynamite, Mr Stockwell … it will ignite, and explode!” She jerked her hand and nearly threw the candle at him.

“Miss Brodie!” he cried.

“Be quiet!” she whispered in agony of embarrassment. “Think of where we are! I had to come, because there will be no time in the morning. We may not even see each other till half way through the day. We must do something to prevent this! No one else will. It lies with us.”

“I … I shall speak to Mr Dagliesh,” he offered. “In the morning!”

“To do what?” she said exasperatedly. Really, Stockwell was being very obtuse. Perhaps he was one of those people who woke only slowly?

“Well … to …” he looked uncomfortable. He could now see the pointlessness of expecting Freddie to do anything at all about it. He would only speak to the General, in his own innocence, believing Welch-Smith to be equally blameless.

“If the General knows about it, he will deny it,” she pointed out. “And if he doesn’t know about it, of course he will deny it. Mr Dagliesh will be immensely relieved, and tell us we do not need to worry. All is well.”

He frowned. He was obviously feeling at an acute disadvantage sitting up in the bed, but he did not wish to rise with Brodie standing there. He felt very exposed in his striped nightshirt. There was something about being without trousers which was highly personal.

“Perhaps all is well?” he said with a thread of hope. “Surely it is more than possible the design is simply clumsy?”

The perfect answer was on her lips. “Do you imagine Mr Sherlock Holmes would be content with ‘a possibility’, Mr Stockwell?”

He straightened up visibly, forgetting his embarrassment and his doubts.

“I shall meet you at the stables at a quarter past eleven, Miss Brodie,” he said with absolute decision. “We shall take the carriage, as if on an errand, and determine for ourselves the exact nature of this wretched machine. Be prompt. Whatever your duties, see they are completed by then. We must act.”

She smiled back at him approvingly. “Assuredly, Mr Stockwell. We shall prevent disaster … if indeed disaster is planned. Goodnight.”

He clutched the sheet with both hands. “Goodnight, Miss Brodie.”

It was a fine day and the ride to the town was swift and pleasant. Outside the exhibition hall were posters proclaiming the official visit of the French Ambassador the following morning. Inside, there were rather more people than there had been yesterday. Brodie and Stockwell were obliged to excuse themselves and pass several groups standing in front of various examples of French ingenuity and design. They heard exclamations of admiration and marvel at a people who could think of such things.

Brodie gritted her teeth, remembering why they were here. The French might be the most inventive race in Europe, but it would be English courage and foresight, English nerve and integrity that saved the Ambassador.

They found the boot polisher, looking more than ever like a bicycle upside down. Brodie was both relieved and offended that there was no one else in front of it, admiring the ingenuity which had thought of such a thing. That was the trouble with the British … they always admired something foreign!

She glanced at Stockwell, looking utterly different this morning: in his pin-striped trousers and dark jacket, his face immaculately shaved, if a little pink, his collar and tie crisp and exactly symmetrical. She thought she saw in his eye a reflection of the pride, and the conviction she herself felt. It was most satisfying.

She turned her attention to the machine. It would not move without the electrical power, and that was to be turned on tomorrow, by the Ambassador; but, the more she looked at it, the more certain she was that the parts would rub against each other with sufficient force to strike a spark. There was only one thing that remained to be done. She leaned forward to touch the redundant piece and feel its texture. Metal … or dynamite? She did not know what dynamite felt like, but she knew steel.

“Don’t touch the exhibits, if you please, Madam!”

It was the voice of the curator, sharp and condescending, as if she had been a small child about to risk breaking some precious ornament. She flushed to the roots of her hair.

Stockwell leaped into the fray with a boldness which surprised even himself.

“Yes, my dear, better not,” he said calmly. He turned away from Brodie as if the order would be sufficient, his word would be obeyed, and engaged the curator in conversation. “Please tell me, sir, something about this remarkable piece of equipment over here.” He all but led the man across the room to the farther side, and a monstrous edifice of wires and pulleys. “I am sure you know how this works, the principle behind it, but I confess I fail to grasp it fully.”

“Ah well, you see …” the curator was flattered by this upstanding gentleman’s interest, and his perception in realizing that a curator was a man of knowledge himself, not merely a watchman who conducted people around. “It’s like this …” He proceeded to explain at length.

“Well?” Stockwell demanded when he and Brodie were back together in a quiet corner.

“You were magnificent,” she said generously, and quite sincerely.

He blushed with pleasure, but kept his face perfectly straight. “Thank you. But I was referring to the redundant piece. Is it metal?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “It is soft to the fingernail, a trifle waxy. I was able to take a flake of it off without difficulty. I believe it is dynamite.”

“Oh … oh dear.” He was caught between the deeper hope that it would not after all be necessary to do anything and the anticipation of being right, and with it the taste for adventure. “I see. Then I am afraid it falls upon us to foil the plan, Miss Brodie. We shall have to act, and I fear it must be immediate. There is no time to lose.”

She agreed wholeheartedly, but how to act was another thing altogether.

“Let us take a dish of tea, and consider the matter,” Stockwell said firmly, touching her elbow to guide her towards the doorway, and at least temporary escape.

As soon as tea was brought to them, and poured, they addressed the subject.

“We have already discussed the possibility of informing the authorities,” Stockwell stated. He glanced at the tray of small savoury sandwiches on the table, but did not touch them. “The only course open to us is to disarm the machine. We shall have to do it so that no one observes either our work, or its result. Therefore we must replace the dynamite with something that looks exactly like it.”

“I see,” Brodie nodded and sipped her tea, which was delicious, but still rather hot. “Have you any ideas as to how we should accomplish that?”

“I have an excellent pocket knife!” he replied with a slight frown. “I think I should have relatively little trouble in removing the dynamite. I believe it will cut without too much difficulty. I could also use the blade as a screwdriver, should one be necessary. However, I have not yet hit upon any idea of what we should put in place of that which we remove.”

Brodie thought hard for several moments. She took one of the sandwiches and bit into it. It was very fresh and really most pleasant. She took another sip of tea. Then the idea came to her.

“Bread!” she said rather more loudly than she intended.

“I beg your pardon?” Stockwell looked totally nonplussed.

“Bread,” she replied more moderately. “Fresh bread, very fresh indeed, may be moulded into shapes and made hard, if you compress it. I have seen beads made of it. After all, it is in essence only flour and water paste. We still have to paint it black, of course, but that should not prove too difficult. Then we may put it in place of the dynamite, and we will have accomplished our task.”

“Excellent, Miss Brodie!” Stockwell said enthusiastically. “That will do most excellently well. But of course it is only a part of our task …”

“I realize making the exchange will not be easy,” Brodie agreed. “In fact it may require all our ingenuity to succeed. The curator is not impressed with me as it is. He will not allow me near the machine again, I fear.”

“Don’t worry, I shall accomplish the exchange,” he assured her. “If you will distract the curator’s attention. But that is not what I meant. We cannot claim our task is completed until we know who placed the dynamite in the machine.” He shook his head a little. “On considering the problem, it seems clear to me that it can only have been either the General himself or Harrison. I have weighed the issue in my mind since you brought it to my attention, and I believe that the General has no reason for such a thing, and would bring about his own ruin, since he will naturally be blamed. Whereas Harrison appears to dislike the French, and may have some deeper cause for his feelings than we know. He has far less to lose, socially and professionally speaking. And he would be able to disappear after the event, take the next train up to London, and never be seen again. We know nothing of him, whereas we know everything of the General. Mr Dagliesh has had his acquaintance on and off for thirty years.”

“I am sure you are right,” Brodie nodded. “But as you point out, it remains to prove it — after we have removed the dynamite. I shall purchase some fresh bread at the bakery across the street. Can you obtain some black paint and a brush without returning to the house?”

“I am sure I can. Where shall we meet to do the work? It must be discreet.”

Brodie thought hard, and no answer came to her.

“I have it!” Stockwell said with pleasure. “There is a public bath-house on the corner of Bedford Street. It has private changing places for both ladies and gentlemen. If you use the rooms for ladies, you can make the bread the requisite size. Do you know what that is?”

“I do. It is two inches less than the distance from my wrist to my elbow, and as thick as my thumb.”

“Bravo! Then we shall begin. I think I may say ‘the game’s afoot’. Come, Miss Brodie. Let us advance to battle.”

But distracting the attention of the curator was less easy than they had supposed. They returned some considerable time later, the long, black stick of bread, paint just dry, concealed up Stockwell’s sleeve. The curator regarded them with displeasure. Had it been anything but the utmost urgency, Brodie would have left and gone home. But that would be cowardice under fire, and Brodie had never been a coward. England’s honour was at stake.

“Now, Miss Brodie,” Stockwell said gently, and perhaps with a touch of new respect in his tone. “Charge!”

She gulped and sailed forward. There were only four other people in the room: a gentleman and two ladies, and of course the curator.

“How wonderful to see you again!” she said loudly, staring at one of the ladies, an elderly person in a shade of purple she should never have worn. “You look so well! I am delighted to see you so recovered.”

The women stared at her in perplexity.

“And your great uncle,” Brodie went on even more loudly. Now the others were staring at her also. “Is he recovered from that appalling affair in Devon? What a perfectly dreadful woman, and so much younger than he.”

The woman now looked at her in considerable alarm, and clutched at the hand of the gentleman next to her.

“I don’t know you!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t have a great uncle in Devon, or anywhere else!”

“I’m not surprised you should disown him,” Brodie said in a tone of great sympathy, but still as loudly as she could, as if she thought the woman in purple might be deaf, and shouting would make the meaning plainer. “But older men can be so easily beguiled, don’t you think?”

Two more people had entered the room from one of the other halls, but they paid no attention to Stockwell or the exhibits. They focused entirely upon Brodie and the scene of acute embarrassment being played out in the centre of the floor. The curator dithered from one foot to the other in uncertainty as to what to do; whether to intervene in what was obviously a very private matter, or to pretend he had not even heard. Sometimes the latter was the only way to treat such a matter with kindness.

The woman in purple was still staring at Brodie as if she were an apparition risen out of the floor.

“Of course she was very attractive,” Brodie resumed relentlessly. Stockwell could not be finished yet. She must buy him time. “In an extraordinary sort of way. I’ve never seen so much hair! Have you? And such a colour, my dear! Like tomato soup!”

“I don’t know you!” the woman repeated desperately, waving her hands in the air. “I have no great uncles at all!”

“Really!” The man beside her came to her rescue at last. “I must protest, Mrs Er … I mean …” He glared at Brodie. “Lady Dora has already explained to you, as kindly as possible, that you have made a mistake. Please accept that and do not pursue the matter.”

“Oh!” Brodie let out a shriek of dismay. “Lady Dora? Are you sure?” Lady Dora was very pink in the face, a most unbecoming colour.

“Of course I’m sure!” she shrieked.

“I do apologize,” Brodie shouted back, still on the assumption Lady Dora was hard of hearing. “I mistook you for Mrs. Marshfield, who looks so like you, in a certain light, of course, when wearing just the right shade of … what would you say? Plum? Claret? I really should remember my spectacles. They make such a difference, don’t you think? I am quite mortified. Whatever can I do?” She asked it not rhetorically, but as if she expected and required a reply.

Lady Dora looked not a whit comforted. She stared at Brodie with loathing. “Please don’t distress yourself,” she said icily. “Now that the issued is settled, there is no offence, I assure you.”

“You are too generous,” Brodie exclaimed. Where on earth was Stockwell. Had he finished yet? She dared not glance around in case she drew anyone else’s attention to him. What on earth was there left for him to do? “I feel quite ill with confusion that I should have made such an error.” She rolled her eyes as if she were about to faint.

“Water!” Lady Dora’s companion said loudly.

The other woman moved forward to offer assistance, still looking sideways at Lady Dora as if she half-believed Brodie’s tale of the uncle. There was something of a smile about her lips.

“For heaven’s sake fetch some water, man!” Lady Dora’s companion commanded the curator, who at last moved to obey. With much assistance, Brodie was led to a seat and plied with water, a fan, smelling salts, and good advice. It was a full five minutes before she could bring herself to leave. She staggered out into the fresh air and was overwhelmed with relief to see Stockwell looking triumphant, and pretending not to know her, as the curator let go of her arm, and suggested very forcefully that she did not return.

“The atmosphere is not good for you, Madam,” he said, between thin lips. “I think for your health, you should refrain from such enclosed spaces. Good day.”

The following morning Pamela and Freddie went with Bertie and Violet Welch-Smith to see the formal opening of the exhibition. Both men were very excited about it, and Pamela felt she had to balance Violet’s disinterest by feigning an enthusiasm herself. They were accompanied by Harrison, a just reward for his many hours of work in helping to construct the General’s machine, and for his care and maintenance of it.

When they got there, it was very difficult. Almost all the exhibits seemed to be French. There were electric jewels invented by Monsieur Trouve of Paris, largely for use on stage. Next to that was an optical theatre designed by a Monsieur Reynaud. There were other French inventions: a portable shower-bath, created by Monsieur Gaston Bozetian; a device to prevent snoring; a construction for reaching the North Pole by balloon; and an invention by Dr Varolt — again of Paris — for electroplating the bodies of the dead so that they were covered with a millimetre thick layer of metallic copper of a brilliant red colour, so that the remains of a beloved could be preserved indefinitely. Violet became even more appreciative, praising them vociferously, and making Pamela feel more and more irritated.

At eleven o’clock the French Ambassador arrived, a neat and elegant man immaculately dressed and carrying a furled umbrella as if he did not trust the mild and delightful spring day. He declared the exhibition open, made several remarks about the service that inventors performed for humanity, and then proceeded to walk around the various exhibits and examine each in turn. He was followed by a small crowd of people.

He reached the boot polishing machine at about a quarter to twelve.

“Oh! And this is the English invention!” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He looked at it carefully, and it was apparent he was highly dubious about its value, but it would be a national insult if he did not try to use it.

Pamela watched, as gingerly, he put his foot on the pedal and reached for the switch to turn it on. She saw Harrison, his face alight with jubilation, as if a great moment of triumph had at last arrived.

The Ambassador’s finger was on the button.

“No! It is a bomb!” someone yelled wildly, and a dark-haired, dark-faced man leaped from the crowd, waving his arms, and hurled himself on the Ambassador, carrying him forward on to the machine, and the whole edifice collapsed beneath them in a pile of fractured metalwork and flailing arms and legs.

There was an indrawn breath of horror around the room. The women screamed. Someone had hysterics. One woman fainted and had to be dragged out — she was too big to carry.

“Send for the fire brigade!” the curator shouted. “Bring water!”

A quick-witted man fetched a fire bucket of sand and threw it at the Ambassador and the other man on the floor, knocking them back again and sending them sprawling.

“A bomb! A bomb!” the shouts were going around.

Pamela stared at Freddie, and saw the complete bewilderment in his face.

“What on earth is going on?” she demanded fiercely. Then she looked farther across and saw consternation in Harrison’s face, and thought perhaps she glimpsed an understanding.

Someone else arrived with a pail of water from the tearooms opposite. Without asking anyone, he also threw it over the Ambassador and the man, who was even now attempting to rise to his feet. They were both drenched.

“I say, old fellow,” Bertie moved forward in some concern. He put out his hand and hauled the Ambassador to his feet. He was sodden wet, covered with sand and mud, and purple in the face. “I say,” Bertie repeated. “I can’t imagine what this is all about, but it really won’t do.” He looked at the other man. “Who are you, sir, and what the devil are you playing at? This is a machine for polishing the boots of gentlemen, not dangerous in the least … and certainly not a bomb! You had better explain yourself, if you can!”

The man saluted smartly and addressed himself to the Ambassador, ignoring Bertie.

“Auguste Larrey, sir, of the French Sûreté. I had every reason to believe that this device would explode the moment you pressed the switch, and that you would be killed … sir …”

“Balderdash!” Freddie said loudly.

The Ambassador tried to straighten his coat, but it was hardly worth the effort, and he gave up. He looked like a scarecrow that had barely weathered a storm, and he knew it.

“Monsieur Larrey,” he said with freezing politeness. “As you may observe, I have met with great mischance, and in front of our neighbours and friends, the English, but the machine, it has not exploded. It has imploded, under the combined weight of your body and mine. It is wrecked! We owe the English a profound apology! You, sir, will offer it!”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Auguste stammered wretchedly. “Indeed, Monsieur.” He looked at the assembled company. “I am most deeply sorry, ladies and gentlemen — most deeply. I have made a terrible mistake. I regret it and beg your forgiveness.”

“Really?” Brodie said with wide eyes when Pamela told her of the incident that evening, when they were alone in the withdrawing room, the others having retired. Stockwell was just leaving to see if the footmen had locked up. She looked at Stockwell and caught his answering glance. “How very regrettable” she said with quiet sobriety.

Pamela looked at her narrowly, but said nothing further.

Stockwell cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said with shining eyes and a rather pink face. “Most regrettable, Madam.