Death Below Stairs

  Mrs. Bowen’s expression turned to one of despair. “Go, then.” She waved me onward. “There will be nothing you can do.”

  I intended to see about that.

  I opened the door and plunged into a different world. I knew the back stairs would be full of maids and footmen going about their duties, so I took the front stairs in the elegant hall of the main house, empty at this time of day.

  I didn’t much like being upstairs in Mayfair houses—the halls were too quiet and too ornate, and belied the fact that it took an army of staff to keep it all clean. Silence reigned here, broken only by the quiet chime of a tall Chippendale case clock that must have marked time in this house for at least a hundred years.

  Mrs. Bowen was on my heels. I lifted my skirts and ran up to the landing where I’d carried the tray of coffee to Lord Rankin on the first night of my employment. It seemed so very long ago now.

  I took the door to the right of Lord Rankin’s study and charged into Lady Rankin’s boudoir.

  Cynthia was already there. Lady Rankin—Emily—was seated at a writing table, her high-necked cream-colored gown as frothy and filmy as the one she’d worn the day I’d met her.

  Facing her over the table was Cynthia, dressed in trousers, waistcoat, and frock coat, her feet in their heavy boots planted in a mannish style.

  And yet, there was little difference between them. Both women were fair-haired, blue-eyed, and slender, both possessing the fragile air aristocrats could have—one that masked a hideous strength of will.

  “Why did you do it, Em?” Cynthia was saying, her voice broken.

  Lady Rankin blinked over the desk at her sister, then she turned her head—slowly, as though she found the movement difficult—and regarded her cook and housekeeper standing breathlessly in the doorway of her private room.

  “Mrs. Bowen?” she asked doubtfully, as though scarcely believing what she saw. “Please explain yourself.”

  Lady Rankin didn’t look at me at all. Her gaze was for Mrs. Bowen, as though begging her to speak, to explain this strangeness.

  Mrs. Bowen pushed me all the way inside the room and closed the door firmly behind us.

  “My lady,” she began, her voice taking on the tone of one not wishing to frighten a child. “I am afraid they know about Sinead.”

  Lady Rankin’s brows came together in a puzzled frown. “Who?”

  “Katie Doyle as she was properly, my lady. We called her Ellen. She liked the name Sinead.” Mrs. Bowen drew a breath and, as Lady Rankin continued to regard her with the same bafflement, went on. “They know she threatened you. You should have come to me, my lady, as you always did before.”

  Lady Rankin’s puzzlement left her, and hurt filled her light blue eyes. “You weren’t here. I did look for you, but you weren’t here.”

  I remembered the upstairs maid telling me that Mrs. Bowen had gone out the night of Sinead’s death, to be with her beau, Mr. Greer. I’d berated myself for not staying downstairs longer with Sinead that night, but Mrs. Bowen had not been there at all. Mrs. Bowen had sent this same Mr. Greer into the house the next night to hunt for the torn part of the paper she’d found in Sinead’s apron pocket.

  Had Mrs. Bowen truly wanted to shield the fact that Sinead had been a go-between for members of the Fenians, or had she thought the paper meant something else? Something to do with Lady Rankin? When Daniel and I had discovered that it indeed was connected to the Fenians, Mrs. Bowen had retreated and not objected to us and Lady Cynthia pursuing the matter.

  “It was something to do with your family,” I said to Lady Rankin. I was guessing, but I was fairly certain I was correct. “Something it would never do for Lord Rankin to discover.”

  Lady Rankin at last acknowledged that I was in the room. “You are clever, Mrs. Holloway. I knew it as soon as I met you. And such a good cook.”

  She smiled a watery smile, but she couldn’t melt my heart. Sinead had been on the verge of womanhood, poised to begin life, and that had been taken away from her. Yes, she’d made foolish mistakes, but those could have been corrected before it was too late. Lady Rankin hadn’t given her the chance.

  Cynthia broke in, anguished. “What was it, Em? What the devil did she know that was so important?”

  Lady Rankin laid down her pen as though it had grown too heavy for her. “She knew about Papa. Poor, dear, feckless Papa.”

  “Oh.” Lady Cynthia went gray. “Bloody hell.” She drew a long breath. “But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? It’s finished—it doesn’t matter.”

  “It would matter to dear Charles,” Lady Rankin said. Charles was Lord Rankin. “He sets such store by these things. And he hates deception. That’s why he doesn’t like you in men’s clothing.” Lady Rankin reached across the slim desk and ran a delicate finger over Cynthia’s sleeve. “I find it droll, myself.”

  Mrs. Bowen broke in, her voice hard. “Say nothing more, my lady. I will take care of it. I will look after you, as I always do.”

  “No.” Lady Rankin rose and drifted to the chaise longue near her bed. “No, I will explain. It will get into the papers—Charles won’t like it, but I won’t be here to see him grow angry. I’ll be locked away, won’t I? For killing Ellen? Then hanged.”

  She sank down on the chaise, looking woeful but not too worried. I realized as I watched her that, like Cynthia, she was playing a part. I’d thought the same about both of them the first day I’d met them. Lady Rankin was taking the role of delicate, pampered daughter of an aristocrat, spoiled and disinclined to do anything she did not want to. She’d continue playing this role for the magistrate, and then for the judge and jury, if she even reached the courtroom. She would play the scandal for all it was worth, I imagined.

  Their parents had been wild in their youth, from what I’d heard of the Earl and Countess of Clifford, confirmed by Mr. Davis’s gossip. So had their brother. Why should the daughters of the family be any different?

  “She oughtn’t have argued with me,” Lady Rankin said. “I couldn’t have her keep coming to me about it, could I?”

  I imagined the scene, Lady Rankin gliding down the back stairs when everyone else was in bed to meet Sinead in the linen room, to give her—money? A gift? A promise? For her continued silence. I’d had the feeling that night that Sinead was lingering to meet someone, but I’d never dreamed it had been the lady of the house.

  Perhaps Lady Rankin had tried to tell Sinead the gifts were finished, and Sinead had threatened to tell Lord Rankin what she knew. The heavy bowl of the mortar and pestle had been sitting on the table, near to hand. Easy for Lady Rankin to snatch up and swing, for Sinead to go down.

  I could picture Lady Rankin then realizing she should try to hide her crime and tucking the bowl into a dark corner of the dresser and pulling Sinead into the shadows. Sinead had not been a large girl. Lady Rankin—whom I suspected was not as fragile as she pretended to be—would likely have been able to manage it. She probably hadn’t thought much beyond this half-hearted attempt—Sinead’s death could easily be put down to a housebreaker or perhaps the violent young man she walked out with. Lady Rankin might have had no idea that the young man had been in jail in the north of England and so had an alibi. I wondered if Lady Rankin had taken the necklace that had been around Sinead’s neck—something she had given Sinead herself? Or perhaps Mrs. Bowen had, in her anguish, wanting something to remember the girl and her mother by.

  Mrs. Bowen, out for the evening with Mr. Greer, had not been able to stop the murder. She must have guessed right away that Lady Rankin had done it, the only person in the house with a motive to kill Sinead. No wonder Mrs. Bowen had shut herself away in her rooms the next morning, unable to face me, unable to face anyone, until she worked out how she felt about Lady Rankin’s guilt and what to do. She’d gone on about Sinead’s young man and about Fenians to throw me off the scent, perhaps. She’d distracted me from the truth
just as had the villains focusing attention to the explosions on the bridge while they hid near the station and waited to murder the Queen.

  “I am tired now, Bowen,” Lady Rankin said as I stood in dazed silence. “Please bring me my tonic.”

  She addressed Mrs. Bowen as though she were still a lady’s maid. Lady’s maids were called by last name only—housekeepers and cooks were given the honorific of Mrs.

  Lady Rankin lay back on the chaise as Mrs. Bowen obediently went to the bedside table. I heard the clink of glass on glass, the trickle of tonic from the bottle.

  Lady Cynthia remained frozen by the desk, and I closed my fists as Mrs. Bowen handed Lady Rankin the tonic. “Now you drink that down,” Mrs. Bowen said. “You’ll have a nice sleep.”

  Lady Rankin took the glass. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  For one moment, stark fear entered her eyes, then she firmed her mouth in resolution, and lifted the glass to her lips.

  “No!” I cried, coming out of my transfixed state, but too late. Lady Rankin gave me a faint smile as she poured the tonic into her mouth and swallowed it.

  I started forward, but Mrs. Bowen put herself in front of me. “It will be all right, Mrs. Holloway. Take Lady Cynthia and go.”

  My body had gone so tight I could scarcely breathe. But I understood. I moved woodenly to Lady Cynthia and touched her arm.

  Cynthia jumped as though I’d sent a spark through her. She stared at me then at her sister, and then she jerked from me and fled the room.

  I followed her more slowly, turning back at the door. “I’m sorry,” I said, more to Mrs. Bowen than Lady Rankin. “But it wasn’t right.”

  Mrs. Bowen shot me a furious look. “This is your fault.”

  It was not, but my heart was heavy.

  Lady Rankin seemed to have forgotten all about me. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Bowen?” she asked, gazing up at the older woman.

  Mrs. Bowen lost her anger as she looked down at Lady Rankin, tenderness in her eyes. “Of course I will, dear. Don’t you worry. I’m here now.”

  I turned away, my chest hollow, and closed the door.

  I heard sobbing from behind a half-open door on the other end of the landing. I walked to it on quiet feet and peered inside to see Lady Cynthia sitting on a chair in a bedchamber, slumped forward, face in her hands. She wept, her back shaking.

  I went to her and laid my hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry,” I said, in a much gentler tone than I’d used for Mrs. Bowen. “Come downstairs with me. Don’t stay up here alone.”

  Cynthia raised her head, her face mottled red and white and covered with tears. She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Are you going to give me a tonic as well?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Not at all,” I said. “I was thinking more along the lines of a strong bottle of wine. Mr. Davis left me a fine Burgundy for the sauces tonight, but I think he’ll understand if we each take a fortifying glass of it.”

  • • •

  Lady Cynthia poured out the wine in Mrs. Bowen’s parlor, saying Rankin couldn’t sack her for pilfering it. I accepted my glass gratefully, letting the thick-bodied wine settle my shakes while Cynthia explained why her sister had done what she’d done.

  “Poor dear Papa, as Em calls him, is good at fraud.” Lady Cynthia took a long sip of wine and lolled back in Mrs. Bowen’s Belter chair. “Always has been. When he was younger, he’d coerce friends to invest in nonexistent ventures—things like that. Never made much at it, because he’d feel guilty and return most of the money, telling them the investment hadn’t come to fruition. And then a grand scheme fell into his lap.”

  She drank deeply of the Burgundy and refilled her glass, while I took another sip. The wine was very good—all Lord Rankin’s were—which was why my sauces could be so rich and savory.

  “The Earl of Clifford—the one before Papa—died,” Cynthia went on. “So there was the earldom, with its cash, large house, land, title, and instant respectability, ripe for the taking. So Papa took it. Oh, he was an heir,” she added as my eyes widened. “But not as far up in the succession as everyone thought. He doctored the family tree.”

  “Good Lord.” I blinked, then frowned. “But how could he? Surely people would know who was who.” The upper-class families I’d worked for had all had a clear and almost fanatic knowledge of their bloodlines.

  Cynthia’s words began to slur. “Not when the Shires family was scattered to the four winds. The previous earl had no sons. He had cousins, but they were distant—third, fourth, fifth. It was all written down somewhere, but no one bothered to look hard for the documents. The solicitors took the papers my father produced, which claimed he was a second cousin, as genuine. Truth was, he was a lot more distant than that—probably fourth or more in the line of succession. And so my father stole the earldom.” She rested her head on the ornate carving on the chair’s back. “No one knew except me, Em, Mrs. Bowen, and my mother and father, of course. I suppose Sinead got hold of the information and used it to finagle little presents and money out of my sister as she did. I’ll wager Em wasn’t bothered so much when we lived in Hertfordshire, but after she married Rankin, well . . .” Cynthia took a gulp of wine. “Em would pay to keep such a thing from Rankin, wouldn’t she?”

  “Surely it’s not that easy to steal a title,” I said. “These other cousins must have protested.”

  Cynthia shrugged. The shoulder of her jacket caught on a bit of carving on the chair’s back and stayed there. “I believe Papa paid them, once he came into the money, which is one reason he went through the blunt so fast. One cousin was going to put up a stink, but then he took sick and died in an apoplectic fit. Stroke of luck, my father used to joke. Horrible of him. The others have died off as well, so Papa truly is the earl now.”

  “Lady Rankin would know that,” I pointed out. “She had no more cause to worry.”

  “Oh, she would if Sinead told Rankin,” Cynthia said. “Old Rankin would make Em’s life hell—both because Papa was such a confidence trickster, and because Emily had hidden the story. Rankin would never have married Em if he’d tumbled to the truth, and Em knows it.”

  “I believe you.” I sighed. Lord Rankin wasn’t above double-dealing himself or chasing maids in his own household, but he strove to put forth a show of utmost respectability, especially in his marriage. A man trusted with other people’s money had to live an impeccable life. If anyone discovered that Lady Emily’s father shouldn’t have been the Earl of Clifford, that fact would disgrace Lady Rankin and have her shunned, possibly Lord Rankin with her. The fragile-looking aristocrats were unforgiving.

  “I imagine she was afraid Rankin would divorce her,” Cynthia said. “Or that he’d put her away somewhere, like in an estate in the back of beyond, and not let her out. Em loves society. She’d waste away like that.”

  Indeed. The delicate Lady Rankin was not made to be a country woman in stout boots who hosted shooting parties and ran village fêtes.

  I firmed my lips. “Even so, she should not have killed Sinead. It was a wicked, terrible thing to do.”

  “I know,” Cynthia said glumly. She drained her glass of wine and reached for the bottle. “And she’ll pay for it, I suppose. God, this is going to be awful.”

  “What will you do now?” I asked, softening my tone.

  Cynthia drew back her hand before she touched the bottle, and set down her glass. “I don’t know. Maybe go with Bobby to the seaside. But she wants . . .” She let out a breath. “What I don’t want.” She shook her head and looked miserable.

  I understood. Mr. Thanos had asked Cynthia if she were a hermaphrodite, by which he meant a woman who prefers the company of women—in all respects. Cynthia had answered in the negative. Bobby, on the other hand, must have those proclivities, and wanted Lady Cynthia to share them. It was a trouble I’d had no experience with, b
ut pain was pain, no matter what.

  “Would you have an objection to marrying?” I asked her. “If the right gentleman proposed?”

  Cynthia stared at me, and then barked a laugh. “Me, marry? What man would have me? And even if one did ask me, he’d have to take me as I am. I refuse to squeeze myself into a frock and act as though I haven’t got an opinion in my head except what my husband decides for me. No man is worth that.”

  I understood. I wouldn’t put up with a man who dictated what I should believe either.

  When a woman marries, her husband becomes her lord and master. All very well if the gentleman in question is intelligent, reasonable, sweet tempered, well-mannered, and sensible—but it is a rare man, in my experience, who possesses all those qualities.

  “Well,” I said regretfully as I lifted my glass. “I suppose I’m out a place. My name will have to go back on the books.”

  “No reason for it to.” Cynthia reached across the table and put her hand on my wrist. “Please stay with me awhile, Mrs. H. I’ll see that Rankin pays you a proper wage and a bit extra besides.”

  Her pleading look was more than I could bear. I nodded, though I moved my hand to take another drink of wine, which made her fingers slip away. It would never do for the lady of the house—which was what Cynthia would become, if only temporarily—to be too friendly with the servants.

  “I will remain,” I said. “Until everything is settled.”

  Cynthia let out a breath of relief. “You’re a peach, Mrs. H.,” she said, and raised her glass to me. “Thank you.”

  • • •

  Lady Rankin died in her sleep. The household was told this the next morning, relayed by Sara, who came flying downstairs in near hysterics, babbling that Mrs. Bowen had found her on the chaise, dead as a stone. Apparently, Lady Rankin had accidentally drunk too much of her tonic.

  The staff gathered around, distressed and worried, both for Lady Cynthia and for themselves. A house without a mistress would break apart.