Lady collendons cook, p.22
Lady Collendon's Cook, page 22
‘Oh really? That’s very kind of you milady,’ Alice answered after a pause. ‘I wouldn’t want you to go to any expense oin my behalf.’
‘Well, actually, no expense will be spared,’ Lady Petrie said. ‘You see, my husband, Lord Petrie owns a newspaper or two. He wants to do a series of articles about the plight of the domestic servant, and he wants to focus on you in particular. We are also going to consult with Lord Kresper, my husband’s legal representative, to see what grounds there are to overturn your conviction.’
‘So, you believe I didn’t do it then?’ Alice asked.
‘We know you didn’t do it! It’s preposterous!’ Lady Petrie said. ‘It’s an outrage, and all to please the damn German authorities. It simply will not do!’
‘I don’t know what to say, milady,’ Alice replied.
Lady Petrie smiled. ‘Want to see what’s in the hamper? Look!’ She undid the straps of the basket and threw open the lid.
Alice stared down into its contents, which consisted of tins of corned beef and ham, fresh prosciutto, cheeses, bread, wine, biscuits, figs and other good things. The delicious aroma which arose was intoxicating. Alice doubted the prison would allow her to keep the wine. Luckily, she had managed to sneak Mr Kearns’ small bottle of gin into her cell. The large bottle of wine on the other hand would be hard to conceal.
‘It’s wonderful,’ Alice said her eyes lighting up with genuine pleasure. She thought Franny would be thrilled. ‘It’s wonderfully kind of you, milady.’
‘Well, this is only the first gesture,’ Lady Marcia said. ‘I have to confess that Lady Collendon herself had originally agreed to come today, but she is unwell at present.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Alice answered. ‘I hope she gets better.’
‘Yes, I’m sure she will,’ Lady Marcia said. She leaned forward. ‘Between me and you, I don’t think Lord and Lady Collendon are seeing eye to eye at the moment.’
Alice nodded. ‘I think I know what you mean, ma’am. Mr Kearns, Lord Collendon’s butler very kindly came to see me recently. He told me that the reason why I am here, is because it was all planned. I think Lady Collendon was against it, but I understand his Lordship agreed to it, which has upset me quite a bit. Anyway, Mr Kearns reckons they might let me go.’
‘That’s what I heard, but Lord Collendon’s actions would upset anyone!’ Lady Marcia said with great sympathy. She patted Alice’s hand. ‘You poor soul. You probably didn’t know what hit you. Well, aunty Marcia is here now. We’re jolly well going to do what we can to turn the tables on the horrid people who did this to you!’
Despite herself, Alice’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. It was the first time anyone, apart from Mr Kearns had expressed any real sympathy for her. Lady Marcia, aware of the woman’s emotions impulsively grabbed Alice’s hand. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing now. We’ll get you out of this awful place in the shake of a dog’s tail, or very soon after that!’
‘I think they’re moving me, anyway,’ Alice said.
‘Oh really? Where?’
‘Mr Kearns, our butler, seemed to know all about it,’ Alice said. ‘To a…detention…center, he thinks, or something like that.’
Marcia frowned. ‘I’ll make some enquiries.’
Alice smiled through her tears. There was no doubt in her mind that Lady Marcia meant well. But Alice felt it was not a good to have any expectations, and to take things as they came. It was the only way to keep sane in the situation.
***
Kearns was packing his bags in his room at Tennyson House, when Lord Collendon stopped by. He seemed perturbed. ‘Are you sure you won’t change your mind about leaving?’ he asked. ‘I mean, damn it all man, you’re the only one who knows the ropes round here, apart from Jode. The thought of breaking in another butler is just too much.’
‘I intend to stay for at least another couple of weeks to assist with that, your Lordship,’ Kearns replied.
‘Well, thank you,’ Collendon said. ‘But from the look of things, it seems as if you’re moving on today.’
‘No, your Lordship, I’m just getting ready,’ Kearns said.
‘I see, well, look, the thing is, we’ve got another dinner party coming up next weekend,’ Collendon said. ‘Couldn’t you at least hang around for that? There might be some people from the German embassy in attendance.’
Kearns looked at his employer. ‘I suppose I could, sir,’ he replied. ‘May I make a suggestion, your Lordship?’
‘Fire away Kearns.’
‘I think playing up to the Germans isn’t a good strategy. Not anymore. At least not now. If we go to war, the papers will start asking awkward questions.’
Lord Collendon’s face became indignant. ‘Are you actually criticising me, Kearns?’
‘I wouldn’t be so forward as to do that, sir,’ Kearns said. ‘But there’s talk. Talk down the local.’
‘Do you think I give a damn what they are saying in the pub?’ his Lordship snapped.
Kearns shrugged. ‘I am only repeating what I have heard.’
‘Well keep your opinion and the opinions of others out of it,’ Collendon said. ‘My reasons for entertaining high-level German officials is to fall in line with what the Government is trying to achieve. And that is to get through the next ten years without another war. You of all people should realise that! We had enough bloodshed in the last war, and some of our nearest and dearest died in that. No doubt you had friends and relatives who passed away.’
‘I actually fought in that war, your Lordship,’ Kearns said.
Lord Collendon nodded and then softened and patted Kearns on the arm. ‘I know, I know. Look, you’re a good man. Let’s not part on bad terms.’
‘No sir,’ Kearns said as his employer turned to leave the little room.
Collendon paused at the doorway. ‘Let me know if you can stay at least until the end of the month preferably?’
‘Yes, your Lordship,’ Kearns replied. ‘I can’t see that it will be a problem.’
‘Good. And, oh by the way Kearns,’ Collendon said finally. ‘You owe me a favour. Apparently, the police wanted to interrogate you over the matter of the shooting of the Geoffrey Beresford undersecretary of state! Apparently, he was shot whilst on holiday in Germany. But I pulled a few strings and persuaded the police not to bother you. Know anything about it?’
Kearns frowned. ‘No sir.’
‘I didn’t think you did,’ Collendon said and then walked off.
Chapter Eleven
For a normally active man like Geoffrey Beresford, enforced rest was worse than having no rest at all. Sir Hugh’s command that he was to recuperate, was a nice gesture, though an annoying one. Beresford would still continue with his investigations and oversight from home, regardless. He had a telephone which is basically all he needed to have dealings with the greater world. Dressed in a loosely fitting shirt, slacks and moccasins, Beresford sat behind his desk in his small Pimlico study making notes. There were things he intended to follow up when he got back to Whitehall. It was while he was deep in thought, that the phone rang on his desk. He picked it up expecting it to be one of his casual girlfriends. Instead it was William Greaves, the office’s field operative. ‘Mr Beresford, it’s me, Will, how are you, sir?’
‘I’m fine,’ Beresford said glad that he hadn’t been forgotten. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Funny you should say that, sir. But I thought I’d let you know that the Governor of Coldvale Prison gave us a tinkle yesterday to let us know that Mrs Green has had yet another visitor.’
Beresford frowned. ‘Another visitor? Are you going to keep me in suspense?’
‘It was Lady Marcia Petrie,’ Greaves said. ‘She recently married Lord Petrie, the proprietor of The London News Chronicle.’
‘Ah yes, that’s the pro-Churchill rag isn’t it!’ Beresford replied with evident distaste. ‘I don’t read it myself. Did the Governor say anything else?’
‘Well, he’s annoyed that people think they can just turn up out of hours to visit Mrs Green.’
Beresford tapped his index finger on the desk. ‘I wonder what Marcia Petrie wanted then? I have a feeling that her husband has put her up to this. Wants to write an editorial about injustice or some claptrap, no doubt! Following in the Delhi Herald’s footsteps.’
‘What would you like me to do?’ Greaves asked.
‘I think it’s time we had Mrs Green transferred, don’t you?’ Beresford said with a heavy sigh. ‘Although thinking about it, she’s probably more dangerous in prison than out, so I think her release is imminent now. We don’t want Lady Marcia Petrie coming back for another visit, do we?’
‘I’ll put it into the pipeline, sir,’ Greaves said. ‘As it happens, we’ve been considering MOD Drewstaignton as a possible placement for her in the interim. They do mind control there.’
‘Do they really?’ Beresford replied thoughtfully. ‘Interesting. Well, we need to make sure Mrs Green gets the message – no more newspaper interviews, no more working for the landed gentry and no more Lady Marcia! That will be part of our conditions for her release.’
‘I understand,’ Greaves said. ‘As it happens, at Drewstaignton they are looking for candidates to take part in a mind control trial being run by a Dr Rimsky of the Brain Research Institute of East Anglia. It was in Popular Science. HPMMT it’s called. Hypnosis and Pulse Modulated Microwave therapy or some such.’
‘You don’t say?’ Beresford replied. ‘Well, it might prove very useful in this situation. Put her name down for it if you can, but on our terms! If this so-called therapy can make her more compliant and cooperative, then it would be ideal, especially when she’s out in the community.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Greaves replied.
Beresford sniffed. ‘Thank you. I mean, a little bit of mind control might help to keep her in line, don’t you think?’
***
Without particularly meaning too, Fintan found himself in the Exeter area and pulled his van over to the side of the road with a jolt. He had spotted a printing shop just off the high street of a little village near Exeter itself. The name above the door said, ‘Morgan Farley Print Works’. It seemed to Fintan to be a good starting point for his plan. But if he wanted the printer to produce some ‘replacement’ documents, there might be some awkward questions to answer. Fintan had already begun devising a story with some, hopefully, believable details about himself. He was going to be Hugh Edwards from Baltimore, an American with Polish immigrant parents who changed their name. He was anxious to bury any suggestion he might be Irish. He had come over to England on a business trip and his documents had gone missing at the hotel where he was staying.
Fintan nodded to himself. It seemed like a passable if unimaginative story. He thought that he could also pose as a businessman hoping to set something up in England and was looking for a suitable opportunity. As he sat staring down the quiet high street, he noticed a large banner hanging across the gates of the church on the other side of the road which read:
‘A GOOD FIGHT IS A RIGHTEOUS FIGHT!’
Fintan surveyed the sign with interest and thought that his plan fitted in with the mood of the country at the moment. He got out of his van, locked the door and strode over to the Printer’s shop. A little bell above the door rang as he entered, and he was immediately greeted by a bald man wearing a brown leather apron. ‘Yes Sir?’
‘Good afternoon to you,’ Fintan said affecting quite a good American accent. ‘I was wondering if you could do a small print jobbie for me?’
The man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, we don’t do small print runs. What sort of thing were you after?’
‘I need some replacement documents,’ Fintan replied.
The man gave him a shrewd look and shook his head again. ‘It’s not the sort of thing we do here, I’m afraid. But I do know a man who might be able to help you. He works from his own little cottage. Got a printing press in his shed. His name is Sid.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Fintan said with a smile.
‘It’s about a mile from here. I’ll draw a little map for you.’
‘Thank you!’ Fintan replied as the man scribbled down the address and did a quick sketch. Fintan thanked him again, took some directions and drove off.
He found the quaint little cottage near a stream off the main road, and bounded up to the front door, rapping loudly. An elderly woman answered and directed him around to the back of the building via a footpath. Fintan found himself standing in front of a ramshackle shed with its door half open. The loud whirring of a machine could clearly be heard coming from inside. A white bearded man greeted him from the shadows. ‘You’re the American fellow!’
Fintan was surprised. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Don just phoned me and told me you were coming. Something about documents needing to be replaced?’
Fintan nodded, feeling that his cover had been exposed. ‘That was the general idea,’ he said.
The man beckoned him into the shed and closed the door. A print machine was noisily chugging away like a steam engine. The smell of oil, ink and spirit hung in the air.
‘Look, I wasn’t born yesterday,’ the bearded printer said. ‘I know what you’re looking for.’
Fintan was taken aback by the man’s directness. ‘You do?’
‘You want me to forge something for you, don’t you?’ the man said with a smile. ‘But don’t worry. I’m asked to do it all the time. I can even knock out some bank notes for you. Quite good ones too, for a price.’
Fintan was at a loss for words, and then said. ‘How do you know I’m not a copper?’
The printer laughed. ‘Well it’s obvious you’re not. And as for your American accent, it’s as fake as the documents you want me to produce for you! A pound to a penny you’re Irish and you’re trying to blend into the local landscape.’
Fintan didn’t know how to receive this. If this printer could so easily unmask him, the army would be able to do it in an instant. ‘Look, I think I’ve made a mistake,’ Fintan said turning to leave.
‘Wait a minute,’ the printer said grabbing his arm. ‘Don’t be so hasty. As I said, I can produce anything for you for a price, and I’ll keep my gob shut. I’ve got a lot of clients like you. They come down from London for my services all the time!’
Fintan nodded with caution. ‘When you say price, what do you mean?’
‘Twenty-five pounds,’ the printer said. ‘For that I’ll set you up for life.’
‘That’s a lot of money,’ Fintan replied. ‘I don’t have it.’
‘I thought not,’ the printer said. ‘But I can tell you where to get it. There’s a post office not so far away that regularly deposits its takings with a local bank. It wouldn’t be a problem to relieve them of some of that cash, if you know what I mean.’
Fintan rubbed his chin. ‘Interesting.’
‘So, I’ll do the job and I’ll trust you to pay me,’ the printer said again with a grin. ‘What do you think?’
‘As I say,’ Fintan said with a smile, ‘Interesting!’
***
Alice had not quite got used to sleeping in the prison, especially in a cramped cell with two others. Her bed was barely comfortable at best, causing her to sleep very lightly and restlessly. She also had a great deal to think about too, which was keeping her awake until the wee small hours. The realisation that Lord Collendon had condoned her arrest and imprisonment was particularly galling to her. She had always thought of his Lordship as an exemplary man, a noble man. This clearly was an illusion on her part. When push came to shove, it was obvious that Lord Collendon’s own interests took precedence over those of a mere cook.
She was annoyed with herself for having so much trust in him. Her Ladyship, on the other hand, was clearly there rooting for her, even if she didn’t come to visit. Alice had always thought of her Ladyship as being in some ways, more of a stronger character than her husband. Why she was so weak kneed about visiting the prison was unclear. As Alice lay there in the semi darkness staring up at the ceiling, there was a rattle of keys in the cell door and the light being turned on. Alice didn’t precisely know what the time was. It was surely getting on for three in the morning. Two prison officers noisily entered the cell waking up the other two women, who blinked in the harsh cell light.
‘Green, get your things, we’re going for a ride!’ the taller of the men said.
Alice sat upright. ‘What’s happening?’
‘You’ll find out,’ the officer said. ‘Get all your belongings. Do you have a bag?’
‘Yes,’ she replied rubbing her eyes.
‘Pack everything then. You’re not coming back here!’
At these words, Franny, sat up in bed. ‘Oh, no,’ she cried.
Alice climbed out of bed and squeezed Franny’s hand, who was on the top bunk. ‘I’ll keep in contact,’ Alice said. ‘And there are a couple of hard boiled eggs at the back of the cupboard under a pillowcase.’
‘Ok, thank you,’ Franny replied.
Alice bent forward and quickly whispered, ‘No, don’t eat them whatever you do! Give them to Big Jean.’
‘Hey, what’s that?’ the prison officer demanded in a gruff manner. ‘You’ve got five minutes, Green, and what you can’t take will be left behind!’
At these words Alice scampered around organising her few belongings. Some had been kept downstairs in the reception area and included a coat and some outdoor shoes. She stuffed as much as she could into the two small bags she had.
‘What shall I do with this?’ she said referring to Lady Marcia Petrie’s hamper.
‘You can’t take that,’ the officer said with a sneer. ‘You’ll have to leave it here.’
‘Alright, so I’m giving it to Franny,’ Alice said. ‘You can have what’s left in it, Fran, and don’t share with anyone.’
Franny nodded. ‘Thank you, Alice. I’m going to miss you,’
‘I’m going to miss you too,’ Alice said giving Franny a smile. ‘But I’m not going to forget you. You and me, we’re friends for life.’
