Page 33 of Murder at the Dinner Party
There was one servant named Virginia on the list, and she was perhaps the most important witness to be interviewed that night. She’d gone by a different surname then. It was from her witness statement that we knew Rupert had been having a liaison with Charlotte before her death.
I thanked them and headed back up the steps to the pavement. I met Harry coming out of the pharmacy where he’d found a silence cabinet the public could use to make telephone calls. “Any luck?” I asked.
He shook his head. “He says requesting a search of the records will only draw attention to himself and our investigation, plus it would take too long. He thinks we’re better off making inquiries at employment agencies.”
“We may not need to do that. Do you know where Southampton Row is?”
“I do.”
“Can you give me directions?”
“I can do much better. I’ll show you.”
I no longer felt inclined to investigate without him. We achieved results when we worked together, so I smiled and asked him to lead the way.
CHAPTER7
The boarding house on Southampton Row had seen better days. It may have once been a mansion belonging to a wealthy family, but it had either been acquired by The Female Servants Benevolent Society or donated to them, and it was showing signs of neglect. Paint flaked off the window frames, the carpet was worn bare in places, and the air had a sour smell that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. I was glad to see it was clean, however, without a speck of dust or grimy windowpane in sight. It would have been a cruel indignity for women who’d spent most of their lives cleaning for others to be subjected to a dirty home in their later years.
According to Harry, the home was run by a charitable organization for former maids and housekeepers who could no longer work due to infirmity or age. The women had nowhere else to go, no family to take them in, and their former employers couldn’t, or wouldn’t, accommodate them. Earning so little in their lifetime that they could never save enough to retire comfortably, they now had to rely on charities.
We were following the matron’s directions to Virginia Hatch’s room on the third floor when it suddenly occurred to me that the hotel’s maids were just as poorly off as domestic servants for large households. “What happens to the Mayfair’s staff when they can no longer perform their duties?” I asked Harry.
“Lady Bainbridge set up a fund some time ago. Sir Ronald pays a sum into it each year and guests are encouraged to donate to it upon their departure. There’s a suggested amount on their bill. Some don’t pay a penny, but most do. Some pay a great deal more than asked. When a staff member can no longer work, they receive a sum according to the number of years’ service they gave to the hotel. It encourages them to be loyal to the Mayfair.”
“Is it enough to live off in retirement?”
“That depends how long they live for.”
Indeed. “Will Cobbit receive a payment from the fund after he leaves, even though he negotiated a settlement with my uncle after the strike?”
“Cobbit is considered senior staff, even though he has only two grooms under him. He, my uncle, Peter, the housekeeper, cook, steward, and your uncle’s assistant are paid higher wages, so won’t have access to money from the fund when they retire. It’s only for maids, porters and the like.”
That seemed fair, but it also seemed like a lost opportunity to ensure loyalty. Perhaps if the senior staff were promised a payment upon retirement for every year they served it might encourage them to stay, too. From what I could see, there was no incentive to keep good senior employees. All another hotel had to do was offer better wages. I wasn’t sure if the Mayfair could compete with company-owned hotels like the Savoy.
Perhaps Uncle Ronald was right and Mr. Hobart was considering taking the vacant manager position at the Carlton Hotel. If he could negotiate better wages for himself in the final years of his working life, he and his wife would have a more comfortable retirement. With Harry gone, he had no need to stay at the Mayfair to oversee a smooth transition of the manager’s role to his nephew.
Harry seemed to sense something was on my mind because he didn’t knock on Mrs. Hatch’s door straight away. “Sir Ronald has many faults, but fortunately your aunt doesn’t. It’s kind of you to worry about the staff, Cleo, but it’s not necessary.”
I decided to encourage Uncle Ronald to have a word with Mr. Hobart as soon as possible. He needed to find out for certain whether the manager was leaving or not. If he was…
I pushed the thought from my mind. I didn’t want to think about it.
Harry’s knock was answered by a voice inviting us to enter. He opened the door and greeted the woman occupying the bed. Propped up by pillows, Mrs. Hatch removed her spectacles and put down the pamphlet she’d been reading to invite us into her room. She tried to sit up, but winced and clutched her back before returning to her original position.
“Please, don’t get up,” Harry said. “Can we get you anything?”
“A new back,” she said wryly. “Are you with the Society board?”
“We’re private investigators. I’m Harry Armitage and this is Miss Fox.” He handed her his card. “I’m assisting Miss Fox with her investigation.” He indicated I should continue.
I put out my hand for Mrs. Hatch and she shook it. Her palm was calloused. She looked frail, dressed in her nightgown and mob cap, both embroidered with pale blue flowers. According to the witness list, she’d been twenty at the time of Charlotte’s murder, which would make her forty-two now. She seemed much older.
“I’ve been commissioned to look into the death of a servant,” I said. “His death might be linked to the Whitchurches.”
“Do you mean the current lord and lady, or the dowager and former Lord Whitchurch? The latter were my employers, not the current ones. Do you know the Whitchurches, Miss Fox?”
“We’ve just come from there. Mrs. Hatch, what can you tell us about the death of Charlotte, one of the Whitchurches’ maids?”
