that’s just a silly boy’s fancy,’ said Mrs Grinham. ‘We won’t talk of that.’
‘So what do your Master and Mistress quarrel about?’ asked Frances, pouring out another cup of tea and cutting more cake.
‘I think it was all about money,’ said Ettie.
‘Oh?’ said Frances, surprised.
‘I know that when Master makes his remarks – the ones that upset Mistress – it’s always about money.’
‘What sort of remarks?’ asked Frances, wondering how far she could go with her questions.
Mrs Grinham flashed her a suspicious look but Ettie continued innocently, ‘I once heard him say that money could make a man seem to be great when he was not, but it could also destroy him.’
‘That doesn’t seem very cruel,’ said Frances.
‘Oh, but you should have heard the way he said it,’ said Ettie, meaningfully.
Frances wondered if the man who Keane said might be destroyed was Garton. Perhaps, she thought, Garton and Keane had been partners in a business which had failed, or one had lent funds to the other which had not been returned, or still worse, one had cheated the other and been found out. All these were situations which could lead to murder.
Just then the inner kitchen door opened, and both Mrs Grinham and Ettie rose guiltily from their seats, licking cake crumbs from their lips. Frances thought it best to stand up too. She saw a dignified man of about thirty, impeccably dressed and looking every inch the better class of servant. He was carrying a framed portrait.
‘If you are without employment, I suggest you busy yourselves with this,’ he said, severely. ‘Ettie, Mr Keane has asked that this drawing be removed from the frame and burnt. Then make sure the frame is well cleaned.’
‘Yes, Mr Harvey,’ said Ettie, taking the portrait.
Noticing Frances, Harvey tilted his head and looked at her severely down a long, tapering nose.’ Who is this?’
‘Liza, from the bakery,’ said Frances. ‘I – had an accident with a cake.’
He glanced down at the plate. ‘Several slices worth of accident, I see,’ he said.
There was a pause, then Mrs Grinham, who had returned to kneading pastry, said, ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Harvey, you’ll be saved a piece.’
His eyelids fluttered briefly. ‘I certainly hope so,’ he said, and swept out.
Frances had a look at the picture. It was a cleverly executed pen and ink drawing of James and Mary Keane. James was standing beside his wife’s chair, a tall man with abundant side-whiskers flaring to unusual proportions and framing a deeply bushy beard. Even that heavy growth was inadequate to conceal his expression of slightly stupid self-regard. The representation of his wife was less unkind. Corpulent, without a doubt, her face creased with unhappiness, yet it could be seen that had she been more slender, her appearance would have been pleasing if not actually pretty. Frances wondered why Keane would have ordered the picture to be burnt. She realised that up to that moment she was not, in her role of Liza the bakery girl, supposed to know the name of the family living there, but now she seized her chance.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Keane!’ she said. ‘I didn’t know this was their house!’
‘How do you know Master and Mistress?’ asked Ettie, surprised.
‘They have been pointed out to me in the street as persons of very great quality,’ said Frances. ‘Oh!’ she suddenly exclaimed, ‘that means that it was here that —,’ she clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh dear!’ Ettie and Mrs Grinham stared at her. ‘Only – I heard all about it, and – this is the house where Mr Garton dined the night he died!’ There was a moment of frigid silence and Frances realised that Mrs Grinham was not best pleased by any suggestion that her cooking had been involved in Garton’s death. ‘Oh, please believe me,’ said Frances hurriedly, ‘I know that his dying couldn’t have been anything to do with what he had here.’
‘No, it was all down to
‘So what do your Master and Mistress quarrel about?’ asked Frances, pouring out another cup of tea and cutting more cake.
‘I think it was all about money,’ said Ettie.
‘Oh?’ said Frances, surprised.
‘I know that when Master makes his remarks – the ones that upset Mistress – it’s always about money.’
‘What sort of remarks?’ asked Frances, wondering how far she could go with her questions.
Mrs Grinham flashed her a suspicious look but Ettie continued innocently, ‘I once heard him say that money could make a man seem to be great when he was not, but it could also destroy him.’
‘That doesn’t seem very cruel,’ said Frances.
‘Oh, but you should have heard the way he said it,’ said Ettie, meaningfully.
Frances wondered if the man who Keane said might be destroyed was Garton. Perhaps, she thought, Garton and Keane had been partners in a business which had failed, or one had lent funds to the other which had not been returned, or still worse, one had cheated the other and been found out. All these were situations which could lead to murder.
Just then the inner kitchen door opened, and both Mrs Grinham and Ettie rose guiltily from their seats, licking cake crumbs from their lips. Frances thought it best to stand up too. She saw a dignified man of about thirty, impeccably dressed and looking every inch the better class of servant. He was carrying a framed portrait.
‘If you are without employment, I suggest you busy yourselves with this,’ he said, severely. ‘Ettie, Mr Keane has asked that this drawing be removed from the frame and burnt. Then make sure the frame is well cleaned.’
‘Yes, Mr Harvey,’ said Ettie, taking the portrait.
Noticing Frances, Harvey tilted his head and looked at her severely down a long, tapering nose.’ Who is this?’
‘Liza, from the bakery,’ said Frances. ‘I – had an accident with a cake.’
He glanced down at the plate. ‘Several slices worth of accident, I see,’ he said.
There was a pause, then Mrs Grinham, who had returned to kneading pastry, said, ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Harvey, you’ll be saved a piece.’
His eyelids fluttered briefly. ‘I certainly hope so,’ he said, and swept out.
Frances had a look at the picture. It was a cleverly executed pen and ink drawing of James and Mary Keane. James was standing beside his wife’s chair, a tall man with abundant side-whiskers flaring to unusual proportions and framing a deeply bushy beard. Even that heavy growth was inadequate to conceal his expression of slightly stupid self-regard. The representation of his wife was less unkind. Corpulent, without a doubt, her face creased with unhappiness, yet it could be seen that had she been more slender, her appearance would have been pleasing if not actually pretty. Frances wondered why Keane would have ordered the picture to be burnt. She realised that up to that moment she was not, in her role of Liza the bakery girl, supposed to know the name of the family living there, but now she seized her chance.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Keane!’ she said. ‘I didn’t know this was their house!’
‘How do you know Master and Mistress?’ asked Ettie, surprised.
‘They have been pointed out to me in the street as persons of very great quality,’ said Frances. ‘Oh!’ she suddenly exclaimed, ‘that means that it was here that —,’ she clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh dear!’ Ettie and Mrs Grinham stared at her. ‘Only – I heard all about it, and – this is the house where Mr Garton dined the night he died!’ There was a moment of frigid silence and Frances realised that Mrs Grinham was not best pleased by any suggestion that her cooking had been involved in Garton’s death. ‘Oh, please believe me,’ said Frances hurriedly, ‘I know that his dying couldn’t have been anything to do with what he had here.’
‘No, it was all down to
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