Joan felt no need to ask questions at this point. As the evening wore on and service slowed a little, she joined in whatever kitchen chat there was. Her job tonight was all about teamwork, being amenable, suggesting she had a bit of money in her pocket and making friends.
Towards the end of service, when they were all looking forward to clearing up and clearing out, a harried house manager pointed at her.
‘You – wassyourname?’
‘Jennie, sir. Can I help?’
‘You certainly can. There’s been an incident outside the second floor lavatories. Somebody overindulged. Massive spew, all over the floor tiles. He didn’t make it to the porcelain in time. I’ve got Frank on it, but he needs a hand. Grab a mop and bucket and—’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. Get on it, woman!’
‘I’m not supposed to go beyond the—’
‘Now! I’m not asking!’
She didn’t have a choice. She found the required equipment, filled the bucket with hot water and asked one of the waitresses in the corridor where to go. With her backside, she pushed at the heavy baize door, insulated against the noise of the busy kitchen, that marked the entry to the carpeted quiet of the members’ side of the club. She hadn’t expected to come this far, but as long as she kept her head down, it couldn’t do any harm.
Upstairs, the scene that met her was disgusting. The smell of it assaulted her from several feet away. Her stomach lurched. Frank, one of the dogsbodies like her, was doing his best, but he clearly needed help.
‘Do what you can,’ he said gratefully. ‘I’ll get another bucket.’
He disappeared upstairs, where Joan assumed there must be a service cupboard with access to running water. Sure enough, he came down a couple of minutes later, his bucket freshly filled, just as she needed fresh water of her own.
She took her bucket to the top of the third floor stairs and glanced around to find the cupboard. It wasn’t easy in the dim light. There were two figures in evening dress, deep in conversation at the end of the corridor, slightly silhouetted by a Lalique lamp behind them. Joan started down the corridor trying each door in turn, hoping to find the door before she reached them, and not to put them off with the stinking contents of her bucket.
But before she found it, the taller of the two looked round with a wrinkle of nausea on his face.
‘I’m sorry, sir!’ Joan called out.
He continued to stare at her. She indicated the doors.
‘I’m just looking for . . .’ Oh.
She managed not to say the last word aloud.
The tall man looking at her was Tony Radnor-Milne. Dammit! Of all the people! Her wig was not a world-class disguise, because she had fully expected to stay on the servants’ side of the baize door. Her bare-faced look was designed to stand up to the scrutiny of strangers, not men she had spent a long and traumatic evening with. But the corridor was dim and this was the last place he’d expect to see her. For the second time, she beat a quick retreat from his company.
‘Excuse me,’ she muttered, heading swiftly back the way she’d come. She went all the way back to the kitchen and left poor Frank to finish the mopping on his own.
A couple of hours later, Joan left with the last of the staff. While mucking in with the dirty jobs, she had nevertheless let it be known to Frank and others that she was a little bit unusual for an agency temp: a bit older, with a nice wage as a shopgirl, just doing this for extra pin money. So when she said afterwards that she was stopping off at the café on the corner – one that stayed open all day and night to cater for people like them who worked all hours to be at the disposal of the toffs – Frank half-jokingly asked if she’d be paying. She assured him she was. Instantly a tired sous-chef and two waitresses showed eager interest. Joan bought a round of tea and toast with margarine for everyone.
They’d been through a long, hard Saturday night together, which formed bonds that might not last long, but felt real enough right now. There was plenty of sympathy for Joan, Frank and the ‘sea of sick’ outside the lavatory, and much gossip about the stripper who had allegedly been brought in for a private birthday party on the second floor, although none of those present had actually seen her. Joan let the conversation run its course before she glanced across the street and said,
‘Ooh, the Reform Club. I was working there the night of those murders. Could ’ave sworn I’d seen that man, wot’s ’is name? Perez—’
‘No, Rodriguez, they say it is now,’ the sous-chef said.
‘Oh, is it? ’Im, then. I could’ve sworn I’d seen ’im at the club the night before. Sworn blind. Gave me the shivers.’
‘Not that you can really tell, I suppose,’ the waitress sitting opposite her said, ‘when he’d had his throat cut and a knife in his eye.’
‘Well, no,’ Joan agreed. ‘But there were the pictures of ’im before, you know. ’E looked exactly like this gentleman I saw in the street outside. Right there. ’Ave they found who did it yet? I ’aven’t seen anything.’
