Chapter Text
It was no more than three months after the Smoke Bandit case and Barron’s strange demise, and Madame Storey’s mood was becoming a concern. I had never seen her in such a state: it was discreet, but unmistakable. After weeks of observing the subtle signs, I had to conclude, making good use of my professional skills, that my employer was suffering from melancholia.
Despite my efforts, though, I could not make sense of it: I may have developed some detective abilities myself, but I was nowhere near as versed in the feminine psyche as she was. Imagine my distress: Madame Storey, sad! The mere idea that it could have been Barron’s fault, that she regretted his angry little face, made me quite sick.
To add to my troubles, something peculiar happened in the course of that private inquiry. The more I watched her, thinking furiously about the District Attorney, the more captivated I felt. Of course I had always admired her: everyone did, she was Madame Storey, and I had the good fortune of being always around her. But it came as a shock to realize how deep that admiration ran. I began to notice not only her walk, the way she liked to make an entrance, but also the smallest gestures. The way she tapped her nails on her desk when she became impatient with someone. The way her head tilted when she was lost in thought. And how her smile curved when she talked to me. Searching for the solution to a problem that was beyond me, I grew familiar with the new nuances of her perfume, the wrinkles beginning to show at the corner of her eyes. By the end of the fourth month, I had no more answers than before but I had acquired a new coat of ridicule I couldn’t quite name.
Every day now, as soon as she entered a room, I felt like one of those stage buffoons, devoted to forbidden queens and laughably tragic. Alas, poor Bella! The monkey seemed to sneer at me from his perch, probably plotting my demise.
Naturally, I was afraid she would notice this new gaucherie. I found her watching me in return. Sometimes she would loose herself in the contemplation of something as trivial as my hairdo, as if it held the solution of our current case. But if she appeared concerned, she never once spoke to me about it, and I was left in a state of nerves, wondering what she made of me.
We probably would have stayed in that debilitating stupor forever, had the phone not rung one day in the office, a sir Anthony Gravehold asking to speak to Rosika Storey urgently.
“He’s an old friend,” she told me as I repeated the name with an air of concern. “I’ll take him at once.”
Ten minutes of serious conversation later, we had earned an invitation to one of the biggest estate of the Boston area: the Burn mansion, owned by famous playboy Roderick Burn, where Gravehold was himself a guest. Madame Storey waved my excitement away, promising to explain about the case during our train journey.
“Shall I go pack?” I asked, eager for a change of air that could save me from my current spell.
But she told me to wait. I could see she was concocting a plan, for she was stretching her neck in her usual fashion.
“Anthony asked for my discretion: he received some threats, but nothing has happened yet. He doesn’t want the Burn family to know he’s hired a detective: I am to pose as a New York heiress. Roderick Burn doesn’t read the press, as he’s too often featured in it himself, and he won’t know me. We’ll have to send for new clothes. But I won’t be able to walk around and question people at the mansion as I please: they’re having a small party, and an overly curious socialite tend to make people nervous. This is a big house, and I’ll need an extra pair of eyes and ears. I’m sorry my Bella, but I’m going to ask quite a lot of you this time: it was suggested that I bring a maid with me.”
I wasn’t completely surprise by her request – we'd disguised ourselves before, after all – and even grew a little excited as I envisioned myself listening to private conversations while pretending to dust old furniture. But then it occurred to me the dusting would have to at least be a little authentic.
“I know it’s not very dignified,” Madame Storey added. “But I’ve thought of something to help with the pretense and alleviate your task somewhat. I think you should go as a French maid.”
“A French maid!” I cried. “But everyone will see through it at once!”
My employer knew I spoke passable French, but what I truly wanted to express was that French maids, in the public’s imagination, were the most delicate, elegant sort of maid you could find, and I was just plain Bella Brickley, evoking none of those words. Madame Storey, though, did not like me to speak ill of myself, and never allowed it.
“Oh no, you’ll be perfect. For one, at least fifty percents of so-called French maids in this country are at best Swiss, when they’re not Canadians. Most people only have a hazy idea of the language, despite what they pretend. Secondly, French maids are very affected: it's part of the job. No one will suspect you of anything, nor I: as long as we’re loud and very visible, it will be unthinkable that we’re investigating. New York socialites aren’t typically regarded for their wits, no matter how unfair that may be, and as for you, chances are the party will expect you to flee with the master of the house comes Sunday.”
Getting hold of the phone, she made to order me a costume that would fit my new role, but not before she told me with a serious expression:
“I don’t recommend that you do, though. I don’t know much about Roderick Burn besides what newspapers print, and most of all I need you by my side.”