The Housekeeper's Secret by Iona Grey

The Housekeeper's Secret by Iona Grey

Author:Iona Grey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group


* * *

The brewery was at the scrag end of town by the river, where the neat streets of shops and houses gave way to sheds and workshops and privies and the cobbles were slick with mud. Once Jem had got down from the wagon at the back of the Bull’s Head it was easy to find. He just had to head towards the tall brick chimney and the smell of yeast and roasting hops.

Mr Goddard might have refused his request for a day off, but it hadn’t been hard to find an excuse for the trip. The old man was so vague these days, he could barely remember what year it was, never mind whether the beer he’d ordered for Sir Randolph’s homecoming dance was adequate. Jem had casually sown the seeds of doubt and seen the relief on the butler’s face when he’d offered to go to the brewery himself, reassuring Goddard that, with his experience from the Station Hotel, he was well-placed to make sure they had secured the best deal for the best ale, and enough of it.

He’d planned his strategy carefully, using his last Sunday half day to go to church in Howden Bridge. He’d positioned himself at the back and spent the tedious service studying the congregation, looking for the woman he had spoken to on coronation day. It was easy to spot her red hair, especially as she had a brood of children with the same striking colouring. Slipping out quickly at the end, Jem had lit a cigarette and waited by the door to catch her.

‘Is there a Mullins here?’ he asked the foreman now, raising his voice above the hiss of steam and the mechanical clank of the great pumps.

The man barely glanced at him. ‘Why d’you ask?’

‘Just curious. If it’s the Mullins I’m thinking of, I might have found something that belongs to him.’

He was as certain as he could be that it was the Mullins he was thinking of. The woman with the red hair had eventually confirmed that Mrs Mullins, who’d helped her with the teas at the coronation fete, had a lad who’d once worked at Coldwell. She too had asked why he wanted to know, and he’d told the same lie.

He followed the foreman across the dusty floor of the brewery, past the gleaming, steaming coppers to the wide mouth of the cavernous space. ‘What kind of something?’ the man said.

‘Personal.’ Jem shrugged. ‘Something that might have sentimental value, if it’s his. It might not be, but I found it in an old coat that had his name in it. Heard he worked here so I thought I’d ask. Of course, if he’s not—’

‘Mullins!’

The foreman pushed his cap back and bellowed across the yard. Having done that, he gave Jem a cursory nod and disappeared inside.

A head appeared over a stable door; a broad, blank face with the mouth hanging open. Jem went unhurriedly over, sliding his hands into his pockets and closing his fingers around a small fold of paper so he could feel the hard disc inside it.



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