The Butler Didn't Do It - Complete Short Story
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This complete short, cozy tale of murder reveals the perceptions of class and the role of women in the Victorian era.
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Published on 2008-10-15 ·
3 total people like it
Complete Short Story
Chapter 1
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Updated Jan 09, 2009
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9,242 characters
London, England 1885
As a boy, I was placed with the Sinclair household at their Grosvenor Square residence and over the years, have risen from page to first footman. As a servant of low position, I have never been directly addressed by the master or mistress, or their son.
The house steward believes it was the master’s compassion for my humble beginnings and not my wits that enabled me an indoor position with a society household. Further, he has said, if it was up to him I should be mucking out the stables. I believe it is my fine height and good stature that has the man against me, for I possess a keen mind and am well versed in desired comportment. Much in the same manner as a priest of the Catholic faith, I keep privy words overheard within the Sinclair house. To do otherwise, should result in a swift end to my employ. Yet, as I am obliged to make note of the particulars, here follows my true account of the happenings in the drawing room on Sunday, last.
From where I stood stationed at the drawing room door, I was able to observe and hear five ladies as they sat in a circle of chesterfield and chairs, sipping sherry.
The lady of the house, Mrs. Agatha Sinclair, wore her usual wig of some distress and kept to her habit of touching the ghastly thing as she spoke. “My dearest friends, I have news of some import.” She leaned into the circle, patting her head. “Mrs. Roberts is reported to have found our scullery maid dead in her bed this morning.”
Mrs. Fitz-Williams in widow’s black, politely placed a fleshy hand over her open mouth and then removed it to say, “Your housekeeper must have a terribly strong disposition, Agatha.”
“Oh yes, quite,” replied Mrs. Sinclair. “This household is most favored in that regard.”
Miss Mary Fitz-Williams, the pale daughter of the widow spoke then. “It is the sad death of a youthful woman we should underscore at this time and not the merits of a housekeeper with a bold disposition.”
Taking their admonition, the women remained quiet for a few moments.
A matron in flowing red satin, quite unknown to me, then stated in a voice most shrill and irritating, if I might mention it, “It is quite too much for women to be considering such dreadful things as dead scullery maids. Such matters do not truly concern us, after all.”
Miss Mary released a loud sigh.
Mrs. Fitz-Williams glanced over at her daughter with a frown. “Really, Mary. Do try to act with some decorum. You shall never have a husband at the rate you are going.”
The young woman lifted her chin. “I do not happen to care much for a husband.”
There was a gasp from each matron and Mrs. Fitz-Williams responded, “That is good to hear, my dear, as it seems most unlikely you shall ever have one.”
The pale Miss Mary rolled her eyes and then turned her head toward their hostess. “What was deemed the cause of the maid’s death, madam?”
Their eyes on the lady of the house, the four women placed their sherry glasses in their laps and waited.
Agatha Sinclair looked around the circle, her fingers curling into the ratty tendrils upon her shoulder. “It is said the girl was strangled.”
The matrons gasped again and there began a collective murmur of words expressing their horror over such an event taking place in such a fine household.
When all was quiet, Miss Mary asked, “Is there a suspect in this most savage of deeds, madam?”
“The butler stepped out with the maid last night. It was her evening off and his also, much to her detriment as it turned out. So without question, it is that very scoundrel.” Then leaning toward the circle, Agatha added, “Particularly, as it has been revealed he was quite cross with her over some imprudence.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Miss Mary, after taking a sip of her sherry. “The suspect is not as plain as it would seem.”
Agatha inhaled a deep breath that flared her nostrils and glared at Miss Fitz-Williams. “We have evidence on good account. Our son has told my husband and me of the heated quarrel he overheard last night upon their return.”
The pale young lady replied with some force, “Your son overheard a quarrel? That is not evidence of murder, madam.” Mary looked at each woman in turn, saying, “If it was, then all of us should have felt the hands of a murderer upon our necks.”
An old woman, whose name I do not know, placed her hand upon her lace collar and exclaimed, “Heavens! It is true. There must be more to this than mere argument, Agatha.”
Sitting back in her chair, Mrs. Sinclair blinked rapidly as she smoothed the curls at her brow. “It was the quarrelling man servant who did it, I am quiet certain. I say this from my careful observation of the lower classes. Servants are not known to possess much patience or true sensibility.”
“They are not base creatures without feeling or brains in their heads,” Mary asserted.
Conversation exchanged around the circle as to whether it might be true. In short order, it was agreed by all but Miss Mary, that due to lack of culture and religious upbringing, servants were near to savages.
Releasing a sigh, Miss Mary asked, “Madam, is there some further evidence against the butler?”
“This is all quite enough,” the lady of the house replied, patting her head. ”Once the scoundrel is taken away, this tiresome incident shall be over and done with.” Then she raised her hand for more sherry.
From his place at the sideboard, the butler approached the circle and poured from a decanter into their proffered glasses, quite expertly I might add, before returning to his position.
The widow, Mrs. Fitz-Williams, watched the butler regain his station and took a sip of sherry before saying, “He does not seem in the least hostile to me, Agatha.”
The other women began to murmur their agreement.
Glancing toward the butler at the sideboard, Mary said, “Madam, in all fairness, you cannot declare the poor man guilty without proper evidence to support your conclusion.”
Agatha surveyed the pale woman with some distain, saying, “The girl was putting on weight and most assuredly, she was with his child.” She sat back and waved a limp hand. “I dare say with her immoral ways, she would soon come to ruin in any account.”
The circle hushed.
Mary looked again in the direction of the sideboard before addressing her hostess. “It is your firm conviction the butler is accountable, madam?”
“My husband is certain, for our son has told us he witnessed the brute leaving her room last night.”
“But what may I ask, was your son doing in the domestic wing, late of an evening?”
Mrs. Sinclair blinked rapidly, grasping at the horrid wig. “We may go where and when we please. It is our house, after all.”
The pale Miss Fitz-Williams placed her sherry glass on a table. “It is not good custom for a man of the house to stroll through the servants quarters late at night, if ever, madam.”
Mrs. Fitz-Williams in black satin nodded. “Quite so, Mary. It does seem rather improper.” She looked at Mrs. Sinclair. “You must do something to curb the boy, Agatha.”
Murmurs of support resounded around the circle.
Agatha raised her hand, saying, “Please, we shall say no more about this. I assure you, my husband will look into this unseemly matter.”
*
What now follows is hearsay but I have the facts on reliable mention.
That evening, Miss Mary Fitz-Williams received a note from my mistress. She took it from the tray the butler held before her, folded it open and read:
My Dearest Mary,
It is with utmost secrecy, and without my husband’s knowledge, I am writing to all ladies present at my home this afternoon.
Written accounts are to be collected in support of the accusation against the butler. In view of this event, I must implore you to forget our earlier conversation. My husband is firm our son shall not be brought into this most dreadful affair. In spite of his youthful ways, he is such a dear young man, after all.
Fondest regards,
Mrs. Adam Sinclair
Mary tossed the note on the fire. Then, with her hand at her throat, she whispered, “It is not suitable, or in the least acceptable, for a young man to stroll through the servants wing late at night, if ever.”
When the note was blackened and shriveled, she said further, “I would venture on my life, the butler didn’t do it.”
The End
As a boy, I was placed with the Sinclair household at their Grosvenor Square residence and over the years, have risen from page to first footman. As a servant of low position, I have never been directly addressed by the master or mistress, or their son.
The house steward believes it was the master’s compassion for my humble beginnings and not my wits that enabled me an indoor position with a society household. Further, he has said, if it was up to him I should be mucking out the stables. I believe it is my fine height and good stature that has the man against me, for I possess a keen mind and am well versed in desired comportment. Much in the same manner as a priest of the Catholic faith, I keep privy words overheard within the Sinclair house. To do otherwise, should result in a swift end to my employ. Yet, as I am obliged to make note of the particulars, here follows my true account of the happenings in the drawing room on Sunday, last.
From where I stood stationed at the drawing room door, I was able to observe and hear five ladies as they sat in a circle of chesterfield and chairs, sipping sherry.
The lady of the house, Mrs. Agatha Sinclair, wore her usual wig of some distress and kept to her habit of touching the ghastly thing as she spoke. “My dearest friends, I have news of some import.” She leaned into the circle, patting her head. “Mrs. Roberts is reported to have found our scullery maid dead in her bed this morning.”
Mrs. Fitz-Williams in widow’s black, politely placed a fleshy hand over her open mouth and then removed it to say, “Your housekeeper must have a terribly strong disposition, Agatha.”
“Oh yes, quite,” replied Mrs. Sinclair. “This household is most favored in that regard.”
Miss Mary Fitz-Williams, the pale daughter of the widow spoke then. “It is the sad death of a youthful woman we should underscore at this time and not the merits of a housekeeper with a bold disposition.”
Taking their admonition, the women remained quiet for a few moments.
A matron in flowing red satin, quite unknown to me, then stated in a voice most shrill and irritating, if I might mention it, “It is quite too much for women to be considering such dreadful things as dead scullery maids. Such matters do not truly concern us, after all.”
Miss Mary released a loud sigh.
Mrs. Fitz-Williams glanced over at her daughter with a frown. “Really, Mary. Do try to act with some decorum. You shall never have a husband at the rate you are going.”
The young woman lifted her chin. “I do not happen to care much for a husband.”
There was a gasp from each matron and Mrs. Fitz-Williams responded, “That is good to hear, my dear, as it seems most unlikely you shall ever have one.”
The pale Miss Mary rolled her eyes and then turned her head toward their hostess. “What was deemed the cause of the maid’s death, madam?”
Their eyes on the lady of the house, the four women placed their sherry glasses in their laps and waited.
Agatha Sinclair looked around the circle, her fingers curling into the ratty tendrils upon her shoulder. “It is said the girl was strangled.”
The matrons gasped again and there began a collective murmur of words expressing their horror over such an event taking place in such a fine household.
When all was quiet, Miss Mary asked, “Is there a suspect in this most savage of deeds, madam?”
“The butler stepped out with the maid last night. It was her evening off and his also, much to her detriment as it turned out. So without question, it is that very scoundrel.” Then leaning toward the circle, Agatha added, “Particularly, as it has been revealed he was quite cross with her over some imprudence.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Miss Mary, after taking a sip of her sherry. “The suspect is not as plain as it would seem.”
Agatha inhaled a deep breath that flared her nostrils and glared at Miss Fitz-Williams. “We have evidence on good account. Our son has told my husband and me of the heated quarrel he overheard last night upon their return.”
The pale young lady replied with some force, “Your son overheard a quarrel? That is not evidence of murder, madam.” Mary looked at each woman in turn, saying, “If it was, then all of us should have felt the hands of a murderer upon our necks.”
An old woman, whose name I do not know, placed her hand upon her lace collar and exclaimed, “Heavens! It is true. There must be more to this than mere argument, Agatha.”
Sitting back in her chair, Mrs. Sinclair blinked rapidly as she smoothed the curls at her brow. “It was the quarrelling man servant who did it, I am quiet certain. I say this from my careful observation of the lower classes. Servants are not known to possess much patience or true sensibility.”
“They are not base creatures without feeling or brains in their heads,” Mary asserted.
Conversation exchanged around the circle as to whether it might be true. In short order, it was agreed by all but Miss Mary, that due to lack of culture and religious upbringing, servants were near to savages.
Releasing a sigh, Miss Mary asked, “Madam, is there some further evidence against the butler?”
“This is all quite enough,” the lady of the house replied, patting her head. ”Once the scoundrel is taken away, this tiresome incident shall be over and done with.” Then she raised her hand for more sherry.
From his place at the sideboard, the butler approached the circle and poured from a decanter into their proffered glasses, quite expertly I might add, before returning to his position.
The widow, Mrs. Fitz-Williams, watched the butler regain his station and took a sip of sherry before saying, “He does not seem in the least hostile to me, Agatha.”
The other women began to murmur their agreement.
Glancing toward the butler at the sideboard, Mary said, “Madam, in all fairness, you cannot declare the poor man guilty without proper evidence to support your conclusion.”
Agatha surveyed the pale woman with some distain, saying, “The girl was putting on weight and most assuredly, she was with his child.” She sat back and waved a limp hand. “I dare say with her immoral ways, she would soon come to ruin in any account.”
The circle hushed.
Mary looked again in the direction of the sideboard before addressing her hostess. “It is your firm conviction the butler is accountable, madam?”
“My husband is certain, for our son has told us he witnessed the brute leaving her room last night.”
“But what may I ask, was your son doing in the domestic wing, late of an evening?”
Mrs. Sinclair blinked rapidly, grasping at the horrid wig. “We may go where and when we please. It is our house, after all.”
The pale Miss Fitz-Williams placed her sherry glass on a table. “It is not good custom for a man of the house to stroll through the servants quarters late at night, if ever, madam.”
Mrs. Fitz-Williams in black satin nodded. “Quite so, Mary. It does seem rather improper.” She looked at Mrs. Sinclair. “You must do something to curb the boy, Agatha.”
Murmurs of support resounded around the circle.
Agatha raised her hand, saying, “Please, we shall say no more about this. I assure you, my husband will look into this unseemly matter.”
*
What now follows is hearsay but I have the facts on reliable mention.
That evening, Miss Mary Fitz-Williams received a note from my mistress. She took it from the tray the butler held before her, folded it open and read:
My Dearest Mary,
It is with utmost secrecy, and without my husband’s knowledge, I am writing to all ladies present at my home this afternoon.
Written accounts are to be collected in support of the accusation against the butler. In view of this event, I must implore you to forget our earlier conversation. My husband is firm our son shall not be brought into this most dreadful affair. In spite of his youthful ways, he is such a dear young man, after all.
Fondest regards,
Mrs. Adam Sinclair
Mary tossed the note on the fire. Then, with her hand at her throat, she whispered, “It is not suitable, or in the least acceptable, for a young man to stroll through the servants wing late at night, if ever.”
When the note was blackened and shriveled, she said further, “I would venture on my life, the butler didn’t do it.”
The End
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"...a habit of touching the ghastly thing...." It's details like this that makes it an instant hit with me. Five ladies? More like five chit-chattering geese (if geese do chatter)! It was an interesting, cozy little short read.
Very enjoyable quick historical! So hope you have more in the works to write. Absolutely love this genre.
