Occupation: detecting assistant and lady’s maid.

I rise at six. It used to be five back in the old days when Gilverton’s plumbing was in its infancy and when dressing Madam meant corsets and curling irons. Now, in the year of our Lord 1939, Madam stands under a spray of water, shakes her short hair as does a dog its coat and shrugs into whatever flannel and jersey she fancies.

And thank Goodness for it, which is a thing I thought I’d never say. For, were I still damp-pressing ruffled lawn edgings and laundering silk stockings in rainwater, I would hardly have time for my new profession.

I breakfast in the servants’ hall – never let it be said that I am above my company! – with what’s left of the household staff: Mr Pallister, the butler; Mrs Tilling, the cook; Becky who still claims head housemaid status although there is now no one to be the head of; Drysdale, the chauffeur; and as like as not one or two of the daily women who are no doubt better fed from Mrs Tilling’s kitchen than they would be in their own. And it’s a slog up from the village, to be charitable. No wonder they arrive hungry.

They bring gossip with them. And gossip is a commodity of greater scarcity these days without the endless butcher’s boys and baker’s boys and, of course, the telegrams. Mercy, the telegrams that used to arrive at Gilverton in the old days! It’s news all of its own whenever one turns up now.

By the way, I make no apology for my keenness on gossip. I’ve brought paying work to Gilver and Osborne more than once before now, thanks to titbits I’ve heard at the back door.

After breakfast, the working day begins. Now, how to describe a typical day at Gilver and Osborne? There is no such thing! I might be undercover anywhere from a publisher to a nightclub. I might be stalking suspects like an Indian in a western picture, or sweet-talking reluctant witnesses like James Cagney in a back room.

Or, like today, I might be answering correspondence and manning the telephone while Madam and Mr Osborne are racketing about having all the fun. Ah well, it keeps me out of the rain.

After lunch, I have a little lie-down. Like everyone else, I’m not as young as I was. Then a brisk walk in the fresh air with that daft Dalmatian dog and it’s time to tackle the last and least of the day’s chores, tidy up the desk and make a plan for the morrow. Always remembering that, at any moment, the bell might ring that sends all plans right out the window and plunges us into adventure again.

We dine earlier than we used to, Sir and Madam included, and Mr Osborne is there half the time too. Dinner used to be a way to fill the evening, in the country, but what with the wireless in the servants’ hall and the picture house down at Dunkeld, everyone’s happy to have dinner done, dishes done and either feet up on a stool at home or off in the dark to see what Hollywood and Pinewood have got to say for themselves. Imagine being stuck at a dinner table this year, missing Gone With the Wind, Wuthering Heights and The Wizard of Oz!

I wouldn’t go back to the “good old days” for a lady’s maid of my own.

The Witching Hour, A Dandy Gilver Mystery Book 16
Genre: Historical Mystery (1940s)
Release: September 2024
Format: Print, Digital
Purchase Link

It’s the spring of 1939 and Dandy Gilver, the mother of two grown-up sons, can’t think of anything except the deteriorating state of Europe and the threat of war. Detective work is the furthest thing from her mind. It takes a desperate cri de coeur from an old friend to persuade her to take on a case.

Daisy Esslemont’s husband Silas has vanished. It’s not the first time, but he has never embarrassed her with his absences before. It doesn’t take Dandy and her side-kick, Alec Osborne, long to find the wandering Silas, but when they track him down to the quaint East Lothian village of Dirleton, he is dead, lying on the village green with his head bashed in, in full view of a row of alms houses, two pubs, a manse, a school and even the watchtowers of Dirleton Castle. And yet not a single one of the villagers admits to seeing a thing.

As Dandy and Alec begin to chip away at the determined silence of the Dirletonites, they cannot imagine what unites such a motley crew: schoolmistress, minister, landlord, postmaster, park-keeper, farmworkers, schoolchildren . . . Only one person – Mither Golane, the oldest resident of the village – is loose-lipped enough to let something slip, but her quiet aside must surely be the rambling of a woman in her second childhood. Dandy and Alec know that Silas was no angel but “He’s the devil” is too outlandish a claim to help them find his killer. The detecting pair despair of ever finding answers, but are they asking the right questions?

About the author
Serial awards-botherer, Catriona McPherson (she/her) was born in Scotland and immigrated to the US in 2010. She writes: preposterous 1930s private-detective stories, including September 2024’s THE WITCHING HOUR; realistic 1940s amateur-sleuth stories about a medical social worker; and contemporary psychological standalones. These are all set in Scotland with a lot of Scottish weather. She also writes modern comedies about a Scot out of water in a “fictional” college town in Northern California. She is a proud lifetime member and former national president of Sisters in Crime. Connect at catrionamcpherson.com.