Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

She had a habit of packing up suddenly and neglecting to let friends and relatives know where she went. It was little wonder they lost interest in her and let her go.

She was a smallish brisk lady, rather more prim than her adventurous movings would indicate, and timid in many ways. In her home she was a martinet for cleanliness and order. There must not be a speck of dirt in her drawing-room with its draped mantelpiece, its wax flowers under glass, its crocheted mats, and on its wall the portrait of the late Mr. Thomas by an unknown artist.

Woe betide the wretched servant who did not sweep under the sofa, or moved the family photograph album from its appointed place. Mrs. Thomas, who had little to occupy her mind and time, was excitable and easily annoyed.

“Come in, Won’t You?”

When she was this way her tongue would run away with her, and she would have to be looking for another servant. She could not live alone, and no one in her position in life could be servantless and hold up her head in society.

In January she was lamenting the departure of a maid, and her friend Miss Loder who had dropped in for tea and chat was sympathetic.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” she said, “I know just the woman for you. She’s strong as a horse. She’s lodging with her little boy—”

“Little boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Thomas in horror. “Is the woman married? Where’s her husband? I couldn’t think of having a child here.”

“Oh, you needn’t. She’s living with my Mrs. Crease, you know, my charwoman, and she will leave the child with her to board. Several times when Mrs. Crease has been unable to come, Webster has come in her place. She’s most reliable — I don’t think you could do better. Irish—”

“I’ve certainly got to have some one right away,” Mrs. Thomas confessed. “I can’t stand being alone. And you’re sure she’s married — she’s not — not — you know.”

Miss Loder shook her head.

“Of course, she’s married. You know me. I wouldn’t have her in my house if she wasn’t. I’ll ask her to see you at once.”

That evening there was a ring at the front door of No. 2 Mayfield Cottages, and timidly turning up the hall light Mrs. Thomas went to the door and opened it

There on the step stood a tall, bony woman in a dark dress with a long jacket, its pockets trimmed with rubbed fur, and wearing a bonnet. In the gas light she had a dark complexion and her teeth showed white and prominent.

“Mrs. Thomas, ma’am?” she asked in an Irish brogue.

“Yes—”

“Miss Loder said you were looking for a ‘general,’ ma’am.”

“Oh, you are Webster.”

“Mrs. Webster, ma’am. Kate Webster,” said the caller grimly, as she surveyed the shrinking little lady.

“Come in!” said Mrs. Thomas with a gasp. What a queer woman — with those slanting eyes and that hard mouth. She felt like shutting the door in her face, yet for the life of her she couldn’t. She hadn’t the will to do it, with those eyes looking into her.

“Come in, won’t you?”

A Sinister Maid

Kate Webster stepped inside, and the door dosed. It had been better had Mrs. Thomas opened her door to a tigress with four legs than this one with two. One swift paw stroke and all would have been over.

In the drawing-room under the painted eyes of Mr. Thomas, Kate was hired, without references. Miss Loder had spoken for her. And Mrs. Thomas had dismissed as absurd the feeling of repulsion which had come over her at first.

The poor woman with a child to support — she seemed capable and willing, and there was a reassuring strength about her which was comforting in a house without men. If a burglar came Kate would not faint away and leave her mistress unprotected.

Mrs. Thomas showed Kate over the house and detailed her duties. They went into the kitchen with its washhouse.

“That’s a nice boiler you have, Mrs. Thomas, ma’am,” said Kate as she looked at the copper boiler set in a brick foundation with its fire grate beneath to heat the water. “I’ll be getting anything that goes in there nice and clean, I’ll be thinking.”

“Then that’s settled, Kate, you’ll bring your box here to-morrow morning.”

Next morning Miss Ives announced to her mother who lived with her that their neighbor had a new maid. She was hanging out clothes in the garden. She was odd-looking — so — what was the word — it was on the tip of her tongue — “sinister” that was the word. She gave you the creeps.

Kate Is Given Notice

The weeks crept by in that house tenanted by two women, in whose souls a strange ferment was stirring. Not on the surface at first; no bubbles came to the light to betray what was passing beneath. Kate was subservient almost. It was “Yes, ma’am!” and “No, ma’am!” and strict attention to business.

There was no running down to Mrs. Crease’s to see her son, young George, a lad of twenty who had fallen under the spell of this strange woman. He had been helper to the barman in the King’s Hotel, Twickenham, near by, and Mrs. Thomas’s trusted Kate had been in the habit of going drinking with him in a public house and taking him from his work.