MURDER
AT
DARESWICK HALL
by Margaret Addison
A Rose Simpson Mystery
Copyright
Copyright 2014 Margaret Addison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission from Margaret Addison except for the inclusion of quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Rose Simpson Mysteries in order
Murder at Ashgrove House
Murder at Dareswick Hall
Chapter One
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Mrs Simpson, perched on the edge of her daughter’s bed, watching as Rose packed her suitcase. Her daughter had her mind set on the task at hand, going backwards and forwards laden with clothes, first from her wardrobe, and then to her pale green-glazed chintz covered bed, where her suitcase lay open invitingly. As she looked on, it seemed to Mrs Simpson that a great many items were being packed for just a weekend in the country.
‘What do you mean, Mother?’ enquired Rose, her mind only half listening to what her parent was saying, being more concerned in packing her case as quickly as possible, so that she would be ready in time to catch her train. What a pity that the Simpsons’ finances did not stretch to employing a servant. How much more convenient it would have been to have had a maid make sure that all her clothes were freshly ironed, and to pack her case for her.
‘Well, you know what happened last time, my dear, when you attended a house party at a country house hosted by the gentry,’ Mrs Simpson said, quietly.
‘Oh, Mother, you mustn’t worry so,’ said her daughter, abandoning her task and flopping herself down on the bed next to her mother. ‘It’s hardly going to happen again, now is it? It was all very sad and unfortunate, but really, there’s absolutely no reason to think there’s going to be another murder, now is there? I mean, what are the chances of it happening again?’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ admitted her mother, rather grudgingly. ‘But that won’t stop me worrying about you all the same. I know I’m just being silly, but I can’t help it.’
She might have added that she was equally worried about her daughter meeting up with the new Earl of Belvedere again, but decided it was wise to refrain from comment on that matter. She reminded herself that Rose was a sensible, level-headed girl, after all, but it did not lessen the reservations she had concerning her daughter mixing with the aristocracy. Her daughter worked in a dress shop after all, as a result of the family having come down in the world. For both Rose and herself, working for a living had become an unwelcome necessity.
Mrs Simpson sighed. It was true that she wished her daughter to aspire to greater things, but surely entering the British aristocracy was beyond her reach. She had refrained from prying into her daughter’s relationship with Cedric, because up until now it had consisted mainly of written correspondence. But now her daughter would be seeing him in person again, the first time since the disastrous events that had occurred at Ashgrove House some two or three months previously. She wondered whether it could be considered wise or responsible of her to allow her daughter to go unaccompanied for a visit to Dareswick Hall, although Rose had assured her that there would be at least two other young ladies present.
‘Now where did I put my tea dress with the blue flowers on it?’ enquired Rose, rummaging through the clothes in her wardrobe, oblivious to her mother’s concerns regarding Cedric and the company she kept. ‘Don’t tell me that it’s gone for the wash? Oh, if only Madame Renard had allowed me to take today off work so that I could have sorted out my clothes and set off earlier. As it is I’ll be lucky to arrive at Dareswick Hall before dinner is served. But I suppose I should be grateful that she let me leave work early today and is allowing me to take the day off tomorrow, especially as she considers me responsible for Lavinia not going back to work in her shop. As if she really would after everything that happened.’
Rose had first met Lady Lavinia Sedgwick some seven or eight months earlier when Lavinia had taken up a bet made with her brother Cedric that she could not earn her own living for six months. Lavinia had chosen to work in the dress shop where Rose herself was employed and for a time, despite their very different backgrounds, the two girls had been inseparable.
‘Will Lavinia be there this weekend?’ asked Mrs Simpson, tentatively.
‘You know very well she will not, Mother,’ replied Rose, sadly. ‘She holds me partly responsible for what happened at Ashgrove. Cedric seems to think that she will come round eventually, but I’m not at all sure that she will. And I’m not sure that I blame her. I feel some responsibility myself.’
A knock at the front door drew Mrs Simpson’s attention away from the activities of her daughter and caused her to hurry back downstairs. Rose, in turn, having finished her packing, or at least given up hope of finding any more suitably clean and ironed clothes to pack, closed her case and collapsed on to her bed to abandon herself to her thoughts for a few brief delicious moments, before necessity dictated that she set off to catch her train.
She had not seen Cedric since that last fateful day at Ashgrove House, when he had told her that as far as he was concerned nothing had changed and he still loved her. She remembered, her cheeks glowing red with the recollection, that she had cut his speech short by flinging herself into his arms. Then, promising to write, she had gone out into the day, a beautifully bright and sunny day if she remembered rightly, which had contrasted sharply with the sorrow in the house. And since then Cedric had been so engaged with everything, with sorting out the affairs of the estate, arranging the funerals and communicating a version of the tragedy to the world as a whole, that they had not had a chance to meet up in person, making do instead with hurriedly scribbled notes and letters to each other.
It had come as something of a pleasant surprise when Cedric had suggested that their first meeting after Ashgrove be at a house party at Dareswick Hall, hosted by Baron Atherton, an old friend of the Belvedere family. She remembered how she had felt when Lavinia had first mooted the idea of going to stay at Ashgrove House, a mixture of anticipation, apprehension and excitement. She felt something similar to it now. Then it had been because she was anxious at the prospect of being a guest of the local gentry and wondering if she would pass muster with Lady Withers and, perhaps more importantly, with her servants. Now she felt those same emotions, but this time it was due to the prospect of meeting the man she loved, the man she had been prepared to protect and keep quiet for, in order to save him from the gallows. She suddenly felt a sharp stab of sorrow to know that Lavinia would not be there. It had been her erstwhile friend who had introduced her to her brother in the first place.
She realised now, as the reality of the situation dawned on her, that she had been living in an almost fairy-tale stupor, hardly conscious of the mundane everyday activities of living, instead dwelling in her daydreams so that they became her sense of reality. And tonight she would discover if reality successfully mirrored her rose-tinted recollections.
She sighed and made her way down the stairs, her case banging awkwardly on each stair due to the weight of the clothes, accessories and toiletries within. If her daydreams were about to be dashed then so be it. After all, she was a sensible girl really, she had needed to be due to the deteriorating financial situation of her family that had forced her to seek em
ployment. If she found now that she was required to put her own personal dreams aside then she would but, and she crossed her fingers tightly, how much more wonderful would it be if she did not have to and her wishes could be realised.
The Honourable Isabella Atherton regarded her reflection in her dressing table mirror. She smiled briefly because what she saw pleased her, for there was no doubting by anyone’s standards that she was a beautiful young woman.
Then her mood darkened, as swiftly as a cloud passing over the sun, and she shuddered and clutched on to the dressing table, as if to give herself courage. Suddenly she could not bring herself to study her own refection too closely. If she looked into the mirror too intently now she would be able to detect every flaw and she was afraid of what she would see. She would catch glimpses of the character of the woman behind the superficial beauty. Her eyes, she knew, would be cold, her lips thin; her mouth downturned. Above all, though, she could not bear to see the misery that would be etched on her face, for with no audience present there was no need for pretence. Her face would reveal the wretchedness of the position in which she now found herself.
Oh, how could she have been so impulsive and reckless? How could she not have thought about the consequences of her actions before she had done what she had done? And now she was trapped as surely as a bird in a cage. She would never be free, she knew that. He would never allow her to be free. And the worse thing of all was that it was all her own fault. She had no one else to blame. She had brought it all on herself. She stifled a sob. She mustn’t cry. She mustn’t let herself lose control and go to pieces. It would be so easy to do that and yet too dangerous. She took a deep breath. She would have to decide within the next few days whether she was capable of gritting her teeth and going through with it. If not, then she must find a way out of her predicament. Instinctively she looked down at her hands, now sitting demurely in her lap. She watched in horror as her hands slowly began to shake of their own accord, as if they knew. Of course there was only really one satisfactory way out. She studied her trembling hands and wondered whether, if the time came, she would find the courage required to see it through.
‘So what did Isabella say exactly, Hallam?’ asked Josephine, standing over her brother as he sat on the sofa in the music room at Dareswick Hall, idly flicking through gramophone records.
‘I’ve told you already. She said that she would be bringing someone down with her this weekend and I just got the feeling that it would be her latest beau, that’s all,’ Hallam replied, somewhat irritated by her refusal to leave the subject alone. If he had realised that she was going to go on so about it, he would never have mentioned it. ‘I could have got it completely wrong. She could be bringing down one of her girlfriends. I say,’ he frowned suddenly as a thought struck him, ‘I hope it’s not Celia; I can’t stand the way she laughs like a horse at simply everything as if it’s all a joke. And do sit down, Josephine. It’s very off putting having someone loom over you, don’t you know. It’s bad enough when Crabtree does it, without you doing it too. Of course, I expect it of him, I mean, it’s what butlers do, isn’t it? But the least you can do is to sit down if you are intent on questioning me.’
Josephine perched herself reluctantly on the arm of the sofa. She felt too agitated to sit down properly, and longed instead to pace the room. But then even her brother, who could never be accused of thinking too deeply about anything that was not directly related to his own entertainment or amusement, might guess that something was wrong. And she couldn’t have that. Really, Hallam was too irritating for words. Why couldn’t he remember his conversation with Isabella word for word? She would have done, she knew, but then she would have been listening carefully, which she supposed he had not been doing.
‘Just tell me one more time, Hallam, there’s a dear, and then I’ll leave you in peace to peruse your gramophone records. Mrs Hodges will need to know so she can arrange the bedrooms. If it’s a man she’ll put him on your corridor. If it’s one of Isabella’s girlfriends, then she’ll probably put her in the Pink Room next to mine.’
‘It wasn’t so much what she said,’ admitted Hallam. ‘It was more the way she said it, as if she was nervous and she’d hardly be nervous if she was just bringing down one of her girlfriends with her, would she? I say, do you think it would be quite the done thing to put on the gramophone and have dancing this weekend, what with Cedric still being in mourning and everything?’
‘Probably not. Although I suggest we just play it by ear,’ replied Josephine, distracted, ‘you know, see what he’s like.’
So Hallam really had very little basis for his impression that Isabella was going to be bringing a man with her; that was interesting. For a moment Josephine did not know whether she was disappointed or relieved. If she had been close to her sister, then no doubt Isabella would have confided in her. But they were very different in both appearance and character. Her father was always likening them to chalk and cheese; beautiful, outgoing Isabella, the belle of every ball who simply had men tripping over themselves to adore her and be entranced by her sparkling conversation; and Josephine, plain, quiet, studious and rather timid, more at home clad in a sensible tweed skirt and plain blouse, poring over books in the family library than dressed in the latest Parisian fashions attending society parties. As a consequence, Josephine had stayed at Dareswick Hall to keep home for her widowed father while Isabella resided most of the time in a service apartment in London, only deigning to come home for special occasions and house parties, declaring that she found country life dull and backward compared with the bright lights and delights London had to offer.
‘I rather thought that the reason Isabella might be coming back this weekend was to see Cedric,’ Josephine remarked, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘I thought she might want to try and get her claws into him, what with him having come into the earldom and everything.’
‘Hmm, the same thought occurred to me,’ said Hallam, putting aside the gramophone records, ‘You know our sis, she can be rather mercenary, especially where men are concerned. But I think he’s a trifle young for her, you know how she tends to prefer the older man. Besides, he’s invited the girl from the dress shop to stay, Rose Simpson I think her name is.’
‘She was there at Ashgrove, wasn’t she?’ Josephine enquired, looking interested. ‘She must know what really happened, mustn’t she? I mean, not just the official version of events.’
‘Well, don’t you try and get it out of her,’ warned her brother, suddenly becoming serious. ‘I promised Cedric that we wouldn’t pry. That’s why he’s coming to visit us. He knows that he can just be himself here. He’s had an awful time of it, the newspapers have been hounding him something rotten. He hasn’t been able to step outside Sedgwick Court without being pounced on. His head gardener has even found pressmen roaming around in the grounds trampling the borders. They’ve had to employ a man with a couple of dogs to keep them out.’
‘Poor Cedric, sounds as if he’s had a rum old time of it. He must be serious about this girl though, mustn’t he? I mean bringing her here. I can’t imagine that went down well with his parents. They’d have wanted him to marry another member of the nobility or at least someone with money. Still, he’s frightfully rich isn’t he, even richer than Daddy, and I suppose he can do what he wants now.’
‘There was a time when I wondered whether you might be rather sweet on him,’ said her brother, watching her closely. ‘You know before ….’ He broke off what he was going to say sharply, as he saw his sister frown and put her hand up to cover her face. ‘Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Jo. How jolly rotten of me. I didn’t mean to rake it all up again. How beastly of me to remind you of it all. I know you’ve tried so hard to put it all behind you…’
‘It’s alright, Hallam,’ said Josephine, patting her brother’s arm affectionately. ‘It’s not that, really it isn’t. I’m quite over Hugh. It was just a silly girlish infatuation, that’s all. And as for Cedric, I was rather fond of him once when we were bot
h very young, but really it was nothing.’
‘Alright, if you say so, old thing,’ replied Hallam not at all convinced about her denial over her feelings for Hugh, and still feeling rather bad. It had been rather an awful time for them all, really; Cedric hadn’t been the only one of them to have been subjected to scandal, gossip and speculation. The Athertons had had their fair share earlier in the year.
Brother and sister sat quietly together for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. At last Josephine broke through the silence, all the while looking at her brother keenly while she spoke.
‘You know, Hallam, I’m awfully fond of you. You really are the best sort of brother any girl could have. Whatever happens in the future…’ She faltered slightly, causing her brother to look up at her sharply. ‘What I mean to say is that I hope you will always remember me fondly and know that I never meant to hurt you, not any of you, not Father, not even Isabella.’
‘What a strange thing to say, Josephine. As if you’d ever do anything to hurt us. I can’t think of anyone less likely. Dear old sis, why you are the most respectable, reliable young woman of my acquaintance. Heaven help us if you ever do anything wrong. And I’d mind very much if you ever do anything to change that. I love coming back to Dareswick and knowing that everything will be the same. You’ll be here, looking after Father, the same old big sister doing the same old things. But I won’t be too selfish, though. I shan’t mind a jot if you marry some country doctor or even some librarian come to help you catalogue all the old books in the library, so long as you promise to stay here and always remain the same.’
‘I don’t think any of us can ever promise that,’ said Josephine, slowly.
‘You’re not unhappy here, are you Jo?’ asked Hallam, suddenly concerned, alarmed by her unusually serious tone. ‘I always thought you were happy here, looking after Father. I know Dareswick’s in the middle of nowhere and that it’s very quiet and there’s no society to speak of, but I always thought you rather liked that. Cocktail parties and bright lights really aren’t your thing, are they? I thought tennis parties and village bazaars and suchlike were much more to your liking.’
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