Bright Young Dead

by Jessica Fellowes

  Diana, who had already been in a white fury for not being allowed to attend the party even before she realised she had missed probably the greatest sensation that Asthall had ever seen, withdrew into herself entirely except for when either Pamela or Nancy were around, when she would pester them with questions and berate them for not sticking up for her to be at the party in the first place. This had resulted in either slammed doors or tears, if not both. Either way, it was wearying behaviour.

  Louisa was dazed. Though Ada had tried to press her for details, she had found that she was unwilling to discuss any of it. She felt a vague sense of guilt, as if she had made this happen, though she knew rationally she had not. Had she encouraged Dulcie in some way? Had she denied to herself the truth of who she was and what she was capable of, blinded by the dazzling glamour of the Forty? Or had it been an overwhelming desire to help Dulcie, to enable her to escape her past as she herself had done? She didn’t know. Everything she had been sure of now seemed alien. She tried to choose a book from the library to read and stood before the shelves, unable to remember which authors she liked. Her appetite deserted her, too, as if she could no longer judge what tasted well and what did not. She realised after three days that she had not once glanced at a looking glass. There was an absence of physical self so strong that when she walked down the path to the village one afternoon she had started at the sight of her shadow stretching out long before her.

  * * *

  On the morning after, the rest of the party had left quickly, although they had been forced to wait for DI Monroe’s permission. When he had told them his enquiries for the moment were over, they had stirred stiffly in symphony, like a chain of paper dolls. Hot tea and toast had revived them enough to set off. Clara left with Ted, who pulled his car out of the drive slowly; Sebastian alarmed them as his car spun on the wet gravel and looked for a fraction of a second as if it were heading straight for the giant oak that grew in the middle of the drive. Charlotte, however, had stayed, too hysterical to go anywhere. Lady Redesdale, against her belief in ‘the good body’ healing itself, had called in the local doctor and he had sedated the grieving sister, allowing her to sleep straight through for nearly two days. Louisa divided her duties between Nanny Blor in the nursery and Charlotte in the blue bedroom, which necessitated much running up and down the stairs. At one point she found herself holding on to the banister rails as if climbing a steep ladder that threatened to fall in a high wind.

  If the inquest did not demand an autopsy, Adrian’s funeral would be held ten days later. Louisa had been in Charlotte’s room, stoking the fire, when she had heard her wake from her long deep sleep. Charlotte was lying sideways, knees pulled up high, staring wide-eyed at her. It was possible that she couldn’t remember where she was.

  Louisa rushed over and poured out a glass of water, then helped Charlotte sit up and drink it. When Charlotte had finished the last drop, she sank back, exhausted from the effort. Then her eyes blinked open and she sat up again, springing forward like a cuckoo in a clock.

  ‘Adrian,’ she said.

  ‘Try not to get upset,’ coaxed Louisa, knowing she was talking in meaningless platitudes.

  ‘He’s dead.’ Charlotte spoke as if she hoped she were asking a question when she knew it was a statement of fact.

  Louisa nodded. ‘Let me get Miss Nancy for you.’

  ‘No!’ said Charlotte, but then she seemed to take in her surroundings, and Louisa, and realised she needed to know what was going on.

  In the end, it was Pamela that Louisa found first. She had come in from riding and was walking shoeless across the hall in her jodhpurs and jacket, her hair mussed because she could never be bothered with a net under the hat. Pamela had shown another side to herself in the last few days, a resilience and refusal to panic that had been impressive. Her refuge, as ever, was horses and food, and so long as she was indulging in either of those, she seemed to be almost her normal self. Louisa judged that, on balance, Pamela might be better than Nancy for Charlotte in this present state.

  ‘Miss Pamela,’ called out Louisa.

  Pamela stopped and turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Miss Charlotte has woken. Might you go up and see her? I think she needs the company.’

  Pamela took this in, then pushed her shoulders back. ‘Yes, absolutely. Send up some tea and toast, won’t you? Or better still, bring it yourself.’

  Louisa was taken aback; Pamela had never issued an order before. ‘Yes, Miss Pamela, right away.’

  They went their separate ways.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The inquest into the death of Adrian Curtis took place at Banbury Crown Court just five days after the event. Lord Redesdale wanted nothing to do with it but all those who had discovered Dulcie beside the body were requested to be at the inquest in case any of the statements taken down on the night needed to be corroborated by a second interview. This announcement had caused a certain amount of shouting, which culminated in an unhappy encounter between Lord Redesdale and his favourite dog. In the end, Lord Redesdale drove one car with his wife, Nancy and Charlotte, while Louisa and Pamela were driven in by Oliver Watney’s mother, with her son, who looked throughout the entire journey as if he was about to be sick out of the window. He didn’t manage a word beyond ‘Good morning,’ but the mother spoke enough for the two of them, making her feelings of outrage and disappointment very clear. Pamela stared out of the window and Louisa wanted to squeeze her hand but was stopped by the realisation that Pamela was too old for that to be comforting any more. Yet, she could have done with someone squeezing her hand. (Debo seemed instinctively to understand this and would tightly grip Louisa’s palm with her chubby, soft fingers when they walked around the garden.)

  The courtroom was disappointingly unimpressive, with slate-grey walls, a large desk for the coroner and rows of benches for those attending. The jury with two women and ten men sat off to the side, each one studiously avoiding the glances of anyone but the coroner. Louisa was shocked by Dulcie’s appearance. In only a few days she seemed to have grown thinner and her pretty face was pale. The black eye she had sustained that fateful evening had faded, with shades of yellow and purple only hinted at around the edges. She caught Louisa’s glance but looked away again quickly; a policeman stood beside her but she wore no handcuffs.

  The coroner, Mr Hicks, began by introducing himself and expressing regret for the events of the early hours of November the twenty-first and asked the jury to listen attentively to the evidence placed before them. Mr Hicks emphasised that the inquest was to establish the cause of death and was not a trial but statements had been taken on the night, though further questions may be asked if necessary on this day. Louisa looked across at Charlotte, who sat between Lord and Lady Redesdale, her skin so white that Louisa could see the thin blue veins on her eyelids. In that moment, she must surely have missed her long-dead father and a mother who seemed unable to bear anyone’s grief but her own – the rumour was that Lady Curtis had not left her bedroom since news of her son’s death had reached her. Beside Charlotte, Lord Redesdale looked as if a night back at Ypres in 1917 would be preferable to this room and a crying young woman at his elbow. The others had arrived from London just before proceedings began – Sebastian, Ted, Clara and Phoebe – and slipped into the row behind the Mitfords, their faces as grave as statues in a museum.

  ‘The court calls The Honourable Miss Pamela Mitford to the stand.’

  Pamela walked over to the witness box, in reality a low platform with a sort of balcony around it. Her face still bore the milky plumpness of childhood but she had borrowed one of her mother’s dark brown coats and skirts with a cream, high-necked shirt. It was a touch old-fashioned and beyond her years, a lamb dressed as mutton.

  ‘Could you please confirm your name and where you live.’

  ‘Pamela Mitford, Asthall Manor.’

  ‘The party on the evening in question, the twentieth of November, was to celebrate your eighteenth birthday, was it not?�
��

  Pamela confirmed that it was.

  ‘Could you please tell the jury what you told Inspector Monroe of your encounter with the deceased shortly before his death?’

  Pamela hesitated and looked down at her feet briefly. ‘It wasn’t really an encounter, m’lud.’

  ‘I’m Mr Hicks, not a judge,’ he corrected her, though not unkindly. ‘Just tell the jury please.’

  Pamela nodded and turned to face the jury. Louisa could see that her eyes were not fixed on any of their faces but on a blank spot on the wall behind them. ‘The party was nearly over, there were just a few of us left, and we were doing a treasure hunt. Only a small one, around the house. We’d started the game when I got a message from my mother to go and see her in her room.’

  ‘How did you receive this message?’

  ‘From my nursery maid; she came and told me.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  ‘In the dining room, with Adrian Curtis.’

  There was a ripple through the room, a small intake of breath and movement as people shifted slightly on the hard, wooden seats.

  Mr Hicks leaned forward. ‘How did Mr Curtis seem at that time?’

  Pamela twisted around, unsure whether to address the coroner or the jury. ‘He seemed fine. I mean, I didn’t notice anything different about him. I’d only met him once before. We were in the same room because we’d both guessed our second clues and we were looking for them in there.’ She turned to the jury. ‘You see, you get a clue and then the answer is an object of some kind—’

  ‘I’m sure the ladies and gentlemen of the jury know how a treasure hunt works,’ interrupted Mr Hicks, ‘even if they aren’t the Bright Young Things of London.’ He raised his eyebrows and there was a titter in the room.

  A red flush crept up Pamela’s throat. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Please, carry on. You had the message…?’

  ‘I went to my mother’s room and she was there with my aunt, Miss Iris Mitford. It seemed that she hadn’t sent a message but as I was there—’

  ‘Did you say Lady Redesdale hadn’t sent a message?’

  ‘No, sir. My maid later explained that she was concerned that I was in a room alone with a gentleman and that my parents might not approve.’ Pamela’s chin wobbled very slightly. It was true that Louisa had said this to her in the days after the murder, in case it was questioned later. Thank goodness she had.

  Mr Hicks wrote something down. ‘I see. Carry on.’

  The windows of the coroner’s court were blackened with soot and there were bars across the outside, so little light could get through but Louisa could see the white sky had turned dark grey.

  ‘Seeing as I was there, my aunt asked if I could fetch a book for her from her room. She wanted to show a passage from it to my mother.’ She hesitated, perhaps worried that she was including unnecessary detail or maybe only to take in some air. ‘So I hurried along to the yellow room, my aunt’s room. It’s no more than a few minutes’ walk away, close to my father’s dressing room.’

  ‘Was your father in there?’

  ‘I believe so. The light was off so I assumed he was asleep.’ She paused, and Mr Hicks motioned for her to continue. ‘The door was shut but I could hear an argument…’

  ‘Did you know who was in the room?’

  ‘No. But I recognised Mr Curtis’s voice. He was arguing with a girl but I didn’t know who it was at the time.’

  ‘Did you realise later who it was?’

  There was a pause. Louisa held her breath.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pamela. ‘She had a very distinctive accent, from south London. I heard it later, when … well, when we had discovered Mr Curtis.’

  ‘Had you ever met her before?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Pamela’s tone indicated she was emboldened by her certainty. ‘I had seen her working as a maid when I attended a supper at Mr Curtis’s house in London the month before.’

  ‘Had you noticed her at the party earlier that evening?’

  ‘Not so far as I was aware.’

  ‘Is the maid in this room now?’

  Pamela nodded.

  ‘Could you identify her, please?’

  Pamela pointed to Dulcie, who returned her gaze, forcing Pamela to be the first to look away. Mr Hicks indicated she should continue her account.

  ‘I only stood there for a few seconds and was about to leave when I heard a loud noise, a crack of some sort. It gave me a shock, and I ran off.’

  ‘What did you do after that?’

  ‘I went to the kitchen to tell Louisa, that is – Louisa Cannon, my nursery maid.’

  ‘Why did you tell Miss Cannon?’

  Louisa had the distinctly uncomfortable sensation of eyes on her, though the jury couldn’t have known who she was.

  Pamela paused. ‘I didn’t know who else to tell. Everybody else was on the treasure hunt and in different places around the house. I was disturbed by the row I’d heard.’

  ‘What did Miss Cannon say to you?’

  Pamela’s eyes flickered over Louisa then back to the jury. ‘She said that we couldn’t know for sure what it was about, that it might have been part of the game. She told me to rejoin the party.’

  ‘I see. You can stand down now, Miss Mitford. You have been extremely helpful.’

  Pamela returned to her seat beside her mother, who did not touch her but gave her a tight smile that vanished from her face almost as soon as it had arrived.

  * * *

  Next was Dulcie. She was escorted to the box by the policeman, who stood behind her throughout. He was shaped like a snowman and whether he could have sprinted after an escaping witness was highly doubtful. But Dulcie wasn’t going to be running anywhere.

  After the usual introduction and confirmation of her name and address – which she gave as the home of Lady Curtis in Mayfair, though the likelihood of her returning there was vanishingly small – the coroner began his line of questioning.

  ‘Please tell the jury how you came to be at Asthall Manor.’

  ‘It had been arranged that I would collect Miss Charlotte, to take her back to Mrs Watney’s house where we were staying.’

  ‘Mrs Watney’s house was close by?’

  Louisa saw Mrs Watney sit up straighter at this mention of her in court and look around as if she might be catching admiring glances. She wasn’t.

  ‘About half a mile down the road.’

  ‘What did you do when you arrived at the house? Were you met by anyone?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The maid, Louisa, let me into the back entrance to the kitchen.’ Dulcie looked defiant in spite of the plain sacking uniform of a remand prisoner, a straight grey dress with a dirty white shirt beneath, too large for her narrow frame.

  There was a pause. ‘Did Louisa Cannon show you the bedroom upstairs?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Had Dulcie answered too quickly? Louisa felt the heat in her face burning. ‘She said she needed to go and clear away from the party and she left me alone in the kitchen.’

  ‘But you didn’t stay in there, did you?’

  Dulcie spoke quietly. ‘No, sir. I saw the back stairs and I took them.’

  ‘What was your intention at that moment?’

  ‘I thought I might see an empty bedroom and…’ She paused. It was shocking to hear it said out loud like this and when Louisa remembered her part in it, it was all she could do to prevent herself from hiding under the seat. Dulcie continued, more definite than before. ‘I thought I might see something as would be worth taking.’

  ‘Was this common practice for you, Miss Long? To enter into an unknown house and search for something to steal?’

  ‘No,’ said Dulcie. ‘I ain’t never done it before while working for Lady Curtis.’

  ‘So you had done it before working for your present employer?’

  Dulcie was silent.

  ‘For the sake of the court record, the witness neither confirms nor denies this,’ said Mr Hicks. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘I
went upstairs and didn’t see no one. I saw a bedroom door that was open and when I looked inside it was empty. I knew they was all at the party, so I took my chance.’

  ‘Shortly after this, Mr Curtis came into the room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had you previously arranged to meet him in there?’

  Dulcie shook her head.

  ‘The witness has indicated no,’ said Mr Hicks.

  Louisa’s mouth was completely dry.

  ‘What happened when he came into the room?’

  Beads of sweat like dew on a cobweb were forming on Dulcie’s hairline, and her knuckles, gripping the witness balcony, had turned white, but she kept a steady gaze. For a reason she could not identify Louisa turned to look behind her, where a few scattered people sat, members of the press mostly, she assumed. In the far corner, looking no less like a paean to the contours of the Maris Piper, sat the woman who had threatened Dulcie in the Elephant and Castle. She was watching Dulcie very closely and Louisa knew that Dulcie was alive to this. There could be no misstep here.

  ‘He caught me stealing jewellery from the dressing table in there.’

  ‘And what was his reaction?’ Mr Hicks had his pen poised.

  ‘He was angry. He told me to put the things back, and when I refused, he hit me.’

  ‘Where did he hit you?’

  ‘On my eye, here.’ Dulcie put a hand to her left eye.

  Mr Hicks folded his arms on his desk. ‘Was it then you determined to exact your revenge?’

  ‘What, sir? No, sir. No, I did not!’ Dulcie’s voice rose but her hands held on tightly to the balcony before her, and Louisa knew she would fall otherwise.