M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, the Travelling Matchmaker Regency romance series and a standalone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.agatharaisin.com for more.
Titles by M. C. Beaton
The Six Sisters
Minerva • The Taming of Annabelle • Deirdre and Desire
Daphne • Diana the Huntress • Frederica in Fashion
The Edwardian Murder Mystery series
Snobbery with Violence • Hasty Death • Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker series
Emily Goes to Exeter • Belinda Goes to Bath • Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton • Deborah Goes to Dover • Yvonne Goes to York
The Agatha Raisin series
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener • Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage • Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam • Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate • Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance • Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison • Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body • Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns
The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip • Death of a Cad • Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife • Death of a Hussy • Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster • Death of a Glutton • Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man • Death of a Nag • Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist • Death of a Scriptwriter • Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas • Death of a Dustman • Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village • Death of a Poison Pen • Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer • Death of a Maid • Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch • Death of a Valentine • Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher
The Skeleton in the Closet
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd, 1984
This paperback edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1984
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-84901-487-8 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-84901-943-9 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
For my sister, Tilda Grenier,
and her husband, Laurent, with love.
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA
Parvenant
It was but this winter I came up to town,
And already I’m gaining a sort of renown;
Find my way to good houses without much ado,
And beginning to see the nobility too.
So useful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So useful it is to have money.
There’s something undoubtedly in a fine air,
To know how to smile and be able to stare.
High breeding is something, but well-bred or not,
In the end the one question is, what have you got.
So needful it is to have money, heigh-ho!
So needful it is to have money.
And the angels in pink and the angels in blue,
In muslins and moirés so lovely and new,
What is it they want, and so wish you to guess,
But if you have money, the answer is Yes.
So needful, they tell you, is money, heigh-ho!
So needful it is to have money.
Arthur Hugh Clough
Georgian menu used in this volume of The Six Sisters was taken from Georgian Meals and Menus by Maggie Black, published by the Kingsmead Press, Rosewell House, Kingsmead Square, Bath, England.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
ONE
It had been a day of heavy rain, but towards sunset the clouds had broken, and an angry, yellow, glaring light bathed the village of Hopeworth and the surrounding sodden fields.
Little choppy golden ripples danced angrily across the village pond. The sun blazed through two huge purple-and-black ragged clouds, and the rising wind sent a shower of wet brown leaves dancing over the cottage roofs.
It was the sort of sunset which presaged a high wind; yellow sunsets always meant a wild night to come.
Squire Radford huddled his thin, old shoulders further into his greatcoat, feeling the heavy material beginning to flap against his spindly legs.
As he hurried in the direction of his cottage ornée, he cursed himself for having been stupid enough to accept Sir Edwin Armitage’s invitation to take tea at the Hall.
Sir Edwin’s haughty wife had been glacially aloof, as usual, and her plain daughters, Josephine and Emily, still unmarried, had giggled and pouted in turns in a most irritating manner.
The squire’s thoughts turned from Sir Edwin to Sir Edwin’s brother, the Reverend Charles Armitage, vicar of St Charles and St Jude in the parish of Hopeworth. For although the vicar was a close friend of the squire and usually came to call most evenings, Squire Radford found himself hoping for the first time that the ebullient fox-hunting vicar would decide to stay in the comfort of his own home.
It was a sad and lonely feeling to see a dear friend so monstrous changed in character. The vicar had become so puffed up, so swollen in pride, that he seemed another man altogether.
The rot had set in, mused the squire, wincing as the first blast of windy rain tugged at his old-fashioned three-cornered hat, with the m
arriage of the vicar’s second eldest daughter, Annabelle.
His eldest, Minerva, had done very well for herself by marrying Lord Sylvester Comfrey, but the vicar had accepted that piece of good fortune with a comfortable sort of gratitude. Then Annabelle had become wed to the Marquess of Brabington and the vicar had accepted that piece of good luck with a comfortable sort of gratitude as well. But after Annabelle’s marriage when she had gone off with her husband to the Peninsular Wars, the vicar had found his social standing much elevated by virtue of the aristocracy of his new in-laws. He began to spend as much time in Town as he could out of the fox-hunting Season, returning to the country only to plunge into more wild farming experiments, and more expensive purchases of hounds.
He was now the proud possessor of twenty couple of hounds, a ridiculous quantity for a country parson. Two years had passed since Annabelle’s wedding; Lord Sylvester’s steward, who had done much to put the Armitage farming land in good heart, was now back managing his master’s estates; and once more the vicar was faced with ruin.
He had been faced with ruin before, but never before had Charles Armitage ignored the fact so blatantly.
And he still had four daughters unwed, and two sons at Eton whose future was a weighty matter.
Two whole years had passed since Annabelle wed the Marquess of Brabington. How old were they all now?
The squire pushed open the tall iron gates leading to his cottage and murmured names and ages over to himself.
‘Let me see, the twins, Peregrine and James, will be twelve. Minerva will now be twenty-one! Dear me. How quickly the time flies. Annabelle will therefore be nineteen which will mean Deirdre is just eighteen, Daphne is sixteen, Diana, fifteen, and little Frederica, fourteen.’
The squire’s soft-footed Indian servant opened the door and relieved his master of his coat.
‘Thank you, Ram,’ said the squire. ‘I am chilled to the bone. Bring some brandy to the library and if anyone calls – anyone – I am not at home.’
Even when the squire felt mellowed by his slippered feet on the hearth, the curtains drawn tightly against the rising storm, and the flames from a blazing coal fire sending golden flames dancing in his brandy glass, he was relieved to be alone.
He had had his cottage ornée built some twelve years before to replace the old insanitary Tudor hall which had served his earlier years. He had wanted something simple, and considered his fifteen charming rooms hung with French wallpaper and filled with fine furniture, paintings and china sufficient for his needs. His wife and his daughter had both died a long time ago. The ceiling was low and raftered and the gold lettering of the calfbound books which lined the library walls winked cheerfully in the soft glow from the oil lamps.
As an angry burst of rain struck the windows the squire smiled contentedly and snuggled deeper in his armchair, sipped his brandy, and opened a book.
Then, as the wind slackened slightly, he heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves coming up his short drive.
The vicar.
He crouched a little further down in his chair, listening guiltily to the sounds of the vicar’s arrival, the hammering on the door, the soft murmur of his servant’s voice.
Then the closing of the door and no sound other than the howl of the rising wind.
The noise of the wind must have covered the sounds of the rejected vicar’s retreat.
Suddenly, Squire Radford got to his feet and walked to the library window nearest his chair and pulled aside the curtains.
He let out a frightened little scream and backed away from the window, his wrinkled old hands to his mouth.
A hideous, squat, fat, distorted face was pressed against the glass.
Then the face retreated a little and resolved itself into that of the Reverend Charles Armitage.
He was mouthing something but the squire could not hear him because of the noise of the storm. Still too shocked to gather his wits together, the squire made flapping movements with his hands to indicate that the vicar should return to the front door.
Then he closed the curtains and sat down in the armchair by the fire, his heart still thudding.
In no time at all, the Reverend Charles Armitage came striding in.
He was a short, round man who normally wore a shovel hat and a pepper-and-salt coat and gaiters. The squire had often thought a Union Jack across his chest would have turned him into the perfect John Bull.
But on this occasion, the vicar presented a very odd figure. His face was painted and rouged and he wore an elaborate cravat and evening clothes, his skin-tight trousers being shoved into hessian boots. As he moved, he unmistakably creaked and snapped.
‘Corsets, Charles?’ queried the squire faintly.
‘Nonsense,’ said the vicar, turning even redder. ‘It’s my bones creakin’. Being locked out in this demned plaguey weather don’t do my old bones a mort o’ good. Well, well, well. I’m here, and that’s the main thing.’
He sat down by the fire opposite the squire and helped himself to a glass of brandy before removing his dripping hat and putting it down on the hearth where it started to steam.
His light brown hair had been teased and curled and pomaded so that it stood up on his head like a crest, giving him an air of perpetual surprise.
He tossed his glass of brandy off, shuddered, looked at the fire and sighed lugubriously.
The squire said nothing, so the vicar sighed noisily and eyed his friend out of the corners of his twinkling shoe-button eyes.
The squire resigned himself.
‘What is the matter, Charles?’ he demanded in his high precise voice.
‘I have lost my faith,’ mourned the vicar. ‘Just like that. Just like the thingummy on the road to whatsit.’
‘He didn’t lose it. He found it,’ said the squire crossly.
‘Who?’
‘St Paul.’
‘Oh, him? O’ course, it was easy for him,’ said the vicar with something like a sneer. ‘But does He care if I’ve lost my faith? Does He send down lights or one small miracle? No. Couldn’t even get me some decent hunting weather last year.’
‘I do not see, Charles, how you can claim to have lost what you never had,’ said the squire, becoming much flushed. ‘You are turned exceeding arrogant. Without humility there is no faith.’
‘Don’t preach,’ said the vicar huffily. He poured himself more brandy and sighed again.
The squire looked at him in a mixture of exasperation and compassion.
‘You are a great child,’ he said gently. ‘Faith or lack of faith is not what troubles you. It is money, or the lack of that.’
‘Aye, that’s it,’ said the vicar. ‘You have it in a nutshell. Two rich sons-in-law and I can’t get my hands on them. Brabington’s in France and Comfrey has already gone to join him.’
‘Indeed! I did not know Minerva and her husband had left the country? I did not expect it. She is soon to present you with a grandson.’
‘Another two months,’ said the vicar moodily. ‘And it’ll probably come into the world speaking French.’
‘But what took Lord Sylvester to France?’
‘I don’t know. Went along o’ everyone else, I s’pose. At least they’re in Paris, and haven’t gone to Waterloo to poke around the dead bodies with a stick.’
‘My dear Charles!’
There came a silence. The door opened and the servant came in and put two large shovelfuls of coal on the fire.
The vicar watched morosely as grey smoke began to curl up in long trailing wisps. Then little yellow flames sprang through the bank of black coal and green and blue ones danced in the spurts of coal gas.
The clock ticked sonorously in the corner. A great buffet of wind howled round the building.
‘There is a solution,’ said the vicar at last. ‘When I was in London, there was a lot o’ talk in the clubs about Lord Harry Desire.’
‘The Earl of Carchester’s son?’
‘Him.’
‘And?�
��
The vicar heaved a gusty sigh. ‘Desire’s got an uncle who’s a nabob, Jeremy Blewett. He says he’ll leave all his money to Desire if the man gets married. Blewett’s said to be on his deathbed.’
‘Has Desire no money of his own?’
‘Not much. The Carchesters never knew how to keep it. He lives high, does young Desire. He spends more on his tailor than I spend on my pack.’
The squire did some rapid mental calculation.
‘Impossible,’ he said at last.
‘True. He’s a great dandy.’
‘I do not see how this young man can aid you. How old is he?’
‘Late in his twenties. Thirty, say.’
‘You have met him?’
‘Not I,’ shrugged the vicar. ‘Heard of him, though.’
‘You cannot possibly be thinking of a husband for Deirdre!’
‘Why not?’ demanded the vicar crossly. ‘Had enough trouble with Minerva and Annabelle. Arranged marriage will be just the thing.’
‘Deirdre is a highly intelligent lady with a mind of her own.’
The vicar ferreted around in his waistcoat pockets until he found a goose quill and then proceeded to pick his teeth, much to the fastidious squire’s irritation. ‘Hark ’ee, Jimmy,’ he grinned. ‘Deirdre’s been told she’s the brainy one o’ the family for so long, she’s come to believe it herself. But she reads novels. So there!’
‘I read novels myself,’ protested the squire.
‘Different for a man,’ muttered the vicar. ‘Lots o’ vices are.’
‘I think you are making a great mistake,’ said the squire severely. ‘I don’t know what has come over you this last two years, Charles. You have wasted your money, you have taken to wearing paint, and, yes, you are wearing corsets.’
The vicar flushed and looked mutinous. ‘I haven’t changed,’ he said, whipping himself up into a fine anger. ‘It’s you who have changed. Demme, you’re worse than the bishop. Always preaching and moralizing and argyfying. I’m off!’
‘If our friendship means so little to you that you cannot take a piece of well-meant criticism . . .’
Deirdre and Desire Page 1