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, several Regency romance series and a stand-alone 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, or follow M. C. Beaton on Twitter: @mc_beaton.
Titles by M. C. Beaton
The Poor Relation
Lady Fortescue Steps Out · Miss Tonks Turns to Crime · Mrs Budley Falls from Grace
Sir Philip’s Folly · Colonel Sandhurst to the Rescue · Back in Society
A House for the Season
The Miser of Mayfair · Plain Jane · The Wicked Godmother
Rake’s Progress · The Adventuress · Rainbird’s Revenge
The Six Sisters
Minerva · The Taming of Annabelle · Deirdre and Desire
Daphne · Diana the Huntress · Frederica in Fashion
Edwardian Murder Mysteries
Snobbery with Violence · Hasty Death · Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker
Emily Goes to Exeter · Belinda Goes to Bath · Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton · Deborah Goes to Dover · Yvonne Goes to York
Agatha Raisin
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
Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers · Agatha Raisin and the Christmas Crumble
Hamish Macbeth
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 · Death of Yesterday
The Skeleton in the Closet
Also available
The Agatha Raisin Companion
Daisy
M. C. Beaton
Constable & Robinson Ltd.
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First electronic edition published 2011
by RosettaBooks LLC, New York
This edition published in the UK by Canvas,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1980
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: 978-1-47210-122-8 (ebook)
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Cover copyright © Constable & Robinson
For Harry Scott Gibbons
and Charles David Bravos Gibbons,
with all my love.
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
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
The very leaves out here seem to be different, thought Daisy Jenkins, clutching hold of her friend’s arm. They spread out on the ground before them, sparkling red and gold in the autumn sunshine. Not like the rusty plebeian kind that carpeted the town of Upper Featherington, now uncomfortably a long way behind.
“We shouldn’t ought to be doing this,” said Daisy for the hundredth time. Her friend Amy tossed her blonde curls. “Nobody’s going to find out. We’re just going to take a peek.”
Daisy looked enviously at her friend. Amy Pomfret had a careless, sunny nature and, having made up her mind to play truant from school to spy on the Earl of Nottenstone’s house party, she had plunged into the adventure with gay abandon, seemingly free from the dark fears of retribution that haunted Daisy’s sensitive mind.
A shy and retiring girl, Daisy had never quite got over being chosen by Miss Amy Pomfret—the most popular girl in the school—to be her best friend. So when Amy had suggested the adventure, Daisy had not had the courage to refuse.
“I think about here will do,” said Amy, stopping in front of a curve of moss-covered wall. “Nobody’s about. Come along, Daisy, over you go!”
Daisy timidly hitched up her faded tartan skirts to reveal an expanse of cotton petticoat, bleached yellow with age, and a pair of cracked and worn button boots. She nimbly scaled the wall and dropped down on the other side with her heart beating fast. With an energetic thump, her friend joined her.
“Now don’t be such a scaredy-cat,” whispered Amy. “All we’re going to do is creep through the woods to the edge of the garden and have a look at them.”
“What if they’re not outside?” whispered Daisy.
“Bound to be,” said Amy. “Clarrie Johnson’s mum has been hired special for the day and she told Clarrie that they takes their tea on the lawn ’round about now.”
Daisy’s heart jumped into her throat with every popping twig and every crackling movement of their starched petticoats. She almost wished they would be discovered so that the punishment would be swift and fast, for Daisy had been firmly taught by the methodist chapel that the sinner never escaped judgment. And what could be a worse sin than to be found trespassing on the hallowed aristocratic ground of Marsden Castle?
The battlements of the castle suddenly seemed to
lean over the trees above them and they could hear the faint sound of voices and laughter. They edged closer and found themselves on the edge of the woods with a vast expanse of lawn rolling out in front of them.
“There they are!” hissed Amy, crouching down behind a bush and pulling Daisy with her.
Daisy drew in her breath in a sharp gasp.
The house party was spread out over the lawn, engaged in a game of croquet. Everyone was dressed in white. The ladies in cascades of white lace, with tiny waists and voluminous hats, and the gentlemen in white flannels and blazers.
Amy put her lips close to Daisy’s ear. “That’s the Earl and Countess… over there.”
The handsomest couple Daisy had ever seen stood at the edge of the lawn. The Earl was a tall young man with fair hair the color of ripe corn. His classical features were almost effeminate in their perfection and his eyes, a startling, piercing blue. In complete contrast was the Countess, her masses of heavy black hair almost hidden by an elaborate picture hat of swirling white tulle and artificial flowers. She moved her small body with easy, catlike grace in all the stiff formality of white lace that cascaded in structured layers from throat to hem. She had entangled her croquet mallet in her heavy rope of pearls and was playfully insisting that all the young men of the party should help her.
The rest of the world fled from Daisy’s mind as she stared at the enchanted picture… at the world of gods and goddesses to which she could never belong. Just for this little while, she, Daisy Jenkins, would imagine that she was part of it. She would dream that she was one of the guests and that in a minute, one of those splendid young men would come searching for her.
The Countess was calling everyone to tea in her high, clear voice when one of the young men gave the croquet ball an energetic swipe with his mallet. It flew toward them, right into the bushes and struck Amy on the leg. Amy sprang to her feet with an undignified shriek and started to hop about.
Daisy got slowly to her feet and then stood frozen with terror. “Flushed two of ’em,” yelled the young man. “Hey, Bo, Cecil, Jerry, everybody…nymphs in the woods!”
With insolent, languid steps the members of the house party formed a half circle in front of the two girls.
The Countess’s enormous brown eyes flicked over the two girls in their shabby tartan dresses. “Schoolgirls,” she remarked as if identifying a common type of garden pest. And then without even turning her head, “Curzon…take them away.”
Daisy’s heart sank to her worn boots and she hung her head. Curzon was a leading light of the methodist chapel. Her aunt would hear of it. There was no escape now.
“Oh, do they have to go?” cried a young man with a weak chin, horrendous acne, and an insane giggle. “The blonde one’s quite pretty, you know.”
Amy gave him a dazzling smile. “Daisy and me just wanted to get a look at you. We didn’t mean no harm.”
The Earl turned lazily to his wife. “There you are. They didn’t mean no harm, my dear.”
“They just wanted to see the aristocrats at play,” roared a horsey girl. “We’ve even got a real live Duke for you to gawk at, ain’t we? Your Grace, The Most Noble Duke of Oxenden, please present yourself for inspection.”
A tall dark man moved to the front of the crowd. Daisy raised her eyes timidly and then lowered them hurriedly. The newcomer had cold, harsh features and eyes of a peculiar, almost yellow, shade. They seemed to bore right into her. “What is your name? You…with the brown hair.”
“Daisy Jenkins… an’ please Your Grace.” The voice whispered faintly, like the leaves drifting over the immaculate lawns.
The Countess’s voice cut across. “Escort these persons off the estate immediately, Curzon. And send Bill from the lodge to report them to their headmistress.”
There was a short, shocked silence, punctuated by a few sympathetic murmurs of “I say!” and “Bit hard cheese that,” as the two girls were led off by the stern Curzon.
Even the ebullient Amy seemed unnaturally subdued. At last she burst out. “Oh, Mr. Curzon, do you really have to tell old Meekers about this?” Old Meekers was Miss Margaret Meaken, their headmistress.
Curzon looked down at the two girls from his lofty height, gave a slight cough, and then became surprisingly human.
“I think you have been punished enough, miss, but I’ve got to do what her ladyship says. She’ll check up. She’s that sort.”
“But she is so beautiful,” said Daisy in a subdued voice. She could not believe that such a fairy-tale creature as the Countess would be deliberately malicious.
“Well, it’s not for me to discuss my betters,” said Curzon repressively. “Let’s just leave it that I’ve got my orders to send Bill from the lodge and that’s that.” He turned to Daisy. “You’re the one that’s going to come off the worst. Your aunt isn’t going to like this a bit. She worships my lord and lady almost as much as her Maker.”
Daisy shuddered. Her aunt, Miss Sarah Jenkins, was a deeply religious spinster who felt that she had been put on earth to go about finding fault with everyone in general and Daisy in particular.
The two girls said good-bye to Curzon and walked off down the road with lagging footsteps and drooping heads. “I’m sorry,” said Amy. “It’s not so bad for me. My mum will scream and clip me over the ear and then she’ll invite all the neighbors in so’s I can tell them all about the frocks the nobs were wearing. Will you tell your auntie when you get home?”
Daisy shook her head. “I haven’t got the courage. She’ll find out soon enough.”
She fell silent and the two girls moved slowly through the golden afternoon, each with her own thoughts. A little breeze had sprung up sending cascades of brilliant colored leaves falling across the winding country road. Woodsmoke twisted up lazily from bonfires in the gardens and rooks circled and swirled over the brown, ploughed fields. But Daisy had a nagging feeling that she had been shut out from a fairyland world and that life would never be the same again.
The only way to enter that magic world again would be as a servant. Her aunt, she knew, had been a housemaid. But Sarah Jenkins moralized so much on the sins of the aristocracy and was so reticent about the family for whom she had worked, that Daisy could only assume she had not enjoyed one bit of it.
Her aunt was also peculiarly reticent on the subject of Daisy’s parents. Daisy herself could not remember them, and all questions were parried by her aunt’s infuriating sniff, followed by a long homily about how she ought to thank God for having a respectable body to take care of her.
When they reached the outskirts of the town, the lamplighter was already making his rounds, leaving pools of gaslight behind him to disperse the evening shadows as he moved slowly down the main street.
The girls came to a halt in front of a forbidding Victorian villa which rejoiced in the name of The Pines. There were no pine trees, only a weather-beaten monkey puzzel and some sooty laurels, but Sarah Jenkins had been in service in Scotland and considered the name to have an appropriate Highland flavor, redolent of grouse shoots and large sprawling picnics on the moors.
Amy opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. After all, what was there to say? Daisy needs a bit more spirit. Ought to tell that old harridan where to get off. Amy pressed her friend’s shoulder sympathetically, and marched off to cope with her own battles.
The stained glass door of The Pines was jerked open as Daisy reached the top step where Sarah Jenkins stood waiting, crackling with starch and bad temper.
She was a very thin, tall, bony woman with black hair scraped painfully back from a fiery red face. Her complexion made her look as if she were in a perpetual temper which, in fact, she nearly always was. She had a large mole at the side of her thin, traplike mouth, with two stiff hairs growing out of it that waved like the antennae of some peculiar bug. As a child, Daisy used to have nightmares that the mole had crept off her aunt’s face and had taken on a life of its own and was crawling around the house waving its feelers.
“Dawdling home from school again, you sinner,” snapped Miss Jenkins. “Life is one long sinful, idle pleasure for you, miss. Isn’t it? You have been looking at boys, haven’t you? Lust is in your blood and in your mind, Daisy Jenkins. Isn’t it?”
With each sentence she poked the girl in the ribs with a pair of steel knitting needles from which hung a long brown, lumpy scarf. Miss Jenkins knitted brown scarves that she posted off to South Africa for the army, as her contribution to the Boer War. Amy had once been invited to tea and had whispered to Daisy that the army used them to bore the Boers to death. She had gone into convulsions at her own wit and had never been invited again.
“Your tea has been ready this past half hour,” remarked Miss Jenkins, giving the unfortunate Daisy a final stab. “And after that, remember to finish your housekeeping duties.”
Tea was a silent meal. Daisy usually tried to make some sort of conversation, but she felt crushed down by an overpowering weight of guilt. She hurriedly ate her two slices of doughy white bread and thick burnt crust, two transparent wafers of ham, a miniscule portion of mashed potato, and a nauseating concoction called Russian salad—tinned vegetables mixed with watery mayonnaise.
She carried the dishes downstairs to the kitchen as soon as she was finished, glad to escape from her aunt’s basilisklike stare.
The kitchen was dark and cold and smelled of genteel poverty—a mixture of Jeyes fluid and cabbage water.
As she polished the heavy pottery dishes and diligently scrubbed the knives and forks with bath brick, Daisy found the Earl’s handsome face constantly in her thoughts. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. And he had such laughing blue eyes!
Daisy was nearly finishing her studies at St. Cecilia’s Parochial School for Girls and had begun, timidly, to notice that mysterious opposite sex. But none of the boys of the town had sparked her imagination like the handsome Earl.
The rest of the evening passed like a thunderstorm, with lightning images of the Earl’s laughing face interspersed with heavy clouds of fear and guilt.
Sarah Jenkins did not employ servants, so it was ten o’clock before Daisy thankfully completed her last task—polishing the leaves of the aspidistra that crouched in its brass bowl by the parlor window.
Daisy Page 1