by M C Beaton
“Yes, bring her along, I call mine by her first name. She is Colette Bougier and she complained that the English servants called her Booger. As she is a very good lady’s maid I capitulated and now I call her Colette.”
♦
The castle gardens lay outside the walls. The lady’s maids walked behind their mistresses, who had both changed into walking clothes after breakfast.
Colette put her hand on Daisy’s arm, causing her to stop until Margaret and Rose had moved out of earshot. “Terrible last night, was it not?” she whispered. “The way they do go on. In France one keeps the mistress discreetly hidden.”
“My lady is nobody’s mistress,” said Daisy hotly.
“I did not mean that. I mean, they say they put the cards on the bedroom doors so everyone can know which is their room, yes?”
“Yes, surely –”
“No, it is because perhaps some gentleman is protected from making the dreadful mistake of sleeping with his wife instead of his mistress.”
“You mean they ain’t got no morals,” said Daisy and quickly corrected herself, ever mindful of Rose’s teaching. “They haven’t any morals?”
“Only the young ladies go on as if they are in the convent.”
“Going to be a dull party, then,” said Daisy cheerfully. “Mostly young ladies.”
“Ah, but even they can fall. I know…”
“Colette! My shawl,” called Margaret, “And do keep up with us.”
Colette ran forward and wrapped the Paisley shawl she had been carrying around her mistress’s shoulders.
Rose had been telling Margaret all about Sir Geoffrey Blandon and how her father had hired a certain Captain Cathcart to find out about him.
“I’ve heard a rumour about a certain captain who fixes things, covers up scandals, things like that. What’s he like?”
“Nothing out of the common way,” said Rose stiffly. “Quite rude, in fact.”
“Has he done any more work for your father?”
Rose longed to tell her new friend all about the king’s aborted visit but decided that it was something she could never talk about. “No, and I hope I never see Captain Cathcart again.”
♦
The house party settled down to a routine of shooting and hunting for the men in the afternoons while the ladies read or sewed or played croquet. Then, after another long boring dinner, there were charades or cards. Rose found the company of Sir Gerald Burke amusing and her new friendship with Margaret enjoyable and yet she longed to go home.
There was an atmosphere in the castle she did not like. Almost at times a feeling of menace.
And yet the marquess paid her a great deal of fatherly attention. Finding out she liked to read, he took her on a tour of his library, proudly showing off leather-bound books bought by the yard from the bookseller, with little attention to content.
The weather had turned dark and stormy and the folly of having arrow slits in the walls of the towers was soon revealed as the wind screeched through them like so many banshees.
One particularly vile night, Rose sat up in bed reading a novel by H.G. Wells, unable to sleep because of the noise of the wind. Draughts were everywhere, seeping through the windows and under the doors, causing the flames of the candles to flicker.
And then she thought she heard a voice calling, “Fetch the doctor.”
She got out of bed just as Daisy came into the room. “I heard something, my lady. Did you hear it?”
“It sounded like someone calling for a doctor. I hope nothing has happened to Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone. Pass me my dressing-gown, Daisy.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Daisy.
Wrapped in dressing-gowns, they opened the door. There were faint sounds coming from downstairs on the left.
They went down the stairs, the light from their bed candles throwing up great shadows on the stone walls. Then there was a scream.
“I think it’s from the other tower. It’s along this corridor here,” whispered Daisy.
They made their way along the long corridor which connected the towers. Lady Hedley appeared from a room at the end of the corridor. Her face was chalk-white and she had a handkerchief pressed to her lips.
“Go back to your room, Lady Rose,” she said. “We are waiting for the doctor. Miss Gore-Desmond is…has been…is ill.”
But other guests appeared behind Rose and they all clustered forward despite the marchioness’s protests.
The gaslight was flaring in Mary Gore-Desmond’s room. Rose had a brief glimpse of a still figure on the bed, the marquess, the butler, the housekeeper, and Mr. Jerry Trumpington, when the marquess turned round and with his face red with anger shouted at them to go away.
“I wonder if they’ll manage to get a doctor on a night like this,” whispered Daisy. “I think she’s dead.”
∨ Snobbery with Violence ∧
Six
We are at the cross-ways. If we stand on in the old happy-go-lucky way, the richer classes ever growing in wealth and in number, and ever declining in responsibility, the very poor remaining plunged or plunging even deeper into helpless, hopeless misery, then I think there is nothing before us but savage strife between class and class.
– WINSTON CHURCHILL, SPEECH AT LEICESTER, 1909
“Daisy! What are you doing?”
Rose had just come down to the main hall on her way to breakfast the following morning to find Daisy standing with her ear pressed against the door of the earl’s study.
“Sorry,” said Daisy, darting guiltily away from the door and joining her mistress. “But it’s ever so interesting.”
“Don’t say ‘ever so’,” Rose corrected automatically. “You should not listen at doors. It’s vulgar.”
“Lord Hedley is in a right rage. Seems it’s not the usual doctor but a new one, the old one having popped his clogs last week.”
“Daisy!”
“And he won’t sign the death certificate!”
Now Daisy had Rose’s full attention. “Why not?”
“Seems like this new doctor, a Dr. Perriman, well, he says it’s arsenic poisoning, of that he’s sure. Lord Hedley, he says, “So what?” He says a lot of ladies take arsenic to clear the skin and she’s overdone it. Dr. Perriman says he’s already phoned the police and Lord Hedley is raging and saying he’ll have him drummed out of the medical profession.”
There was a thunderous knocking at the door and both women jumped nervously.
The hall-boy, who had been slumbering in a chair near the door, awoke with a start and rushed to open it.
A police sergeant stood there, with a constable at his side. The butler, Curzon, appeared in the hall.
The police sergeant said something in a low voice and then both policemen were led off to the study.
♦
The castle was hushed and sombre. The wind had died down but great black clouds still tore across the sky.
Rose was once more on her way downstairs for afternoon tea when she heard Curzon announcing in tones of doom, “Detective Superintendent Kerridge.”
The superintendent and another detective vanished into the marquess’s study. Rose joined Margaret and the others in the drawing-room where a lavish afternoon tea was being served.
The American twins, Harriet and Deborah Peterson, were whispering together. The rest were moodily silent until Mrs. Trumpington raised her voice. “Who just arrived? I heard a carriage. Curzon?”
The butler, who had entered the room after Rose, said, “Persons from Scotland Yard have arrived, madam.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Mrs. Trumpington selected a large slice of Madeira cake, scoffed it down, brushed off the crumbs which decorated her jet-embroidered gown, and declared, “I mean, the silly girl obviously took arsenic for her skin. Took too much, that’s all. And anyway, that doctor had no right to jump to the conclusion that it was poisoning. And how does he even know it was arsenic?”
“He says she smelled of garlic,” said Sir Geral
d-Burke.
“So?”
“Evidently a sign of arsenic poisoning. Then she’d vomited all over the place and –”
“Ladies present. I say.” Harry Trenton.
“You did ask,” remarked Gerald languidly. “It’s all such a bore. I suppose we will all have to be interviewed by the police.”
Lady Sarah Trenton gasped and fell back in her chair with her eyes closed.
“Has she fainted?” asked Neddie Freemantle.
“Acting as usual,” said Frederica Sutherland roundly. “She’s always acting and posing.”
Sarah opened her eyes and glared at them all. “I have delicate sensibilities which the rest of you seem to lack.”
“Did they find arsenic in her room among her cosmetics?” asked Margaret.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Trumpington. “Ask the maids. There’s been an army of them in there cleaning up and laying her out.”
“That’s destroying evidence,” gasped Rose.
They all stared at her and she flushed at being suddenly the centre of so much attention. “It’s just that Scotland Yard has recently opened a fingerprint bureau. If the room had not been cleaned, they could have taken all our fingerprints and discovered if there was anyone who had been in her room.”
“Trust our walking encyclopaedia to know that,” said Gerald waspishly, and Rose, who had begun to regard him as a friend, gave him a hurt look.
The door opened and Lord Hedley came in. “The police want to interview you one at a time. Sorry about this. It’s all the fault of that doctor, Perriman. First it’s the working classes getting uppity, now it’s the middle classes. They make trouble to get their revenge on us.”
“Why would they want to do that?” asked Rose.
“Envy. Pure envy,” said the marquess. “Your parents phoned, young lady. I told them there was no need to travel here. Once this trivial matter has been resolved, we can all relax and enjoy ourselves. Now, the police will begin with the ladies. Lady Rose? Perhaps you should go first.”
“Why?” Rose wanted to ask. But she got up and followed the marquess through a door in the hall and along a corridor. “I’ve put him in the estate office,” said the marquess. He ushered Rose in and closed the door.
Rose and Kerridge took stock of each other. Kerridge saw a very beautiful girl in high-boned white lace blouse and tailored skirt. Rose saw a thickset grey-haired man, with calm grey eyes and a thick grey moustache, standing behind a desk.
“Please be seated, my lady,” said Kerridge. Another detective sat a little away from Kerridge and a policeman with a large notebook was perched on a hard chair in a corner of the room. A stuffed fox glared down from the wall behind the desk, its mouth open in a snarl.
“Now, Lady Rose,” said Kerridge, “where were you on the night Miss Gore-Desmond died?”
“I was in my room and I heard someone shouting – I think shouting, “Get a doctor.” My maid and I put on our dressing-gowns and followed the sound of the voices. Lady Hedley came out of what I now know to have been Miss Gore-Desmond’s room. She said Miss Gore-Desmond had been taken ill. I had a glimpse inside the room of Lord Hedley, the butler and housekeeper, and, I think, Mr. Trumpington. I am afraid that is all I can tell you.”
“What kind of lady was Miss Gore-Desmond?”
“I didn’t really get to know her. She seemed – well, prickly, as if she despised us all.”
“Did she favour any gentleman in particular?”
“Not that I noticed. She sewed a lot. Petit point. She did not converse much, or if she did, I did not notice. Will that be all?”
“Just one other thing. Do you know a certain Captain Harry Cathcart?”
High colour stained Rose’s cheeks. “I believe he is an acquaintance of my father.”
“The bridge and the station at Stacey Magna were blown up.”
“Yes, but what has that to do with the death of Miss Gore-Desmond?”
“Just curious. Have you any idea who was responsible?”
“The Bolsheviks, of course. Everyone knows that.”
Rose thought she heard him mutter, “Except me,” but could not be sure.
“That will be all for now. Shall I ring for a footman?”
“I can find my own way back, thank you.”
He consulted a list. “Would you be so kind as to ask the Misses Harriet and Deborah Peterson to step along?”
“Certainly.”
“Why did you ask her about that business at Stacey Magna?” asked Inspector Judd.
“Because I have a nagging feeling that it had more to do with stopping the king visiting than any plot by Bolsheviks. But we’d better stick to this business here. What’s worrying you, Judd? You’ve a face like a fiddle.”
“You say this Lord Hedley is rich.”
“Yes, very.”
“And yet you say those suits of armour are fake? Why didn’t he have real ones?”
“No feel for history. I was reading up on this place. There used to be a beautiful house here and Lord Hedley’s father tore it down and took out all the Adam furniture and burnt it all. He built this about thirty years ago, when everyone wanted everything to look like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.”
The American sisters entered the room and Kerridge began to question them. After they had left he worked his way through all the guests, ending up with the Marchioness of Hedley.
“Are you going to be long?” she asked.
“No, my lady,” said Kerridge soothingly. “Just a few questions.”
“No. Meant are you going to be long here Tiresome. Can’t abide policemen.”
“This may be a case of murder,” said Kerridge severely.
“Tish, tosh! Silly girl used the stuff as a cosmetic. That’s all.”
“Did she have any enemies?” pursued Kerridge doggedly.
“Well, nobody liked her. I didn’t.”
“Why, my lady?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you not like her?”
“No grace. No manners. Ferrety little thing.”
“Why did you invite her?”
“Hedley’s idea. “We’ll have a season’s-failures party.” That’s what he said.”
“But the Misses Peterson, the Americans, have not yet had a season?”
“Them? They’re foreigners. Need all the help they can get.”
“Was Miss Gore-Desmond romantically involved with any of the gentleman?”
“Not that I noticed. My husband will speak to your superiors. And the –”
“Prime Minister,” Kerridge finished for her.
“Him, too. Now bustle along. Silly doctor. Not one of us.”
♦
After she had left, Kerridge heaved a sigh. “Better start on the servants. I hear someone arriving.” He walked to the window and looked down into the courtyard. A smart new motor car had just pulled up. Getting out of it was a tall man accompanied by a servant.
Kerridge rang the bell and waited until a footman appeared. “Who is the new arrival?” he asked.
“I believe a Captain Harry Cathcart has arrived, sir.”
“Indeed,” said the superintendent thoughtfully. “Now I wonder what he’s doing here.”
“Where are you to be lodged?” the captain asked his manservant.
“With all the valets and lady’s maids, accommodation is limited. I am to share a room with Freddy Pomfret’s valet.”
“Find out what the servants are saying about this mysterious death.”
“Of course.”
“I’m uneasy about this one,” said Harry. “Hedley wants me to fix things so that it will appear as an accidental death. But I don’t see myself covering up for a murder.”
“I will find out what I can, sir. The dressing bell has just gone. We have our new tailored suit.”
“We, Becket?”
“I understand that is the way menservants talk, sir.”
“Don’t do it. It reminds me of the n
ursery.”
“Very good, sir.”
♦
At the dinner table, Harry covertly studied the other guests. Rose was looking beautiful in a creamy-white evening dress trimmed with spotted net frills and baby ribbon. She caught him looking at her and gave him a hard stare before turning to Freddy Pomfret on her right.
Harry gave a mental shrug and addressed Mrs. Jerry Trum-pington, seated on his left.
“Bad business,” he began.
“Oh, it’ll be over soon,” said Mrs. Trumpington indistinctly through a mouthful of quail. “Fuss about nothing.”
“So you think it was an accident?”
“Of course. Parents are abroad but heading back fast. Pity for them. Still, it couldn’t be anything else. Unless you can be murdered for being a dismal failure at your first season. Which is exactly what all these girls were – except the Americans. Great dowries. They’ll go fast. And Hedley will have made a bit of money out of it.”
“Money? How?”
“Yes, but more, more.” Mrs. Trumpington broke off to address a footman serving fish.
“Ah, where was I? Ah, yes, the men are paying for a chance at the Americans and the gels’ parents are paying in the hope that their daughters will make a match.”
“I would not have thought our host needed the money.”
“Greedy. That’s what he is.” Mrs. Trumpington filled her mouth with fish.
Harry turned to Miss Maisie Chatterton on his other side. “Are you bearing up,” he asked her.
“Yeth,” whispered Maisie. “I telephoned Mama and told her to come and get me and she wouldn’t ‘cos she thaid that a drama like this would bring out the knight errant in the gentlemen and get me a proposal.”
“And has it?”
“No, they’re all after the Americans. ‘Snot fair. They’re not Bwitish.”
“Did you know Miss Gore-Desmond well?”
“No.”
“Was she hoping for a husband?”
“Odd. She said she didn’t need to look. Was already spoken for.”
“By whom?”
“Don’t know. You’re as bad as the police. All these questions.” Maisie giggled and rapped him on the arm with her fan.
Dinner was a shorter affair than usual. The men spent very little time over their port and cigars before joining the ladies in the drawing-room.