Death at Daisy's Folly (5 page)

Following Ellie's suggestion, Kate had dressed in her blue wool costume with the gored skirt and matching puff-sleeved velvet jacket—a compromise between style and comfort. Amelia had wound her heavy auburn hair high on her head and perched on it a blue velvet toque decorated with three peacock feathers. Glancing in the mirror before she left her room, Kate had felt a glow of satisfaction at her appearance—and nervous anticipation at the thought of seeing Sir Charles at luncheon.

Kate and Ellie walked to the Folly together, Kate holding her breath for a mention of “The Duchess's Dilemma.” If Ellie had read the story, she would immediately deduce that it was about her mother and that Kate was its likely author. Beryl Bardwell had—quite foolishly, Kate now admitted—used the autocratic Lady Marsden as her model for the imperious Duchess, and the Duchess's home was clearly recognizable as Marsden Manor. Even the plot of the story, which involved some missing jewels, would be familiar to Ellie, for she herself had been involved, as had her brother. True, Beryl had substituted sapphires for Lady Marsden's emeralds and altered some of the most important circumstances, but the remaining similarities would surely catch Ellie's eye. Uncomfortably, Kate wondered whether she should confess what she had done and beg for Ellie's forgiveness. But Ellie gave no evidence that she had yet read the story, and she chattered so much that Kate finally gave up trying to insert anything of importance into the conversation.

Luncheon was to be served under a large yellow tent on the veranda behind Daisy's Folly. The guests took their seats at five tables, each covered by a snowy white cloth, decorated with a crystal vase of hothouse flowers, and attended by its own footman. To Kate's right sat Sir Reginald Wallace, her dinner partner of the previous evening. He was a slender man with a high forehead, pink skin, and a tight-lipped mouth that did not seem to know how to smile. Occupying the opposite seat was Lady Felicia Metcalf, an angular, bony woman in her late thirties with pinched cheeks, improbable blond curls, and a practiced smile, whose conversation seemed to consist primarily of trifling complaints. To Kate's left, much to her consternation, sat Sir Charles Sheridan.

After greetings (did it seem that Sir Charles's glance lingered on her face rather longer and more questioningly than usual?), the table talk turned to the fatal accident that had befallen the Royal groom in the stable.

“Bit of bad luck, that,” Sir Reginald said, as the footman removed their empty soup plates and served quail in aspic. From Sir Reginald's conversation last night, Kate had gathered that he was a staunch member of the squirearchy whose chief passions were hunting and shooting. “But these things happen,” he added. “My wife, of course, was killed in a riding accident.” Lady Felicia made a consoling noise. “And last year I lost my best loader. Rose up just as Lord Ribblesdale swung the butt of his gun and was caught square in the temple. Chap turned up his toes and died without a word. Poor Ribby felt dreadful. Spoiled the morning's shooting for everyone.”

“Especially for the loader,” Sir Charles remarked wryly, but Sir Reginald had already bent his head to hear Lady Felicia's animated story about someone—Kate didn't catch the name—who had accidentally shot a beater, causing him to lose a leg.

Kate turned to Sir Charles. “I saw the commotion from the breakfast room window this morning,” she said in a low voice, “although I couldn't hear what was going on. Amelia told me that the Prince has asked you to look into the affair so he can report back to the Princess.” Kate hadn't been surprised that Amelia knew so much about what had happened. There was no keeping secrets from the servants, especially when one of them was involved. Kate had asked as many questions as she could without seeming overly curious.

“He did,” Sir Charles said somberly, “but there is little to be learned. From the look of it, I would say that the horse is not at fault. The blow was struck at an angle, and the wound is more consistent with that of a blunt—” He stopped as the footman replenished his wine. “Forgive me, Kate,” he said with a small smile. “The description is hardly appropriate to the luncheon table.”

“Oh, no,” Kate said hastily. “I want to hear.” The death of the young groom had given Beryl Bardwell a new idea for the plot of
The Loves of Lady Lenore
(the tentative title of her current novel) and she was anxious to fill in Amelia's sketch with Sir Charles's observations. Identifiable elements would have to be radically changed, of course; Beryl Bardwell had learned her lesson. “Please,” Kate said, more sedately, “do continue.”

“I fear there is not much else to tell,” Sir Charles said, and went on to say that it appeared that the boy had struck or been struck by something heavy, and had died of a brain injury. The accident had taken place at an early hour of the morning, likely just after sunrise, when the boy had left his sleeping quarters. Sir Charles had searched the Royal stall, the adjoining stalls, and the loft overhead and questioned the stableboys, grooms, and coachmen. But there had been the usual gaiety in the servants' hall the previous night (servants traditionally contrived their own entertainment at a country house weekend), and the men and boys of the stable staff had risen rather later than usual. No one admitted to hearing or seeing anything suspicious.

“Is it possible that he fell from the loft into the stall?” Kate asked.

“It's possible,” Sir Charles admitted, “but I found no evidence in the loft to suggest that he had been there.”

Kate watched him, surreptitiously, while he talked. Sir Charles, a man of medium build, wore comfortable-looking tweeds that were disreputable enough to earn a glance of arch dismay from Lady Felicia and their wearer the distinction of being the worst-dressed guest at luncheon. Convenient to his interests (Sir Charles had a passion for all sorts of odd scientific pursuits), the pockets of his jackets bulged with such things as calipers and measuring rules and magnifying lens. His dusty breeches were tucked into scuffed leather boots, and when he sat down, he had removed a broad-brimmed felt hat with a shapeless crown. His overlong brown hair was curly, but his beard, under prominent cheekbones, was neatly clipped and his quick, sherry-colored eyes were disconcertingly attentive—at least, Kate found them so.

“And that is the sum of it,” he concluded ruefully. “The lad seems to have been struck while he was attending the horse. By whom or with what motive, it is impossible to say. And lacking physical evidence, there is nothing on which to form even a guess.”

“Will there be a coroner's inquest?” Kate asked.

“In all probability,” Sir Charles said. “I assume that Lord Warwick has notified the authorities.” He sat back to allow the footman to take his empty plate and to place before him a serving of fruit-crowned trifle studded with almonds.

In the lull, Kate's ear caught a shred of their companions' conversation. The remark, Lady Metcalf's, concerned their hostess, seated two tables away. Suddenly intrigued, Kate picked up her fork and began to eat her dessert, listening avidly.

“—and then she got herself elected to the Warwick Workhouse Board,” Lady Metcalf was saying
sotto voce
to Lord Reginald. She made clicking noises with her tongue. “Utter folly, the Countess of Warwick presenting herself as a candidate for Poor Law Guardian! Really, I don't know which is worse, her soiling herself with the workhouse or meddling in politics. Why, I have even heard that she has considered standing for Parliament, and that she plans to campaign for Mrs. Pankhurst's Woman-Suffrage Society. Such utter foolishness! And you know, don't you, that she has recently begun taking regular luncheons with both Stead and Blatchford?”

The Workhouse Board? The Woman-Suffrage Society? Kate listened open-mouthed. There was more to Daisy than she had guessed.

“Stead and Blatchford?” Sir Reginald replied with what seemed like genuine concern. “I am sorry to hear it. Those are dangerous men, those two. Daisy should steer clear of them, or she'll find herself in serious trouble.”

Sir Charles raised his head. “Willie Stead is a crusader, perhaps,” he said mildly, “and righteous indignation may sometimes carry his pen to extremes. But I'd scarcely consider him dangerous.”

“On the contrary, Sheridan,” Sir Reginald snapped. “An irresponsible journalist like Stead is damned dangerous. The man publicly agitates for reform of the House of Lords, and that Socialist nonsense of his about international disarmament—”

“I have seen the Krupp munitions factories,” Sir Charles said grimly, “and watched the Kaiser's armed divisions pass in review. Stead is right. If nations do not renounce violence, the coming conflagration will engulf us all. Even if by some miracle we avoid war, the cost of armaments will soon become utterly ruinous.”

Sir Reginald pursed disapproving lips. “And Robert Blatchford is an outright Socialist,” he said, as if Sir Charles had not spoken. “Advocates an eight-hour day, old-age pensions, trade unions, even a Labor Party. Men like Blatchford and Stead will destroy the future of England as we know her.” His clean-shaven pink cheeks were suffused with red and his voice was rising. “Everything we believe in, all decency, all distinction, will go by the board. It is dangerous for Daisy to meddle in such hazardous affairs.”

“Dear Reggie,” a light voice said sweetly. “In whose affairs is it dangerous for me to meddle? The Duchess of Devonshire's, perhaps?”

Kate looked up, startled. She had been so intent on the conversation that she had not noticed that coffee and cordials were being served and that guests were beginning to move from table to table. At her shoulder stood their hostess, a crystal glass in her hand, a gay smile on her alluring lips.

“The Duchess's affairs might have distinction, but they can hardly be thought hazardous or indecent,” Daisy added with a laugh. “She assures me that they are all
entirely
platonic.”

Sir Reginald scraped back his chair and stood, his thin neck reddening. “Ah, Daisy,” he said shortly. He glanced at her and swiftly away, a glance that to Kate revealed a very great deal. “I was just saying—”

“That you consider the editor of the
Clarion
to be a dangerous man.” Lady Warwick's trill of amused laughter was colored by sarcasm. “Really, Reggie, don't you think you are overstating the case?”

Lady Metcalf's smile was lazy, but the pulse beating in her throat gave her away. “Reggie was speaking out of concern for your welfare, Daisy. After all, a known Socialist like Blatchford—Well, one never wishes to endanger one's position, does one?” Her eyes flicked briefly to Kate and Sir Charles, and her lips curved upward in an artificial smile. “But perhaps we could continue this discussion at another time. Our table companions must find us tedious.”

Kate had not found the discussion tedious at all—fascinating, rather. Obviously, there were strong tensions here, both personal and political. She wondered, fleetingly, whether it was possible, under the circumstances, to separate the two.

“Of course,” Lady Warwick agreed smoothly. “Kate, Charles, I hope you will forgive our boring chatter. But I must say—dear Reggie,
darling
Felicia—that my choice of luncheon partners is hardly likely to endanger my position or imperil the future of England.”

Lady Felicia's eyes went to the Prince of Wales, who was chatting companionably with Lord Warwick at a nearby table. “Of course,” she said softly, “you are right. You are always right. My dear Daisy, you are so exceedingly clever.”

Sir Reginald had glanced at the Prince, too, and seemed suddenly agitated. He flung down his napkin. “Don't you see, Daisy? It is precisely your position that puts you in jeopardy! It is utterly foolish to—”

“Daisy,” Sir Charles said mildly, “may I offer my compliments to your chef?” He had stood as well. “The luncheon was excellent, particularly the trifle. But I wonder—might we have a word or two about your plans for tomorrow's excursion?” And in an instant he had taken Lady Warwick's arm and guided her away from the table.

With flushed face and lowering brow, Sir Reginald stood staring after them. Then he muttered something, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and stalked in the other direction.

Lady Felicia turned to watch him go, her face hardening in a telltale expression. A moment later she turned back, struggling to regain her composure, and gave Kate a vinegary smile. “I fear our little conversation must have been totally baffling to you, my dear. You Americans are so democratic, so refreshingly unimpressed by our distinctions of rank, and our emphasis on one's duty to one's class.”

Kate felt the anger rise up in her at the woman's patronizing tone. “Unimpressed, perhaps,” she said, “but hardly baffled—although it would be difficult for any American to imagine why Lady Warwick should not lunch with whom she pleases, Socialist or no. And I don't imagine that your conversation entirely concerned duty and distinctions of rank—or even politics.”

No, she realized, it had not. Beneath his anger, Sir Reginald was passionately in love with Daisy Warwick. And Lady Felicia was passionately jealous.

Lady Felicia might have answered, but she was interrupted by the arrival at the table of Lady Lillian Forsythe, a stunningly beautiful woman only a few years older than Kate, with curly black hair, plucked black brows, and a full, pouting mouth. She was wearing mauve with a touch of black lace in honor of her dead husband, for whom she was in the last months of mourning.

Acknowledging Kate with a brief smile, Lady Lillian sat down in Sir Charles's vacated chair. “Felicia,” she said, leaning forward urgently, “who in the world is he?”

“Who is who, Lillian?”