Sheer Folly (4 page)

On the whole, Daisy preferred Mrs. Howell's discourtesy to
her sycophancy. However, she felt obliged to eat a buttered scone, though she really didn't want it after the delicious but rich and sugary cake.

Bolstered by Lucy's admonitory gaze—Lucy was sure she could slim if she tried—Daisy adamantly refused a second scone. She returned the admonitory gaze, however, when it looked as if Lucy was about to accept a second cocktail. It really was a bit early for drinks.

“Hadn't we better go up to our rooms, Lucy?” Daisy suggested. “You wanted to get your frock ironed before changing for dinner, didn't you?”

Mrs. Howell looked horrified. She prised herself from her chair, saying, “Oh dear, Mrs. Fletcher, I'm afraid your room may not be ready. I must go and have a word with the housekeeper.”

“Why don't I take you both up to Lucy's room?” Julia gracefully extracted her arm from Rydal's grasp. “It's next to mine. Willett can iron Lucy's frock for her, can't she, Mother? They came in Lucy's sports car and didn't have room for her maid.”

“Of course,” said Lady Beaufort with a gracious nod.

Mrs. Howell scuttled out ahead of the three young ladies. She was disappearing into the nether regions as Julia led the others into the hall and up the grand staircase.

“What was all that about, Daisy?” Lucy demanded as they ascended. “When that woman said your room wasn't ready, you looked as if you were about to burst, trying not to laugh. It's disgraceful. They've known we were coming for ages!”

Daisy let a giggle escape. “It was so funny! Mrs. Howell apparently hadn't realised my august antecedents, until Lady Beaufort asked after Mother. She's probably put me up in the garrets with the servants. It suddenly dawned on her, when I said we'd go up, that it wouldn't do.”

Julia smiled, but Lucy was inclined to take umbrage on Daisy's behalf.

“Calm down, darling. The garret room is pure fantasy.” Daisy wished she'd kept it to herself. “Besides, if you want to stay long
enough to photograph the grotto, you can't go accusing Mrs. Howell of insulting me. She can't help being a snob.”

“She is one, though,” said Julia, turning left on the landing. “You wouldn't believe the treatment she puts up with from Rhino, without a murmur. He acts as if she's the housekeeper she's so anxious not to be taken for.”

Daisy slipped her arm through Julia's. “I hope you're going to tell us all about Rhino and everything. I'm dying to hear what's up.”

“Nothing's ‘up,' ” Julia said grimly, as she opened a door off the passage, “and won't be if I can help it. Here's Lucy's room. I'll just pop into to mine and ring for Willett. Back in half a tick, then we can catch up on each other's news.”

Lucy went ahead into her bedroom. “The Beauforts know you married a policeman,” she said. “
I
didn't tell them, but Lady Beaufort kept up with the English papers while they were living in France.”

“Darling, half the world knows I married a policeman.”

“What they
don't
know is that you keep getting mixed up in his cases.”

“You're the only person who knows about more than one or two of those. Except Scotland Yard, of course, and they do their best to hush it up.”

“Thank heaven!”

“Don't you think it's really very unfair that I never get any credit for all the help I give them?”

“No! You're not going to tell Julia, are you?”

“Why not? I'm sure she's not the gossipy kind.”

“Daisy!”

“Just teasing, darling.” With a mournful sigh, Daisy continued, “I'm quite used to hiding my light under a bushel. I don't suppose anyone at Appsworth Hall will ever have a chance to find out what a brilliant sleuth I am.”

 

Lucy's bedroom
was a typical Edwardian country-house guest room. Daisy guessed the Pritchards must have taken over the furnishings along with the house from the previous owners. Things had been refurbished, but fundamentally everything was much as the unfortunate Appsworths had left it, with none of Pritchard's—or the late Mrs. Pritchard's—individuality. Rather, Mr. Pritchard's stamp was purely practical, a modern radiator under the window and hot and cold running water in the wash-basin. Lucy could hardly object to these evidences of their host's trade, adding as they would to her comfort.

Spotting her camera case on the dressing-table, Lucy visibly relaxed. She went over to check the contents thoroughly before she conceded, “It seems to be all right.”

“I'd be very surprised if it weren't.”

“Surprised?” Lucy prowled to the wardrobe and found her frocks hanging neatly. She took out the one she wanted ironed for this evening and laid it on the bed. Daisy wondered whether her own clothes were being hurriedly repacked, or whether they hadn't been unpacked for her in the first place. “Why surprised?” Lucy asked.

“Because Mr. Pritchard must be a pretty efficient manufacturer to make enough money to buy this place, and efficient people usually won't stand for inefficient servants. Come and sit down, do. You were talking to him. Prejudice aside, what's he like?”

“Not too bad. No kowtowing, at least.”

“Mrs. Howell seems to be the kowtower of the family. You should have seen her attitude change when she heard that Mother's a viscountess.”

“Mrs. Howell?” Julia came in. “The poor woman's in quite a quandary.”

Daisy was intrigued. “A quandary?”

“How many courses to serve her august company for dinner,” Lucy guessed languidly.

“Rhino put her straight on that question the first night we were here, when the soup was followed directly by a leg of lamb. ‘What, no fish?' ” Julia produced a very creditable imitation of Lord Rydal's caw. “Mr. Pritchard said he didn't like fish, and didn't like the smell of fish. Rhino insisted that liking had nothing to do with it, a proper dinner must have a fish course.”

“What did Mr. Pritchard say to that?” Daisy wondered.

“I was hoping he'd tell Rhino to pack his bags, but his manners are much better than Rhino's. He let the subject drop. Mother murmured something soothing about the odour of fish tending to penetrate and linger. And I said the lamb smelt simply delicious, which it did, and as it was Welsh lamb, Mr. Pritchard was delighted. He's rather a dear. If only Mother . . .” Julia sighed.

“Don't tell me you'd rather marry the plumber than the Earl of Rydal!” Lucy exclaimed. “Apart from anything else, he must be sixty if he's a day.”

“Fifty-five,” Daisy amended.

“Good heavens, there's no question of my marrying Brin Pritchard. Mother's worried, not demented.”

“Why don't you start at the beginning,” Daisy said.

“The beginning? I suppose it all goes back to the War, really.”

Lucy groaned.

“Careful, darling,” Daisy warned her. “You'll turn into another rhinoceros.”

“Don't worry,” Julia said with a smile, “I shan't rewrite
À la recherche du temps perdu
.”

Lucy looked more puzzled than reassured. Neither of the others bothered to explain.

“Your father was a general, wasn't he?” Daisy asked.

“Yes, but the widow's pension of even a general doesn't go far these days. Mother decided she'd rather be poor in France than in England.”

“Hence the Christmas cards from Dinard, these past few years,” said Lucy.

“Yes. We moved there in '21. I didn't mind at all. I was able to get English books, and then my French improved enough so that I could read it just as easily.”

“Julia, don't tell me you read the whole of
À la recherche du temps perdu
in French?” Daisy asked, awed. “I've never got through it even in English.”

“I had plenty of time. There wasn't much else to do. That's really why Mother hated it. What got her down was not so much having only one servant and only three courses at dinner, usually fish because it was cheap—”

Daisy and Lucy looked at each other and laughed.

“What's so funny?” Julia asked. Daisy couldn't blame her for looking a trifle resentful.

“Sorry!” she gasped. “It's just that when Lucy and I shared digs, we didn't have a live-in servant at all, just a daily, and we practically lived on eggs and mousetrap cheese and sardines. To this day I simply can't face sardines. Of course, it's different for someone like Lady Beaufort.”

“But, as I was saying, pinching and scraping wasn't the trouble. It was not having enough to do. Army wives are used to being busy. Writing letters and playing an occasional game of cards with the few other English residents just wasn't enough. She had too much time to worry about me.”

“I suppose an army pension doesn't go on forever,” said Daisy. Lucy's attention was elsewhere by now. The Beauforts' maid had come in and had to be advised about ironing the evening frock, a dazzler in crimson charmeuse with a fringed, scalloped hem designed to play hide-and-seek with the knees.

“It's meant for the widow, not grown-up children,” Julia explained, confusing Daisy until she realised that “it” was the pension, not the frock. “Mother used to have nightmares—I told you she's not much of a reader; well, all the books she did pick up seemed to feature impoverished young ladies working in hat-shops and starving in garrets.”

“Why hat-shops, I wonder?”

“I can't swear some of them weren't dress-shops. I don't know where she found them! I told her to stop worrying because if the blasted things were so popular, I could probably write them as well as anyone and make my fortune.”

“So have you written one?”

“As a matter of fact, I'm about halfway through. But it isn't exactly—. I found I simply can't manage the right tone. It's more like
Northanger Abbey
in relation to
Udolpho
or
The Castle of Otranto
.”

“What fun! I can't wait to read it.”

“I was hoping you might take a look and tell me if it's worth the effort of going on with it. Not right now. I left it in town.”

Lucy rejoined them. “You've been living the high life in town for a couple of months now,” she commented, her tone questioning.

“Mother came into an unexpected inheritance and decided to blow it all to give me a last chance to find a husband. So we came to London, hired a lady's maid, refreshed our wardrobes, and looked up old friends. The trouble is, the few men I've met whom I could bear to marry have either not been interested in a penniless bride past her first youth or failed to meet my mother's criteria.”

“One of which, I assume,” Lucy drawled, “is money.”

“Well, of course,” said Daisy. “Lady Beaufort wouldn't want
you to have to live on sardines for the rest of your life. And you wouldn't want to, either, unless you were absolutely nutty about him. But surely she can't want you to marry someone just because he can keep you in seven-course dinners for the rest of your life.”

“Hence the unlovely Rhino,” said Lucy, “but this doesn't explain the intrusion of plumbers into your high life, nor Mrs. Howell's quandary.”

Julia laughed. “We met her son, Mr. Howell, at a perfectly respectable dinner party in Richmond. Apparently Pritchard's Plumbing is trying to get some huge government contract or other. Mr. Howell, as Managing Director, went up to talk to Sir Desmond Wandersley, the man in charge of plumbing at the Ministry of Health—not bathtubs for bureaucrats, it's something to do with slum clearance, I gather. Sir Desmond invited him to dine, much to Lady Ottaline's fury.”

“Lady Ottaline Wandersley?” Lucy asked. “Yes, she wouldn't be happy to find a plumber at her table.”

“Especially as it was a last-minute invitation and ruined her numbers. What's more, he's a quiet chap and didn't pay for his dinner with sparkling conversation.”

“One could almost feel sorry for her.”

“Who's Lady Ottaline Wandersley?” Daisy enquired.

“Darling, you are so out of the swim! She was a Barrington, the Marquis of Edgehill's daughter.” Trust Lucy to know the pedigree of any member of the aristocracy. “She was rather a vamp in her day, they say. The trouble is, she's rather desperately trying to go on vamping.”

“When was her day?”

“Before the War. A siren, they'd have called her, I expect, or a
femme fatale
. She must be in her forties, don't you think, Julia?”

“Early forties, perhaps.”

“ ‘She may very well pass for forty-three, in the dusk, with a light behind her'?” Daisy quoted.

“Oh no, she can't be more than forty-five, and she's kept her looks and figure.”

“With a lot of help,” Lucy said cattily. “Though I must admit she positively bristles with nervous energy. She can still dance all night. But the Wandersleys are beside the point. I suppose the junior plumber fell instantly in love with you, Julia, and begged you on bended knee to visit his unancestral home, but why on earth did Lady Beaufort accept the invitation? She can't possibly want you to marry a plumber.”

Julia sighed. “He's well-off. And presumably will be richer when Mr. Pritchard dies, as there are no young Pritchards. But I don't think Mother really regards him as a desirable son-in-law. She expects the contrast with the noble Lord Rydal to illuminate hidden virtues in the latter.”

“And has it?” Daisy asked.

“Good heavens, no! If anything, Mr. Howell has better manners, but like Lady Ottaline, he's over forty. And I'm not half as convinced as Mother is that he's interested in marriage. If you ask me, the firm is his only love. His father made plenty from his investment in the business without dirtying his hands, but our Owen chose to get involved.”

“So if he's not mad about you, darling, how is it you're here?”