Snobbery With Violence (11 page)

“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 nursery.” “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.

Harry found himself drawn to Rose’s side. “Captain Cath-cart,” she said coldly, “why are you here?”

“Late guest.”

“I do not believe it. I believe Hedley wants you to use your grubby skills to get rid of the police. What are you going to do? Blow up the castle?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think it murder?”

“I don’t know. When did you arrive?”

“This afternoon. I have a splendid new motor car, a Lan-chester.”

“Nasty, smelly things. It’s a fad. It’ll never catch on.”

“Lady Rose. The horse is a thing of the past. Some of the cabs in London are already motorized.”

“Of almost twenty-five thousand vehicles which passed along Piccadilly in one day of this year,” said Rose, “less than four hundred were motor cars. Now what does that tell you?”

“It tells me that you have a fantastic memory for facts, and that memory of yours has led you to believe your intelligence superior. I think you are showing off. I think that desire to show off has blinded you to the obvious fact that the motor vehicle is here to stay.”

Rose walked away from him, her face flaming. Margaret came to join her. “The handsome captain appears to have insulted you.”

“He’s insufferable,” hissed Rose.

“What did he say?”

“He insists the motor car is here to stay.”

“He’s quite right. Was that all?”

Rose suddenly felt she had made a fool of herself. “Oh, he said other things. How are you?”

“Worried. I cannot find Colette. I had to dress myself for dinner. Do you think your maid might know where she is?”

“I’ll find out,” said Rose. She summoned a footman and told him to fetch Daisy.

She waited until Daisy entered the drawing-room and she and Margaret went up to her.

“Colette is missing,” said Margaret. “Do you know where she is?”

“Colette didn’t appear for dinner in the housekeeper’s room,” said Daisy. “So the housekeeper sent one of the maids to her room but she wasn’t there.”

“Does she have a room off yours?” Rose asked Margaret.

“No, you were favoured.”

“I know where it is,” said Daisy.

“Would you please go there and find out if her belongings are still there?”

Daisy bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

“Has she ever disappeared before?” Rose asked Margaret.

“Never.”

They waited impatiently until Daisy reappeared. “Her clothes are gone and her suitcase,” she said. “Why would she go like that?”

Margaret sighed. “I’ll need to engage another. May I share Daisy with you?”

Daisy and Rose exchanged startled looks. Daisy had learned a great deal quickly but was far from being a perfect lady’s maid, but Rose did not know how she could possibly refuse her new friend.

“Of course,” she said. “You may go, Daisy.”

Daisy had just left the room when she heard a voice behind her, calling her name. She turned round and saw the tall figure of Harry Cathcart, who had just emerged from the drawing-room.

She bobbed a curtsy. “Sir?”

“I overheard something about a missing lady’s maid.”

“That’s Colette, Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone’s maid.”

“When did she disappear?”

“Today, sometime or another, sir.”

“Would you please take me to her room?”

“Follow me, sir.”

Daisy, who knew that the captain had been brought to Stacey Court to deter the king’s visit, having been part of the plot herself, shrewdly guessed he had been summoned by the marquess
to help to subdue any scandal. Servants’ gossip had also informed her that it was Captain Cathcart who had found out what a cad Blandon was.

They reached the servants’ quarters at the top of the castle, stopping on a landing to pick up and light candles, gaslight not extending to the servants’ rooms. Daisy led the way along an uncarpeted corridor and pushed open a door.

“Why did she have a room of her own?” asked Harry. “There are so many visiting servants.”

“This is one of the smallest and her mistress was one of the first arrivals.”

Harry looked around. A cupboard with a curtain over it to serve as a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a narrow bed, a table and chair, and a hooked rug beside the bed on bare floorboards.

Daisy held back the curtain over the cupboard. “See! All her clothes have gone.”

Harry set his candle in its flat stick on the table. He opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers and then the lower ones.

He turned again and surveyed the room. Then he went over to the bed, stripped off the covers and threw them on the floor, and then pulled up the thin mattress. “Bring the candle over here,” he ordered.

Daisy held her candle high as she joined him. Lying under the mattress was a silver locket, a cigarette case, and a piece of fine lace.

“Do you think she stole those items?”

“I think she put them there for safekeeping,” said Daisy. “Lady Rose gave me a bracelet and I keep it under my mattress here in case anyone tries to steal it.”

“Odd,” said Harry. “Did you ever talk to her?”

“Only a little when our ladies were out for a walk. She was talking about morals and saying about the cards on the bedroom
doors being there so that the gentlemen would know which room to visit during the night. But she said young ladies were strictly protected. I said that since the party was mostly young ladies, there’d be no goings-on. Something like that. And she said, ‘But some of them can fall. I know...’ And then Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone called for her shawl, so I never did find out what she was talking about.”

Harry stood still for a moment. Then he replaced the mattress and the bedclothes. “You’d best keep quiet about this for the moment,” he said.

“If Miss Gore-Desmond was murdered and Colette knew something and was maybe paid to go away,” said Daisy, “you wouldn’t cover up something like that, sir?”

“No, I couldn’t. Is the superintendent resident in the castle?”

“No, sir, he’s at the Telby Arms.”

“I’d better see him sometime early tomorrow morning,” said Harry, half to himself. “That will be all, Daisy. Let’s go.”

They left the room and began to walk back along the corridor and downstairs.

“Why did you decide to become a lady’s maid?” asked Harry.

“Lady Rose offered me the job.”

“And do you like it?”

“Yes. Ever so.”

“Is anyone courting Lady Rose?”

“Not yet. But they will.”

“Yes, I suppose she will not stay single for long. Society has short memories.”

Although Daisy had promised not to say anything, she thought that promise only concerned the other servants and so told Rose what had happened.

“This is fascinating,” said Rose when she had finished. “Do you know what time Captain Cathcart plans to leave in the morning?”

“I could find out from Becket, his manservant.”

“Would you do that, Daisy?”

“I’ll try. But if he’s retired for the night, I can’t go to the men’s quarters.”

“See if you can find him.”

Daisy went downstairs to the kitchens where the staff were preparing dishes of sandwiches. “Has anyone seen Becket? Captain Cathcart’s man?”

“His master has just rung for him,” said the butler.

Daisy went back upstairs from tower to tower, studying the names on the doors until she found the right one. She retreated a little way and hid in an alcove. At last, she heard the door opening and Becket’s voice saying, “Seven in the morning. Certainly, sir.”

Daisy moved out of the alcove. “Mr. Becket,” she whispered. “I need to talk to you.”

Harry stood in the courtyard in the morning, waiting for Becket to bring the motor car round.