Edwardian Murder Mystery 04; Our Lady of Pain emm-4

by M C Beaton

  They did not look up and Sister Agnes led Rose and Daisy round them and up the stairs. “We have selected three women for you to counsel. You will impress on them the sin they have brought upon themselves.”

  She pushed open a door. The women sat on chairs, their heads bowed.

  “I will return for you later,” said Sister Agnes.

  “Thank God, the penguin’s gone,” said Daisy. “Let’s get the introductions over with. I’m Daisy, this here is Rose. Who are you?”

  They shyly volunteered their names – Freda, Cissy and Louise. They were in various stages of pregnancy.

  “You first, Louise,” said Daisy. “What happened?”

  “Daisy,” said Rose urgently, “we’re supposed to be giving them spiritual advice.”

  “Pooh! Go on, Louise.”

  She clasped and unclasped her swollen red hands in her lap. Too much scrubbing, thought Rose.

  “I was working for a very harsh mistress. She used to beat me. I was a kitchen maid. Then one day, madam said she was going to visit her sister. The master gave the other servants – there were only five of us – the day off but said I had to stay. When they had all gone, he… he forced me to pleasure him. It didn’t happen again but when I began to show the mistress called me a slut and dragged me round here.”

  The other two had similar stories. Rose listened in horror.

  “But did not the nuns confront the fathers of your children?”

  “That’s not their way,” said Cissy. “The women always get the blame. They work us like slaves and then, after the babies are taken away from us for adoption, the nuns find us places as servants. We either put up with it or we’re out on the street.”

  Their sad stories had taken up most of the rest of the morning. Just before Sister Agnes appeared, Daisy said, “I’m going to give those nuns a piece of my mind.”

  “Don’t,” said Rose. “They’ll punish you.”

  “What? That bunch o’ crows?”

  ♦

  On the road back, Rose listened with growing apprehension as Daisy sounded off to Sister Agnes about the state of the unmarried mothers.

  In the convent, Sister Agnes turned to Rose, “Go to your cell. You, Daisy, come with me.”

  She marched Daisy up to a wide landing. The community room was on one side and the bakery on the other, and on the wall was a great black crucifix.

  “Kneel down and kiss the floor,” commanded Sister Agnes.

  “No, I won’t.”

  Sister Agnes opened the bakery door. “Sister Monica! Come here.”

  A large burly nun emerged. “Daisy is in disgrace and refuses to kiss the ground. She must take her penance.”

  Daisy found herself grabbed by strong arms and her face was thrust down towards the floor. She fought and kicked and struggled but her face was pressed down on the wooden landing.

  “Hold her there for an hour,” said Sister Agnes calmly.

  Daisy wriggled and fought but Sister Monica appeared to be as strong as a stevedore. At last all the fight went out of Daisy and she lay on the floor sobbing. After an hour, she was marched down to the chapel and ordered to pray.

  When she was finally allowed to go back to her cell, she found Rose darning socks. Rose listened in horror as Daisy described her punishment.

  The usually cocky Daisy looked broken. “Let’s try to get out of here,” she said.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea at the moment,” said Rose. “They will be watching our every move. I think we should behave like model ladies until their fears are laid to rest. Then, when they feel secure, we shall find a way to leave here.”

  Daisy began to cry. “Hush,” said Rose, hugging her. “We’ll find a way.”

  ♦

  As the end of March approached, Harry’s relief at having Rose somewhere he knew she was safe began to ebb. His brief infatuation for Dolores seemed like a bad dream. He felt guilty at having paraded her at the opera. He had employed a new secretary with impeccable credentials. Her name was Miss Fleming. She was in her forties and worked like a machine. He called on Kerridge periodically, but the man who had followed Rose to Thurby-on-Sea appeared to have disappeared into thin air.

  Kerridge said he had contacted the French police but they had been of no help whatsoever. Dolores Duval’s lovers had been very powerful men. But they did volunteer the information that Dolores Duval had left a will, leaving everything to a certain Madame de Peurey.

  He wondered more and more how Rose was getting on. He thought she must be furious with him because he had neither received a letter nor a telephone call.

  Harry had successfully and profitably wound up several cases. To stop himself from brooding about Rose, he decided to travel to Paris and interrogate this Madame de Peurey.

  “Excuse me, sir, are we leaving without seeing Lady Rose? Anglican convents allow visitors,” said Becket. “Good idea,” said Harry. “We’ll go there tomorrow.”

  ♦

  Rose and Daisy had entered into the work routine of the convent. There were to be no more visits to fallen women for them. They worked in the bakery, in the garden and scrubbed and hung out the sheets on washing day.

  Conversation was allowed in the bakery, and Rose enjoyed the chatter and the warmth as they helped bake batches of loaves and parcelled them up, as the loaves were destined for various schools owned by the convent, along with the homes for fallen women. Rose was worried about Daisy. She was too quiet and subdued.

  The hard work and the routine soothed them and yet they waited for what they thought would be the right time to escape. They both had keys to the earl’s town house and planned to slip in and collect Rose’s jewels, which she had not been able to take with her.

  Daisy had suggested they should go out of London to sell them to some jeweller who would not ask questions, even if it meant they would not get a very good price.

  They were working in the garden, hanging out sheets, when they heard the sound of a motor car’s engine. The sound stopped and then they heard the clang on the entry bell.

  They both looked at each other in sudden hope. Usually arrivals came by horse and carriage.

  Then, after a few moments, they heard the motor car drive off.

  “Not them,” said Daisy miserably.

  “Silence!” commanded Sister Agnes.

  How they had talked and talked about escaping, thought Rose, and how each day merged into the next without them doing anything.

  ♦

  The following morning when they were working in the bakery, Sister Agnes came in looking flustered. “Rose! Daisy! You have a very important visitor. Please present yourself in the Mother Superior’s parlour. No, no, take off your aprons.”

  They followed Sister Agnes to the parlour. She held open the door for them and then left.

  Lady Janus, the Mother Superior, smiled benignly on them. “Your old friend and a great benefactor of this convent, the Duchess of Warnford, has graciously called.” A little lady rose to greet them. She was wrapped in various shawls and scarves. Under her large brimmed hat was a wrinkled, heavily rouged face.

  “My dear.” She rushed forward and embraced Rose and whispered, “Do as you are told.”

  Raising her voice, the duchess said, “I heard you were here and I have asked Lady Janus to permit me to take you to my home for a short stay.”

  “You are too kind,” said Rose.

  “Your companion, Miss Levine, will be my guest as well. Now do bustle along and pack your trunks. My footmen will carry them for you when you are ready.”

  Rose curtsied and left. “What’s it all about?” whispered Daisy.

  “I neither know nor care,” said Rose. “This is our way out of here!”

  It seemed to take an age to pack their clothes and then return to the parlour so that the duchess could instruct the footmen to go down to the cellars and bring up their remaining luggage.

  At last they were ready. “I wish to have a little word in private with the lad
ies,” said the Mother Superior.

  “I’ll wait for you in the motor,” said the little duchess cheerfully.

  She left and Sister Agnes walked in and stood beside the Mother Superior. “Rose and Daisy, I have been pleased by your recent behaviour. You must tell Her Grace how well we have looked after you.”

  A nasty retort trembled on Daisy’s lips. As if sensing it, Rose pinched her arm.

  She waited but neither Rose nor Daisy said a word.

  “You may go,” said the Mother Superior after a long silence.

  They hurried out, across the hall and through the open door. It was a mild spring day and birds were singing in the trees.

  A highly polished motor car was waiting. A uniformed chauffeur saluted as they approached.

  Daisy took a deep breath of fresh air.

  “Wait!” They stopped beside the motor as Sister Agnes hurried up to them.

  “It was most rude of you not to reply to the Mother Superior. You will both be disciplined when you return.”

  “Look, you old crow,” snarled Daisy, “buy yourself a razor and shave off your moustache.”

  As Sister Agnes spluttered in outrage, Rose thrust Daisy into the car, followed her and sat down as the chauffeur shut the door.

  They moved off through the iron gates of the convent.

  “Now we can be comfortable,” said the duchess. “Pooh, you both smell of carbolic.”

  “It was the only kind of soap in the convent,” said Rose. “We weren’t allowed to wear scent. We are deeply grateful to you for this invitation. What prompted it?”

  “Oh, a friend. No more questions. I must sleep. The sisters do very good work but I find these calls at the convent fatiguing.” With that she closed her eyes.

  The car purred on out of Oxford. Hot baths with scented soap, thought Rose. No getting up at five in the morning. No more having to sleep in the same room as Daisy. She does snore.

  They each sat in silence, not wanting to wake the duchess.

  Oxford fell behind as they bowled out into the countryside. They were both warmly wrapped in carriage rugs, and soon Rose and Daisy were asleep as well.

  Rose awoke to find the carriage entering a drive through tall iron gates which had been opened by a lodge keeper. They drove slowly under trees. Thick woodland was on either side. Then they passed another lodge and drove through fields where sheep grazed, then under a stable arch and into a circular courtyard.

  Looking out at the house, Rose felt a pang of unease. It was a square Georgian building with a porticoed entrance but it was hardly a ducal residence. Was this lady really a duchess? But of course she must be. The Mother Superior knew her and an impostor would hardly give money to a convent.

  “Are we arrived?” The duchess straightened her hat, which had fallen over her eyes.

  “Is this your home?” asked Rose.

  “No, my dear, only a hunting box. My husband is having extensive building repairs done to our home onthe other side of Oxford. I can’t stand hammering and dust, so I fled here. Come along.”

  Rose and Daisy stepped down from the motor. Rose decided to leave questions about why the duchess had rescued them until after they had bathed and changed. Her spirits suddenly plunged. She had so gaily assumed this was a rescue. She had believed somehow that Harry had engineered it. But what if the duchess had heard about them from someone in society and as a do-gooder planned only to give them a few days’ holiday? Her father had sworn everyone to secrecy, but servants would gossip. And after Daisy’s outburst, Sister Agnes would be dreaming up some nasty punishment for both of them.

  She and Daisy were shown to pleasant high-ceilinged rooms. There was a housekeeper and maids to unpack their luggage and footmen to carry up baths. Oh, the bliss of hot water and scented soap. Hot water for baths had been forbidden in the convent.

  Then came an efficient lady’s maid to help them dress and arrange their hair.

  Daisy came tripping in and Rose exclaimed in dismay, “You cannot wear that blouse, Daisy. It’s indecent.”

  “It’s all the crack,” said Daisy sulkily. “Miss Friendly made it for me.”

  “I’m surprised at her. We must make a good impression.”

  Daisy was wearing a ‘pneumonia blouse’, a transparent confection of muslin and lace with next to no collar.

  Rose summoned the lady’s maid again and Daisy was finally attired in a white lace blouse with a pouched front and a high-boned collar. Rose was wearing a blouse of batiste with a tailored skirt cut on the cross.

  She rang the bell and asked the footman who answered its summons to conduct them to the duchess.

  As they entered a sunny drawing room, two men got to their feet – Harry and Becket.

  “So it was you!” said Rose. “I am surprised my parents allowed this.”

  “They didn’t,” said Harry. “Lord and Lady Hadshire are in Monte Carlo. I approached Her Grace and she suggested this visit. We called on you yesterday and were met by a nun called Sister Agnes. She told us you were not allowed any visitors and she was so awful that I decided something must be done.”

  “Visit?” said Rose. “Do you mean we’ll have to go back to that awful place?”

  “Don’t worry,” said the duchess, who was sitting in a large armchair by the fire. “Stay as long as you like. I get bored without company, and yet society bores me as well. I hardly ever go to London.”

  Daisy rushed forward and knelt down by the duchess and seized one of her hands. “Thank you, oh, thank you,” she babbled. “I thought them penguins would be the death of me.”

  “There, now,” said the duchess, looking highly amused. “Don’t be too hard on the sisters. They really do good work. But of course, it must be quite frightful if one has not got a vocation. We shall take tea. Please rise, dear girl.”

  When tea was served, Rose asked Harry if he had found out who had murdered Dolores Duval.

  “Every inquiry came to a dead end,” said Harry. “I am going to Paris. There is only one other lead. A French lawyer volunteered the information to the police that Miss Duval had left everything to a Madame de Peurey.”

  “And who is Madame de Peurey?”

  “I can tell you that,” said the duchess. “Famous grande coquette at one time. Men falling over her. Must be about sixty now.”

  “She must need the money badly,” said Daisy. “I mean, we went once to a home for fallen women run by the convent. Those poor girls!”

  “It’s not the same for a grande coquette,” said the duchess. “She was top of the tree in her profession. Before starting any liaison, her lawyers would meet with the prospective lover’s lawyers and a deal would be hammered out. It usually involved a house, servants, carriages and jewels. A clever woman could end up rich.”

  “At least they can’t have children to worry about like those poor fallen women,” said Daisy, eyeing the cake stand and wondering if it would be considered greedy if she had yet another.

  “But they do. They form a sort of demi-monde dynasty and their children marry the wealthy children of other courtesans.”

  “I don’t know what she can tell us, but Miss Duval must have been fond of her and she may be able to tell us more about everyone Miss Duval knew,” said Harry.

  “Do take us with you,” said Rose. “I’ve never been to Paris.”

  “Out of the question. We are not even engaged any more. It would create a scandal.”

  “Not if I were to take them,” said the duchess. “I haven’t been in Paris in years. It would amuse me. We shall all go.” She rang the bell.

  When the butler entered, the duchess said, “Kemp, take a telegram.”

  The butler went to a writing desk and sat down, pulling a sheet of paper in front of him.

  “Let me see; where is Lady Polly?”

  “The Palace Hotel in Monte Carlo,” said Rose.

  “Very good. The telegram is to go to the Countess of Hadshire. Begin. ‘Dear Polly, I am taking your daughter, Rose, on an exten
ded vacation as the effects of the convent’s discipline have left her with nasty red hands and a spotty face and I do not think you would like to see her looks ruined or her spirits broken besides which she has been consorting with unsuitable company like Fallen Women but do not thank me as it is a pleasure, Yours ever, Effie.’”

  The butler scribbled away busily and then said, “If I may be so bold, Your Grace.”

  “Bold away.”

  “There is no need to send a long telegram. Telegrams should be brief.”

  “Indeed. What would you suggest?”

  “I am taking your daughter, Rose, on extended vacation. Stop. Convent life ruining looks. Stop. Yours, Effie.”

  “Nonsense. Too curt. Send mine.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  “Am I spotty?” asked Rose.

  “No, my dear. But your hands are red. Quite disgraceful. The captain here has been telling me the whole story of the murder of that tart. Fascinating. Quite like a Sherlock Holmes story. It will do me good to be active again. Warnford is driving me mad with his improvements. I have been covered in plaster dust and awakened at dawn by builders erecting scaffolding. Now, do have some more tea. Captain, your man may take tea in the housekeeper’s room.” Becket rose silently and left. Daisy miserably watched him go. He had not looked at her once.

  Holding a thin, fragile china cup and surveying the company with amused eyes, the duchess said, “We shall leave in two days’ time. It would be best if we travel to Claridge’s and then go on from there.” Claridge’s Hotel in London was called the home of the motorocracy, the travelling aristocrats, and also used by society ladies who were tired of the strain of catering for a household of guests and preferred to let the famous hotel cater for them.

  “Once we get to Paris,” said the duchess, raising her lorgnette and surveying Rose’s outfit of blouse and skirt, “we must get you some fashionable clothes.”

  “I would not like to burden you with the expense,” said Rose. “We were only allowed to wear our plainest clothes at the convent. We do have plenty of fashionable items in our luggage.”

  “Nothing is more fashionable than a Paris gown,” retorted the duchess. “Besides, I shall charge anything we buy to your father. My dear Captain Cathcart, do say something. You have been sitting scowling and brooding ever since the ladies arrived. Are you in love with Lady Rose?”