The young woman to whom he was addressing these remarks stared up at him somewhat taken aback. If he had not been looking so very serious, she might have laughed. Instead she stretched herself up on to her tiptoes and placed her hands firmly on his shoulders. She then proceeded to kiss him in so passionate a manner as to dispel any lingering doubts that he might be harbouring concerning the sincerity of her feelings for him. Only then did she permit herself to take a step back to regard his face. She smiled.
‘Darling, of course I’m not having second thoughts,’ said Rose Simpson. ‘How could you possibly think such a thing?’ She giggled and stroked his cheek playfully. ‘If anything, surely I should be asking you that.’
Lord Belvedere grinned, showing himself to be suitably reassured of her affection. In that moment, however, the truth inherent in her own words, uttered so carelessly and in jest, struck Rose and caused her to pause and take stock. It was not only the handsome looks of the man before her on which her thoughts dwelt, though admittedly he cut quite a figure with his tall and slender frame and his blonde hair slicked back from a side parting as was the current fashion. Nor were her reflections concentrated on the supposed inadequacies of her own looks in comparison, even though she did not consider these to be slight. In her own humble opinion her face, though not plain, could best be described as pleasant rather than pretty, and her figure, certainly not thin, was no more than pleasing.
Her thoughts that moment, however, were not focused on her own appearance. Instead the strange, almost unbelievable position in which she found herself now occupied her mind. Until recently she had been employed as a shop girl at Renard’s, a dress shop in a London backstreet which, though respectable, had not been a particularly fashionable or sought after boutique. Now, however, she stood on the threshold of another world. Her social position in society was on the verge of being greatly elevated. For she was about to join the highest ranks of the British aristocracy by marrying a peer. And it had been to this that Cedric had alluded. The journey on which she was about to embark would change her life forever, and he feared she might have reservations about taking so drastic a step.
If she did indeed have any misgivings, it was on Cedric’s account rather than on her own. As might have been expected, the announcement of their engagement had generated much gossip and speculation in the society pages. That Lord Belvedere, one of the most eligible young men in England, had decided to marry outside his class, and to a shop girl at that, was too good a story to ignore. The press was simply having a field day. To some it was reminiscent of the instances in history where peers and rich men had chosen to marry chorus girls and actresses. Much had been made of how Rose and Cedric had first become acquainted. Cedric’s sister, Lavinia, had taken up a bet with her brother that she could not earn her own living for six months. The place of employment in which she had chosen to work had been Renard’s dress shop. An unexpected friendship had developed between the two girls, despite their very different stations in society, and Rose had chanced to meet Cedric during a visit to Lavinia’s aunt.
If only the newspaper comment had stopped there. Rose sighed and grimaced at the recollection of some of the articles she had read. It really was too awful. It was hardly her fault if murders had occurred at country houses at the very time that she herself happened to be there as a guest, or that the dress shop in which she had worked had been the scene of a murder only a couple of months’ ago while she was on the premises.
‘Darling, in just two weeks you’ll be my wife,’ Cedric was saying. ‘How will you feel about being referred to in future as the Countess of Belvedere?’
‘Lady Belvedere,’ said Rose, savouring the words. ‘Her ladyship this, her ladyship that. I must say it will take a bit of getting used to. Rather different to being referred to as just common or garden Miss Simpson.’
‘I rather like Rose Simpson,’ Cedric said, linking his arm through hers as they continued their stroll around the formal gardens. ‘It has a certain ring to it and, you know, she’s the girl I fell in love with. Though ‘my wife’ sounds even better, don’t you think? Tell me, do you think you’ll like living here, Rose? You won’t find the country too dull, will you? After London, I mean. Of course, we’ll have house parties. And we can go up to town as often as we wish. We have the house in the mews.’
They hesitated for a while in their walk. Both took a moment to look out over the Sedgwick Court estate. It encompassed everything that the eye could see from the imposing neo-Palladian mansion to the immense landscaped parkland with its numerous lakes, which looked for all the world like one single body of water, the sunken ha-ha fences and the follies dotted here and there around the wider landscape. The follies were built in the style of castle relics, Greek temples or bridges, and served no useful purpose other than to delight the eye and enhance the view.
As one, their eyes were drawn to what appeared in the distance to be nothing more spectacular than acres of box hedge, but which was in actual fact a maze based on the one at Hampton Court Palace, though on a much lesser scale.
‘I find it hard to look at that,’ said Cedric, his manner wistful, ‘and not think about what happened there, don’t you –’
‘The murder? Yes, I know,’ Rose said quickly, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘It was awful, but –’
‘It doesn’t put you off the idea of living here, does it? I wouldn’t blame you a bit if it did.’
‘No, darling, of course not.’
They were silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Memories of the death that had occurred the previous December returned to them appearing almost as vivid as the actual event itself. The happiness that they had experienced until only a few moments ago threatened to dissolve, to be replaced instead by melancholy.
‘Please,’ said Rose, clutching at Cedric’s arm. ‘Don’t go over it. It doesn’t do any good dwelling on it.’
Her companion nodded slightly but otherwise gave no other outward sign that her words had made any impression upon him. Desperately she tried to lighten the mood, clinging at anything that came to mind.
‘If you believe what the newspapers say, I attract murder wherever I go. If a murder hadn’t already happened here at Sedgwick, it certainly would have after I’d taken up residence.’
Cedric made as if to protest.
‘We’re lucky in a way that it’s already happened,’ continued Rose hurriedly. ‘We have nothing to fear.’ She smiled up at him. ‘You think I’m being terribly flippant, darling, and I daresay I am. Of course I mind. I mind terribly about what happened here last December. But I am not going to let it spoil everything. I won’t give up on the maze, so there! In the summer months, it’s beautiful. It’s quite enchanting. And you and Lavinia had such fun playing in it as children. You told me so yourself, do you remember? I want our children to enjoy it too. It will be their heritage.’
‘You really are a most remarkable woman, Rose,’ said Cedric rallying. ‘I know for a fact that not one of Lavinia’s girlfriends ever intends to set foot in that maze again. According to Manning, even some of the servants have shown reservations about going anywhere near it. Apparently there has been no end of trouble persuading the gardeners to keep the hedges trimmed. If it was up to most of them, they would give it a very wide berth.’
‘Oh, there you are, Rose,’ said Lady Lavinia Sedgewick. She was staring with an air of desolation at the image of herself as reflected in the carved wood and water overmantle mirror, which was situated above the fireplace in her boudoir. She frowned with annoyance at her companion’s reflection in the glass. ‘You’ve taken simply ages to come. I wondered whether the footman had been unable to find you. I suppose you and that brother of mine were in the gardens mooning over each other like love’s young dream.’
‘How very beautifully you do put things, Lavinia,’ said Rose, not sounding a bit put out by her reception.
She perched herself on the edge of one of the sofas in the exquisitely and expe
nsively decorated room with its rich gold brocade curtains, velvet covered chairs and regency wallpaper. She smiled in spite of herself.
‘Well, what is it? The footman seemed to think it was important and I suppose it must be for you to summon me like this?’ She cast Lavinia something of a critical look. ‘I say, must you always gaze at yourself in the mirror. Haven’t you anything better to do? I sometimes wonder whether it is your chief occupation.’
‘Don’t be beastly,’ retorted Lavinia, throwing a screwed up piece of paper vaguely in Rose’s direction. Nevertheless, she tore her eyes away from regarding her own image in the glass. ‘You know how frightfully miserable I’ve been about all these scars on my face. Why did I have to go down with that awful chickenpox? It really is too dreadful. I would have thought that they would have faded by now, wouldn’t you? My looks are absolutely ruined.’
‘Lavinia, don’t you think that you may be exaggerating a little?’ said Rose, getting up from her seat to go and put an arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘They don’t notice one bit. I think it’s all in your mind, you know. I hate to say anything that will make you become even more vain than you are already, but you’re just as beautiful as you were before.’
She spoke the truth. Lavinia’s cool, aristocratic beauty was of a startling nature that made her appear aloof and fragile at the same time. Her platinum-dyed hair and delicate, even features offset her tall and willowy figure to perfection. What few chickenpox scars there had been had now faded and were to all intents and purposes invisible to the naked eye.
‘Am I really?’ asked Lavinia, brightening considerably. She gave a toss of her delightful head. ‘Oh, I say, that’s frightfully nice of you. I suppose the scars aren’t really too noticeable are they?’
‘They’re not,’ agreed Rose, ‘unless of course someone were to decide to survey your face under a magnifying glass.’
‘How awful. Actually, when I powder my face and put on a bit of rouge, I can hardly see them myself, the scars, I mean,’ said Lavinia, dabbing her face with her fingers. ‘Eliza is always telling me that I worry about them far too much. She says that they are sure to disappear with time anyway. But she would say that, wouldn’t she?’
Eliza Denning was Lavinia’s lady’s maid, and Rose did not envy the woman her position one little bit.
‘Well, what did you want to see me about? Surely you didn’t ask me here to reassure you about your looks?’ said Rose, her thoughts drifting back to Cedric, who was at that moment pacing the formal gardens without her. She wondered if every now and then he was consulting his watch impatiently, eager for her return. ‘Robert implied that you wished to see me urgently. He was almost running when he came upon us and then he wouldn’t stop hopping from one leg to the other. I couldn’t help thinking it was a good thing that Torridge wasn’t around to give him one of those reproving frowns of his, you know, one of those looks that can turn milk sour.’
Torridge was the Sedgwicks’ former head-butler, who had at last given in to his old age and inevitable retirement. As a consequence, he was now living out his days in a cottage on the estate on a generous pension. He had been succeeded in his post by the under-butler, Manning, whom Torridge himself had trained. This was something of a relief to Rose; the younger man, in her opinion, was more approachable and less formidable than his predecessor.
‘Well, of course I didn’t summon you here to comment on my looks,’ said Lavinia, perching herself on the edge of an armchair. She leant forward and clasped her hands tightly together as if to try and contain an inner elation. ‘No, I wanted to see you about something far more exciting.’
‘Oh?’ Rose said cautiously.
She wondered how much encouragement to give. What Lavinia considered exciting, and what she did herself, was likely to be very different.
‘I received the most mysterious telephone call from a woman whose acquaintance I made briefly the other day at a tea party. To be honest, the poor woman made very little impression on me at the time because she hardly opened her mouth other than to swallow a bit of cake. I do think that’s rather rude, don’t you?’ Lavinia did not wait for Rose to reply, but sailed on with her narrative. ‘If one accepts an invitation to a tea party, one really should make the effort to talk and say something amusing, otherwise why go? I probably wouldn’t have remembered her at all except for the fact that she left the party early. The poor thing looked terrified. She went as soon as it was polite to do so. However, it did give Miriam Sycamore the perfect opportunity to tell us all about her. She had been absolutely dying to talk about it all, one could just tell.’
‘I must say, I feel rather sorry for this poor woman. I expect she was just shy. What was her name?’
‘Millicent Grayson-Smith. You’ve heard of Edwin Grayson-Smith, haven’t you? He’s a business tycoon or something like that, frightfully wealthy. Well, that poor woman, as you call her, happens to be his new wife.’
‘Good for her,’ said Rose with feeling. ‘She can’t be quite as dull or wretched as you make her out to be.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, because she was, dreadfully, and rather plain too. But I digress,’ said Lavinia holding up her hand to prevent further interruption. ‘Miriam Sycamore happens to be Edwin Grayson-Smith’s sister-in-law. She’s married to his brother, Raymond. I need to tell you a bit about Edwin. His first wife, Sophia, died about six months ago. From a fall from a horse, would you believe? She had been something of a beauty and socialite and by all accounts poor old Edwin was absolutely devastated by her death. Absolutely distraught, Miriam says he was. His brother was so worried about him that he persuaded Edwin to put his business interests to one side for a while and go to a little place in Cornwall to recuperate. A fishing village on a quiet bit of coastline. Well, Miriam and her husband heard neither sight nor sound of Edwin for well over a month. They took that to be a good sign that he was overcoming his grief –’
‘But he wasn’t?’
‘Well, in a manner of speaking he was, because, without warning, he suddenly returned home with a new wife in tow. He’s got a great pile of a place, you know. It’s called Crossing Manor. It’s only a few miles from here on the outskirts of the village of Crossing.’
‘I still don’t see –’
‘No one knows the least little thing about her, this new wife, Millicent, I mean. Apparently she has no family to speak of. And Miriam says that she has no idea of how to manage the staff or run a household. If it wasn’t for the butler being something of a stickler for things being done properly and particularly strict with the servants under him, Crossing Manor would be at sixes and sevens.’ Lavinia lowered her voice. ‘Miriam thinks she may have been a governess.’
‘Good lord!’ said Rose. ‘Whatever next? Perhaps she worked in a dress shop.’
Lavinia made a face.
‘I’m only telling you all this to explain that we were all a little curious about her, that’s all. And then yesterday morning I received a telephone call from the woman herself, requesting that I meet her for tea in one of the tearooms at Crossing.’
‘I wonder why she didn’t invite you to have tea with her at Crossing Manor.’
‘Well, that’s exactly what I wondered myself. I will admit I was intrigued. We’d only exchanged a few words at the tea party. I wondered why she should wish to meet with me.’
‘Well, did you have tea with her in Crossing?’ asked Rose, interested in spite of herself.
‘Yes I did. I met her at half past four yesterday afternoon. We went to some rather quaint little tearooms which served some excellent scones with lashings of clotted cream and jam. Poor Millicent was so nervous that she hardly ate a morsel. Those delicious scones were completely wasted on her.’
‘But what did she want to talk to you about?’
‘You. She wanted to talk about you, Rose.’
Chapter Three
‘Well, Mr Mason, this is a right to-do and no mistake,’ said Mrs Field, settling herself comfortably
into an old armchair, which had seen better days.
They were sitting in what was called the housekeeper’s sitting room, though in truth the room was not reserved for Mrs Field’s exclusive use. In practice, it was frequented by all the upper staff at Crossing Manor at various times throughout the day and evening. Nevertheless, because of its name, Mrs Field considered it to be her personal domain and was very much of the opinion that any visitor to the room was there on sufferance. This, of course, did not apply to the butler. As far as the housekeeper was concerned, he was always a most welcome guest. The butler, in quiet acknowledgement of this fact, leaned back in his own armchair. Alone as they were, he permitted himself a moment or two of relaxation before he sat upright, picked up his cup and saucer and contemplated his response to Mrs Field’s observation. He did not hurry himself as he took a sip of tea. Luncheon had been served and cleared away and he had half an hour or so of leisure before he would be required to return to his duties, the most pressing of which was the polishing of silver too valuable to be delegated to the footman to clean.
‘It is that, Mrs Field,’ Mr Mason said after a while. ‘What’s to be done about it, I’m sure I don’t know.’
‘What’ll the master make of it? That’s what I want to know,’ said the housekeeper.
She leaned forward in her seat in a conspiratorial fashion, further accentuated by a rather furtive glance at the door. As always, the butler was torn between his duty to put a stop to what was surely to follow, idle gossip and speculation on Mrs Field’s part, and a desire to know what the servants were talking about behind his back. To her credit, he knew Mrs Field to be discreet and above reproach in the servants’ hall. It was only here in the housekeeper’s sitting room with just the two of them present that she would open up and speak what was on her mind. He sighed inwardly. He would undoubtedly do what he usually did and adopt a position between the two. It was a tricky balance and one he always negotiated carefully. He would show himself to be not absolutely uninterested in what Mrs Field had to tell him, yet make it clear that he would not hesitate to rein her in if she threatened to overstep the mark and descend to tittle-tattle.
Murder in the Servants' Hall Page 2
