Death at Daisy's Folly

by Robin Paige

  Kate was momentarily taken aback. “All of them? The task will take at least a week!”

  “It will take days, in any event,” he said glumly, “and I have no confidence that anything will be learned.” They had come to an upholstered bench at the far end of the drawing room. “Would you care to sit?”

  They sat down and Kate folded her gloved hands in her lap, remembering her thoughts of that morning. Like it or not, she had to face the truth. Over the months she had known Charles Sheridan, she had grown to love him, and the thought of it filled her at once with a quiet pleasure and a deep sadness. Sitting beside him now, stealing a glance at his thoughtful face, she was convinced that he cared for her, too. But English men were rarely aware of their deepest emotions, or if they were, they gave little sign of it. He might not be able to say how he felt—nor did she wish him to, for should they marry, Beryl Bardwell would certainly come between them. If he asked her, she would have to decline, for he would not want to marry someone with a secret identity. More, she refused to give up the work that had become such a satisfying and important part of her life. No, it would be much better if she could turn the subject to something else before he could bring up the matter.

  Charles, meanwhile, was trying to collect his thoughts. A moment ago, the idea of sounding Kate’s feelings on the subject of marriage had seemed quite logical and not at all difficult. Her physical presence, however, was inordinately distracting. She was sitting quite close, pressing against his arm, her scent wafting around them like spring lilacs. For the life of him, he could not focus on what needed to be said, nor think how to begin.

  He shifted uneasily. “I wonder if I might ask you your opinion about—”

  “If you like—” Kate said at the same moment.

  They both laughed self-consciously. Kate colored and looked away.

  “Please,” Charles said, “go on.”

  Kate bit her lip. The only subject she could think of was the one they had just left. “I ... If you like, I could help with your interrogation by speaking with the female servants. It might shorten your work.”

  Charles found himself sharply annoyed. He wanted to tell the woman about his changed personal situation, explore her feelings about marriage, and she wanted to talk about the confounded investigation! He shook his head, bemused. She was a most unusual woman, with quite peculiar tastes. Try as he might, he could not fathom her interest in criminal matters.

  “My dear Kate,” he said stiffly, “you were of inestimable help on the two other investigations in which I was engaged during the past year, and I am grateful. It is pointless, however, to involve you in the drudgery of this one. While there may well have been a crime, I fear that any evidence has been permanently destroyed.” He paused. “It is on another matter entirely that I have been thinking of speaking to you.”

  “Another matter?” She turned her head to one side. “How can you think of anything else when your investigation is of such importance? Apprehending the boy’s killer—if indeed he was the victim of foul play—has the highest priority, does it not?”

  He cast about for inspiration. How the devil did one speak about marriage with a lady who kept pressing him about murder? But he could think of nothing. Suddenly, and to his enormous astonishment, he heard himself blurting, “Blast it all, Kate, I had meant to ask you to marry me.”

  She looked at him, her gaze unreadable. She said nothing for a moment, then asked, in a small voice, “You had meant to ask?”

  “Yes,” he said, wretchedly conscious that he was making a fool of himself and a great mess of the subject he had intended to discuss with rational succinctness. “Yes, I ... in a word, that is, yes.” He cleared his throat. “But something I learned recently has caused me to question whether a union between us would be ... wise.”

  She looked down at her gloved hands, tightly clasped. “I think you are quite right to question your impulse, Charles. The subject is not one we can profitably discuss.”

  He frowned, irrationally seized by a desire to dispute his own statement. “Is the thought of our marriage so preposterous?” he asked. “After all, we have known one another for over a year, and have had a remarkably amiable association.” He paused, awkwardly conscious that something more ought to be said in support of a proposal of marriage. “And I do... I do care for you, Kate. More than I ought, perhaps. That is, I mean to say—” He stopped, covered in confusion.

  She lifted her head, and her eyes met his. “You said that something you learned recently caused you to question your intention. May I know what that is?”

  The room had grown so insufferably hot that Charles could scarcely breathe, and he could feel the sweat trickling down his neck under his infernal collar. He could tell her that he would shortly inherit the family title and become the fifth Baron of Somersworth, but that was only the beginning. To enable her to fully understand the heavy burden of duty and responsibility that was about to settle on his shoulders, he would have to tell her his entire family history, which would take hours. And even then, she could not understand the subtleties of the system of primogeniture, or the almost feudal obligations that bound a landowner to land and tenants. How could she, being an American? They had freed themselves of all such restraints.

  “The matter... is of such gravity and weight that I have scarcely managed to absorb it myself,” he said finally, and with far more stiffness than he intended. “Let it suffice to say that my family obligations make it difficult for me to—”

  “My dear Kate, there you are!” It was Daisy Warwick, with Lady Lillian in tow. “I do hope I’m not interrupting. I have a proposal to make.”

  Kate looked up with a strained smile. “Interrupting? Why, no, of course not.”

  Lady Lillian stepped close to Charles. “While Miss Ardleigh is speaking with our hostess,” she said demurely, “perhaps you might ask me to dance.”

  Charles wrenched his eyes away from Kate. “I regret to say that I am not a good dancer, Lady Lillian. I—”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Lady Lillian exclaimed prettily. “The problem is that you have not yet found the right partner. Do come—we’ll have such fun.” She took his hand, tugging gently. Before Charles knew it, they were circling the floor.

  Deeply shaken, Kate watched Charles put his arms around Lillian Forsythe and dance away with her. A moment ago, he had been about to tell her why he had changed his mind about asking her to marry him. What reason would he have given? That his family would not tolerate his marriage to an Irish-American woman? Or that he had discovered the identity of Beryl Bardwell and had decided he could not marry a woman who practiced such an occupation?

  “—and so I would like you to go with us,” Daisy was concluding.

  “Please forgive me.” Kate pulled her attention back to the conversation. “Where are you going?”

  “To Chelmsford,” Daisy said.

  “Oh, yes,” Kate said. “To the workhouse.” In spite of herself, her eyes had gone back to the dancing. For a man who didn’t waltz, Sir Charles was managing quite adequately. She frowned. Was it really possible that he knew about Beryl Bardwell? Yes, of course it was. She had tried to conceal her work from the servants at Bishop’s Keep, but she had seen their secret smiles when they came upon her in the act of writing. They undoubtedly knew. It was possible—no, it was quite likely—that Amelia had told Lawrence, who had told his master, who...

  “Excuse me, you know about the expedition?” Daisy repeated with some annoyance, for what must have been the second time.

  With an effort, Kate turned away from the dancers. If Sir Charles had changed his mind about asking her to marry him, that was all to the good, actually. It would have embarrassed them both when she refused him, as she fully intended to do. And if he preferred to dance with a woman so blatantly obvious about her intentions—well, that was his affair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charles step squarely on Lillian Forsythe’s instep, and felt wickedly glad.

  “My maid mentione
d the excursion to me,” she said. “I understand that His Royal Highness is going along.”

  A trace of bleak humor, and then perhaps something darker, flickered across Daisy’s face and disappeared. “There’s no keeping a secret from the servants’ hall,” she said with a resigned sigh. “But since you already know about it, I suppose I don’t have to explain. The Prince will be riding in Mr. Marsden’s Daimler, and Sir Charles and I—he is to photograph our tour—will be following in the brougham. It occurred to me that since you are interested in improving the lot of the poor, you might be interested in seeing the workhouse. And I am sure that your lively company would make the visit more interesting for His Highness.”

  Sir Charles was going? Then she should not, Kate thought, for it would be too uncomfortable. She spoke regretfully. “Thank you for the invitation. I would like to go, but I fear I must decline. Perhaps another time, when—” Her eyes went toward the dancing couples.

  Daisy followed her glance. “Does this have to do with Sir Charles?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Kate said ruefully. She colored. “You see, he does not—That is, I cannot ...” She stopped, thinking that her face and manner were giving too much away.

  “I fancy I see a great deal, my dear,” Daisy said gently. She touched Kate’s hand. “These things do work themselves out, though. If you are meant for each other, fate will offer you a way. With Charles’s changing circumstances, there will be a great many opportunities, I should think.”

  Kate frowned. “His ... changing circumstances?”

  “His brother’s tragic illness quite alters his situation, of course. When Lord Robert is gone and Charles comes into the title—” She tilted her head, frowning. “But you look as though this is news to you, my dear. Am I telling you something you didn’t know?”

  Kate nodded mutely. She had not known, but it all made perfect sense. Charles’s brother was dying, and he would inherit the baronetcy. He cared for her, but he knew she could not bear to live in London during the Season, or go to balls, or host house parties, or—

  And even if Kate were willing to try, there was Beryl Bardwell, who would be both a constant thorn and a potential embarrassment. His family—all proper English aristocrats, she was sure—would be mortified if he brought home an Irish-American bride with the unfortunate habit of scribbling stories. No wonder he didn’t think it wise for them to marry. She completely agreed. In fact, she thought it a perfectly ludicrous idea!

  “I am frightfully sorry, Kate,” Daisy said. “I fear I have told you something that Charles intended to tell you himself.”

  Kate was about to reply, but she was interrupted by a polite, “Pardon me, Miss Ardleigh, but I wonder if you might enjoy a waltz.” The speaker was Sir Friedrich Temple, whose stern eye had fallen on her once or twice during dinner. His face was softer now, and he was smiling. “If our hostess will permit, that is,” he said, bowing to Daisy.

  “Since when did you need my permission to make off with a beautiful woman, Freddy?” the Countess asked with careless gaiety. “By all means, carry Miss Ardleigh away and amuse her. She has been far too serious these last few moments. In any event, I see someone with whom I have been meaning to speak.”

  Kate followed her glance. She was looking at Sir Reginald, standing alone on the other side of the room. And then, before Kate realized what had happened, Sir Friedrich had whirled her away among the other dancers.

  11

  The whole seems to fall into a shape,

  As if I saw alike my work and self

  And all that I was born to be and do,

  A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God’s hand.

  How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead;

  So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!

  —ROBERT BROWNING “Andrea del Sarto”

  Charles thought that the column assembled in the courtyard the next morning must be the most extraordinary ever organized at Easton Lodge. In the vanguard was the highly polished and finely tuned Daimler, the Royal pennant fluttering from its standard, the engine idling like a poorly-maintained thrashing machine. Bradford, wearing duster, motoring cap, and goggles, sat behind the tiller, waiting for the Prince. Seeing Charles, he gave a cheerful wave.

  “A red-letter day in British motoring history,” he called, and Charles suppressed a smile. The Prince was about to discover that the Countess’s stratagem wasn’t the only one to which he would be subject today.

  Next in line behind the Daimler was the shiny black fourseater brougham in which Charles and Daisy would ride, with room for HRH, should ill fortune befall the motorcar. Under its seats were several large wicker baskets covered with red-and-white-checked cloths. Charles supposed them to be emergency rations, should they be detained beyond lunchtime. The rear guard consisted of a supply wagon which would follow behind, probably at some distance, conveying Bradford’s mechanic (his man Lawrence) and a hopefully adequate stock of spare parts, spare tires, and petrol. A good idea, Charles reflected. Motoring was a dodgy business. One never could be quite sure of arriving anywhere without incident.

  Charles turned and motioned to Lawrence, who had carried his photographic gear downstairs. “Put that in the wagon,” he said. “Carefully, please.”

  “Yessir,” Lawrence replied, and began to stow the various cases.

  Charles had brought a camera made in Paris in 1890, a large and fairly cumbersome model, but one that would function under conditions of poor illumination and produce high-quality prints as well. The mahogany front panel folded down when the camera opened, supporting a square leather bellows and a Eurygraphe Extra-Rapid No. 3 lens. He had been intrigued with photography for as long as he could remember, and his collection of cameras now threatened to overtake the room in his Knightsbridge house to which they were consigned. He frowned. Fettered by duty he might be, but photography was one of the interests he intended to pursue.

  “‘ Scuse me, sir,” Lawrence said, having stowed the camera paraphernalia. “May I ’ave a word?”

  “Certainly, Lawrence,” Charles said. Marsden’s man had a seedy look about him this morning. Perhaps he had indulged a little too freely the night before. Charles opened a leather valise and began counting glass photographic plates. “What is it?”

  Lawrence glanced over his shoulder as though to be sure he wasn’t overheard by the stable staff and groundsmen that were gathering to gawk at the motorcar. “‘Tis about th’ dead stableboy,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve learnt o’ someone ye shud talk to.”

  Charles snapped the heavy valise shut. “I don’t know if I’ll get to it, Lawrence. As things stand—” As things stood, he had over a hundred servants to question. A damned wild-goose chase.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Sir Charles,” Lawrence said urgently. “I know ye’ve got a lot o’ detectin’ t’ do, but ye ought t’ make th’ time t’ talk t’ Deaf John. He seen ‘im. Or ’er, as th’ case may be. ’E cudn’t tell which.”

  “Saw who?”

  “Th’ killer, that’s ‘oo.” Lawrence leaned closer. “Comin’ outta th’ stable yestiddy mornin’.”

  Charles raised his eyebrows. “And who is Deaf John?”

  “‘E’s th’ farrier. Works in th’ smithy.” Lawrence jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That way.”

  “Thank you, Lawrence,” Charles said. “I’m very grateful for your intelligence.”

  “Yer welcome, sir,” Lawrence growled. “If ye’ll pardon me, there’s a thing er two I need t’ check on th’ Daimler.” He glanced at the coachman, a bandy-legged little man named Wickett, and dropped his voice. “An’ I need t’ talk t’ Lord Marsden ’bout a sartin wager.”

  “What wager?”

  “I’ve laid a bob that th’ Daimler’ll get t’ Chelmsford an’ back in three hours, not countin’ th’ time spent there. Wud ye say that’s reason’ble?”

  “It’s reasonable,” Charles agreed. “The Countess is expecting us to return before luncheon, at one.” He watched Lawrence
walk to the motorcar to talk to Bradford, wondering whether he had time to seek out Deaf John before the expedition got off. But at that moment, he was interrupted.

  “Good morning, Charles.”

  He turned swiftly. Kate was standing a few paces away. She was wearing a gold wool walking costume with a short matching cape around her shoulders, and the rich color of her gold felt hat heightened the russet glow of her hair.

  “Good morning, Kate.” Charles felt himself flushing. “I regret that we were interrupted last night. I wasn’t at all eager to dance with Lady Lillian, but I—” He stopped. The damned woman was trying to hide a smile. “Have I said something amusing?” he demanded crossly.

  “It is not to me that you should apologize,” Kate said. “I wonder that poor Lady Lillian can walk this morning.”

  “Lady Lillian doesn’t merit an apology,” he snapped. Poor Lady Lillian, indeed! He had resorted to rudeness in an effort to be rid of the foolish woman, and even that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t until Sir Friedrich came up and asked her to dance that Charles was able to make his escape. By that time, Kate was firmly attached to Ellie and Bradford and the opportunity to talk with her had vanished.

  Kate’s smile was gone and she was looking at him gravely, her head tilted to one side. “Regarding last night,” he said. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “What I meant to say to you in our brief conversation, Kate, was that over the past year I learned to care for you very much. I came to believe that I wanted to marry you.” He stopped. Why the deuce was he speaking of his desire in the past tense? It sounded as though he no longer cared, and that wasn’t the truth. “That is,” he said, reddening still more and intent on correcting his error, “I do want to marry you. However, I have just recently learned that—”

  Kate put out her hand, stopping him. “Charles, please. I own that I, too, had begun to care for you. But it is well that we recognize those feelings as inappropriate to our situation.” Her green-flecked hazel eyes were clear, her gaze unswerving. “Speaking frankly—and frank speech is always better than hints and suggestions—a match between us is not suitable. We should be glad that both of us understand and accept that fact.”