Hasty Death

by M C Beaton

  M.C. Beaton worked as a Fleet Street journalist. She is the author of the Agatha Raisin novels, the Hamish Macbeth series and the Edwardian Murder Mystery series – all published by Constable & Robinson. She divides her time between Paris and the Cotswolds.

  Praise for M.C. Beaton’s Edwardian Murder Mystery series:

  ‘If you missed the first novel in the series, get it right away. Snobbery with Violence introduced the Edwardian heroine Lady Rose Summer. Her second appearance [Hasty Death] is, if anything, even wittier and more amusing than the debut.’

  The Globe & Mail

  ‘Fans of the author’s Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series should welcome this tale of aristocrats, house parties, servants, and murder.’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘A light-hearted romantic romp through Edwardian snobbery, with hints of the cataclysmic changes in store for high society.’

  Kirkus Review

  ‘An amusing brew of mystery and romance that will keep fans turning the pages.’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘Fans of the author’s Hamish Macbeth and Agatha Raisin mysteries . . . will welcome this new series of historical whodunits.’

  Booklist

  ‘Combines history, romance and intrigue, resulting in a delightful romantic mystery.’

  Midwest Book Review

  Also by M.C. Beaton

  Edwardian Murder Mystery series

  Snobbery with Violence

  Hasty Death

  Sick of Shadows

  Our Lady of Pain

  Hamish MacBeth series

  Death of a Valentine

  Death of a Witch

  Death of a Gentle Lady

  Death of a Maid

  Death of a Dreamer

  Death of a Bore

  Death of a Poison Pen

  Death of a Village

  Death of a Celebrity

  Death of a Dustman

  Death of an Addict

  Death of a Scriptwriter

  Death of a Dentist

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  Published in the US by St Martin’s Press, 2004

  This paperback edition published in the UK by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2010

  Copyright © Marion Chesney, 2004, 2010

  The right of Marion Chesney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-184901-290-4

  Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon

  Printed and bound in the EU

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  To George and Isabel Agrest of Paris,

  with affection

  Shorthand he wrote, his flower in prime did fade,

  And hasty death shorthand of him hath made.

  – EPITAPH OF WILLIAM LAURENCE,

  DIED 1661, WESTMINSTER ABBEY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Don’t, when offered a dish at a friend’s table, look at it critically, turn it about with the spoon and fork, and then refuse it.

  Etiquette for Women,

  by one of the aristocracy

  Winter is very democratic. In London, its grip extended from the slums of the East End to the elegant squares of Belgravia. Tempers were made as brittle as ice by the all-encompassing cold, even in the home of the Earl and Countess of Hadshire. Their London home in Eaton Square had run out of coal and wood. The butler blamed the housekeeper and the housekeeper blamed the first footman, and as the row about who was responsible raged downstairs, upstairs, a battle royal was going on over a different matter.

  Lady Rose Summer, daughter of the earl and countess, was once more demanding to be free to work as a typist. Not only that, she wanted to move to some business women’s hostel in Bloomsbury with her maid, Daisy.

  The previous year, the earl had thwarted a visit from King Edward VII by employing a certain Harry Cathcart who had blown up a station and a bridge to convince the king that if he visited the Hadshire country estate, the Bolsheviks would assassinate him. Now Rose was threatening to make this public if her parents did not agree to her wishes.

  Wrapped in innumerable shawls and a fur tippet where dead little animals stared accusingly at Rose, her mother, the countess, Lady Polly, once more tried to let her daughter see sense. ‘For one of us to sink to the level of trade would be a social disaster. No one will want to marry you.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to get married,’ said Rose.

  ‘Then you should have told us that last year, before we wasted a fortune on your season,’ roared the earl.

  Rose had the grace to blush.

  Lady Polly tried a softer approach. ‘We are going to Nice. You’ll like it there. Sunshine, palm trees, very romantic.’

  ‘I want to work.’

  ‘It’s the fault of that ex-chorus-girl maid of yours,’ raged the earl.

  Daisy Levine, Rose’s maid, was indeed an ex-chorus girl. She had come to the Hadshires to masquerade as a servant with typhoid, an initial plot by Harry Cathcart to deter the royal visit. Rose had taken her under her wing, taught her to read and write, then to type, and then made her a lady’s maid.

  ‘It is my idea, Pa,’ said Rose. ‘We’ve argued and argued about this. My mind is made up.’

  She walked from the room and closed the double doors behind her very quietly – much more effective than if she had slammed them.

  ‘What are we to do?’ mourned the earl, huddling farther into his bearskin coat, looking like a small, round wounded animal.

  They sat in gloomy silence. The doors to the drawing-room opened and two footmen entered, one carrying coal and kindling and the other a basket of logs.

  ‘At last,’ said the earl. ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘There was such a shortage of fuel in the city, my lord,’ said the first footman, ‘that we sent two fourgons out to the country to Stacey Court.’ Stacey Court was the earl’s country home.

  ‘Well, get the fire started,’ grumbled the earl.

  As the resultant blaze began to thaw the room, the earl felt that even his brain was beginning to thaw out. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We’ll ask that Cathcart fellow. What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Lady Glensheil tells me he has opened a detective agency. Very American. Like Pinkertons.’

  ‘I’ll try anything,’ said the earl. ‘We could have left for Nice a week ago if it hadn’t been for Rose.’ He rang the bell and told the butler, Brum, to find the direction of Captain Harry Cathcart’s detective agency and ask him to call.

  Harry Cathcart brightened when a footman brought him the earl’s request. It was not that time had been lying heavily on his hands. On the contrary, his days were taken up, just as before, with hushing up society’s scandals and finding lost dogs. But he had hoped for more dramatic as
signments, and somehow, working in the past for the earl had certainly led to murder and mayhem.

  He picked up his hat and coat and went through to the outer office where his sheep-faced secretary, Miss Jubbles, was labouring over accounts.

  ‘I’m going out for a bit, Miss Jubbles,’ he said. ‘Anything I can get you?’

  ‘Oh, no, Captain.’ Miss Jubbles gazed adoringly at the handsome captain with his thick dark hair, rangy figure and black eyes. Harry shrugged himself into his fur-lined coat and crammed a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Out in Buckingham Palace Road, where he had his office, the cold was intense. In a neighbouring building the pipes had burst, and icicles glittered against the sooty brick. Other buildings had lagged the outside pipes with old sheets and he felt he was walking past ghostly sentinels with their whitish arms stretched up to the frost-covered roofs. He walked carefully because the street-sweepers had been unable to clear the pavements of the frozen-hard mud and it was slippery underfoot.

  As he made his way to Eaton Square, he felt a frisson of excitement. He would see the infuriating Lady Rose again. He remembered her as he had last seen her with her intense blue eyes and thick brown hair, her figure unfashionably slim in this new Edwardian era, where men liked their women plump.

  At the earl’s house, the butler took his hat, coat and stick and informed him that Lord and Lady Hadshire would see him in the drawing-room. Harry mounted the stairs behind the butler thinking the earl must really have some major problem or he would have received him in his study.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ cried the earl. ‘Sit by the fire. Sherry? Yes? Fetch the decanter, Brum. You been shooting, Cathcart?’ He surveyed Harry’s tweed coat, knickerbockers, thick socks and brogues.

  ‘No, I do realize I am unfashionably dressed but my attire is suitable for the cold and I gather you want to see me on business.’

  ‘Yes, wait until we get the sherry and I get rid of the servants.’

  ‘Where is Lady Rose?’

  ‘In her room,’ said the earl gloomily, ‘and let’s hope she stays there.’

  Daisy turned away from the window as Rose entered her private sitting-room. ‘I just saw Captain Cathcart a few minutes ago coming into the house.’

  ‘What on earth is he doing here? Oh, no! Pa’s probably asking his help. But what can Cathcart do?’

  ‘Get a tame doctor to say you’re mad,’ said Daisy. ‘Then you’ll be put in a lunatic asylum and I’ll be sacked.’

  ‘They wouldn’t do that,’ said Rose with a nervous laugh.

  ‘It would solve their problem. If you then said anything about that plot to stop the king visiting, no one would pay you any attention.’

  ‘If they do that, I will run away.’

  ‘We could do that anyway, my lady.’

  ‘No, they would put advertisements in all the newspapers and I would be hunted down. Oh, what on earth are they talking about?’

  ‘It’s all very simple,’ said Harry when the earl had finished.

  ‘How?’ The earl goggled. ‘I’m not having her put in an insane asylum. I know that’s the thing, but she’d never get married and I want grandchildren. A boy. Who’s going to inherit, hey?’

  ‘I am sure Lady Rose would be competent to run your estates.’

  ‘A woman? Never!’

  ‘Very well. What I suggest is this. I have a friend, Mr Peter Drevey, a merchant banker. I can persuade him to employ both Lady Rose and Daisy as typists. You will have to pay him a fee to cover wages for both, and for his discretion.’

  ‘If the fellow’s a gentleman, he won’t want to be paid.’

  ‘If he is paid, then I can get him to sign a confidentiality document. I am sorry, my lord, but I have outstanding accounts because I was naïve enough to take the word of a few gentlemen. Then both ladies may move to a business women’s hostel. I suggest you do not pay Lady Rose an allowance and her clothes must be limited to those of a woman in her adopted station. By the time you return from Nice – two months, you said – you will find her more than eager to come home. I will keep a discreet eye on both of them for you. You will forgive me for asking for my usual fee in advance, I am sure.’

  ‘A thousand pounds? Oh, very well. But I want you to put the matter to Rose yourself. I’ve had enough of her tantrums.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Rose was summoned to the drawing-room. She stood in the doorway and surveyed the captain. Lady Polly thought for one moment that the very air seemed to crackle between them, but put it down to the cold working on her imagination.

  ‘The captain has something to say to you,’ said the earl. ‘He has my blessing.’

  A faint blush suffused Rose’s beautiful face. So Harry had asked for her hand in marriage! Well, she wouldn’t accept, but still . . .

  Her parents left the room. ‘Pray be seated,’ said Harry.

  Rose sank down gracefully into an armchair by the fire. He sat down opposite and a little frown creased her brow. Shouldn’t he be getting down on one knee?

  ‘I have come up with a solution to your problem,’ began Harry.

  ‘I do not wish to marry,’ said Rose, but she gave him a little smile and her long eyelashes fluttered.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Harry cheerfully. ‘You want to be a working woman and I am here to help you.’

  Rose’s face hardened with disappointment. ‘What is your plan?’ she asked.

  Harry outlined his idea but without saying that the merchant banker would be paid to employ her, merely saying he knew of two typing vacancies at the bank.

  ‘And my parents agreed to this?’ asked Rose faintly.

  ‘Yes, they are anxious to leave for Nice.’

  ‘I suppose I must thank you,’ said Rose, feeling depressed. It was one thing to dream, another to face going out in the cold winter to work.

  ‘Very well. If you come across any difficulties, please let me know. My card.’

  Rose felt an odd impulse to burst into tears as she took his card.

  ‘Remember, you must be sure not to betray your real rank. You must wear ordinary clothes and be known simply as Miss Summer. And modify your accent. I am sure Daisy will tell you how. I suggest you buy cheap clothes. I am sure that even your oldest ones will betray your rank. No furs.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Then you will be a good daughter and go with your parents to Nice, and then, I suppose, to India, which is the destination these days of all failed débutantes. Your parents do not seem too anxious to pay for another season.’

  ‘You are blunt, too blunt.’

  ‘I call a spade a spade.’

  ‘Indeed! Are you usually so cliché-ridden?’

  ‘Good day to you, Lady Rose.’

  ‘Infuriating woman!’ said Harry to his manservant, Becket, when he returned to his Chelsea home that evening.

  ‘Do you think Lady Rose will actually go ahead with it, sir?’ asked Becket, placing a decanter of sherry and a glass on the table next to Harry.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she will. Stubborn as a mule!’

  Daisy chewed her thumbnail and glanced nervously at her mistress. If the weather hadn’t been so cold! Also, she had become used to lavish meals and pretty clothes. And to think that she had almost persuaded Rose to go to Nice after she had learned that Captain Cathcart intended to holiday there. But the captain had cancelled his plans for a vacation, becoming embroiled in setting up his new business. Daisy thought the captain would make Rose a very suitable husband, and she herself was fond of the captain’s servant, Becket. Her face lit up as an idea struck her.

  ‘I saw the captain’s advertisement in The Tatler the other day. He’s just started that detective agency. Maybe he needs a secretary. Be more exciting than working in a bank.’

  ‘What a good idea!’ exclaimed Rose. ‘And I could help him to detect like I did last year. We will go out tomorrow to say we are looking for working clothes and we will go there instead.’

  On the following day, Miss
Jubbles looked up from her typewriter at the beautiful creature facing her flanked by her maid. ‘May I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘I am Lady Rose Summer. I wish to speak to Captain Cathcart.’

  ‘I am afraid Captain Cathcart is not here. What is it about, my lady? I can take notes.’

  ‘That will not be necessary. I am here to offer my services as a secretary.’

  Miss Jubbles looked at her in horror. Then her sheeplike face hardened and the two hairs sticking out of a large mole on her chin bristled.

  ‘But he does not need a secretary. I am his secretary.’

  ‘But the captain and I are friends,’ said Rose.

  Miss Jubbles rose to her feet. This spoilt beauty was trying to take her job away from her.

  ‘I work here,’ she said, ‘because I need to work for money, not on a whim. You should be ashamed of yourself, trying to take the bread out of my mouth. Get out before I throw you out!’

  Daisy moved forward, her eyes blazing. ‘You and who else?’

  Rose strove for some dignity. She put a restraining hand on Daisy’s arm. ‘I made a mistake,’ she said. ‘Come, Daisy.’

  Half an hour later, Harry came back. ‘Fog’s coming down, Miss Jubbles. Anyone call?’

  Miss Jubbles gave him an adoring smile. ‘No one at all, sir.’

  ‘Right.’ Harry went into his office.

  Miss Jubbles looked possessively around her little empire: her meticulous files, her kettle with the bone-china cups arranged beside it, the tall grimy windows, the battered leather sofa and the presence of the adored boss behind the frosted-glass inner door. All hers. And no one was going to take it away from her.

  Rose would not admit to Daisy or even to herself that she was frightened. Pride would not let her back down. After the disastrous visit to Harry’s office, of which she was now thoroughly ashamed, they went to Bourne & Hollingsworth in Lower Oxford Street and Rose began to choose suitable ready-to-wear clothes for both of them. Rose had never worn ready-to-wear clothes in all her young life. Ladies did not.

  Daisy advised her that they should limit their wardrobes to two tweed costumes for winter and two serviceable lightweight dresses for summer. ‘Well, we don’t need to buy new underwear,’ said Rose. ‘We can wear what we’ve got. No one’s going to see that!’