by M C Beaton
The remains were buried in a pauper’s grave. Foul play was not suspected.
Superintendent Kerridge read of Harry’s engagement in the Times. He was happy for both of them and assumed they would settle down to a conventional married life. He doubted if he would ever see them again and felt a tinge of sadness. He had felt comfortable in their company because he sensed the three of them in their way did not really fit in anywhere and that had forged a bond between them. He had received news that Peregrine Stockton was back in the country. It crossed his mind that he ought to warn Lady Rose and then decided against it. After all, the man had had an unfortunate mother and there were no charges against him.
Miss Ailsa Bridge ferreted through her belongings, some of which were still in boxes, and found a crystal butter dish which she considered would do very well for an engagement present. Then she took another sip of gin.
Lady Polly had thawed somewhat towards the engagement. Harry had helped so many people in society that she found her daughter was regarded as fortunate. So it was with a lighter heart that she set out one sunny day to attend at garden party at Mrs Barrington-Bruce’s home in Kensington accompanied by Rose and Daisy. Harry had promised to be there.
Luncheon was served at tables in the garden. Rose was not seated next to Harry, a good hostess having assumed that engaged couples saw enough of each other.
She had a guards’ officer on one side and an elderly gentleman on the other, neither of whom seemed to wish to make conversation.
Harry was in conversation with a very pretty lady of mature years. The tops of her swelling white bosoms rose above a gown of midnight-blue moire. She was wearing a dashing little hat tipped over her glossy blonde curls. Harry was laughing at something she was saying. Rose reflected sourly that she had never seen Harry look so relaxed or happy before.
The guardsman next to her – what was his name again? She peered at the place card in front of him. Ah, Major Devery, that was it.
The major was crunching an ortolan, bones and all. She waited impatiently until he had finished and said, ‘Who is that lady next to Captain Cathcart?’
‘Eh, beg your pardon?’
One monocled eye swivelled in Rose’s direction.
She repeated the question. The major stared down the table and then let out a guffaw. ‘That’s Mrs Winston. We call her the Merry Widow. Great flirt.’
A little black knot of jealousy tightened in Rose’s stomach. Harry was her fiancé. He had no right to be so flagrantly enjoying the attentions of that blowsy creature whose hair was probably dyed.
The bit of the table she was seated at was in full sunlight. Her hat of fine straw did little to protect her head from the heat of the sun’s rays. She suffered until the end of the luncheon and then with a muttered excuse got to her feet. Rose escaped to a shady part of the garden and sat down in an arbour. There was a slight breeze and the arbour was cool. She decided to sit for a few more minutes before rejoining the party.
Then she became aware of someone standing in front of her. She looked up.
Peregrine Stockton stood glaring down at her.
‘Why, Mr Stockton,’ said Rose. ‘I was just about to go back to the party. It was so very hot at luncheon.’
‘It was all your fault,’ said Peregrine passionately. ‘My poor mother would never have killed anyone had she not been blackmailed, and no one would have found out except for you and your nasty prying ways. You’re like all these cold little virgins. A good roll in the hay is what you need.’
He smelt strongly of drink.
Rose got up and tried to go round him but he seized her and began to drag her towards some thick shrubbery. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand was clamped over her mouth.
‘Such a drama about Mrs Stockton,’ Mrs Winston was saying as she walked with Harry from the lunch table.
‘I’m only glad it’s over,’ said Harry, looking around for Rose. ‘I believe her son left the country.’
‘Oh, he’s back, and I think he is as odd as his mother. I saw him peering out of the bushes while we were eating.’ She had both hands clasped round Harry’s arm.
He broke free and demanded harshly, ‘Where? Where did you see him?’
Mrs Winston pointed. ‘Over there.’
Harry strode off and left her standing looking after him.
Rose was lying in the bushes under Peregrine’s weight and fighting like a tigress. One of his hands was fumbling under her dress as he was cursing about the amount of underclothes while the other hand was still clamped over her mouth. In frantic despair, she bit savagely down on the hand covering her mouth and Peregrine snatched it away with a howl of pain.
Rose screamed, ‘Help!’ at the top of her voice.
The next thing she knew was that Peregrine was jerked off her. Harry stood there, his eyes blazing. ‘Get along,’ he said to Rose, ‘and don’t say a word to anyone.’
‘But he should be charged. He tried to rape me!’
‘Don’t say one damn word . . . please.’
He helped Rose to her feet. She smoothed down her dress and picked up her hat, which had fallen off.
Peregrine stood swaying, a leer on his face. ‘She was begging for it.’
Harry drew back his fist and struck Peregrine full on the mouth.
As Peregrine fell, he turned and saw Rose still standing there. ‘Go away!’ he roared.
Rose emerged from the shrubbery and made her way back to the party. Daisy came up to her. ‘You’re as white as sheet, and your gown is torn at the hem.’
‘Get me into the house, Daisy,’ urged Rose, ‘and then fetch some sewing materials and get me some brandy. I’ll tell you about it later.’
Harry rejoined the party half an hour later and sought out his hostess. ‘Have you seen my fiancée?’ he asked.
‘Yes, poor Lady Rose is in the library with her companion. She had a fainting fit in the gardens and tore her gown.’
‘Where is the library?’
‘Second door on the right off the hall.’
Harry walked into the library and jerked his head at Daisy. ‘Leave us alone for a bit. Where’s Lady Polly?’
‘Gone for a nap. Her ladyship always likes to lie down after luncheon and so she asked Mrs Barrington-Bruce for the use of one of the bedrooms.’
‘Good. We’ll be out shortly.’
Rose had regained some colour. Daisy had mended the tear in her gown, bathed her temples with eau de cologne and poured her a stiff measure of brandy.
Rose was sitting bolt upright in a chair by the open window. Through the window came strains of music from the band of the Life Guards playing selections from The Pirates of Penzance.
‘Why did you not call the police?’ asked Rose.
He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her and took her hand in his. ‘Because it’s a wicked world. Do you know what they say about women who have been raped, and I mean the police as well?’
Rose shook her head.
‘They say, she was asking for it. The story would go round the clubs and your virginity would be in question. I have thrashed him soundly and I have told him I will kill him if he approaches you again.’
‘I think men are animals,’ said Rose, her voice breaking on a sob.
‘Not all of us,’ said Harry.
She snatched her hand away.
‘You were flirting with that common widow.’
‘Mrs Winston was flirting with me.’
‘From where I was sitting, I could see you were definitely flirting.’
‘I am engaged to you, not Mrs Winston.’
‘Then kindly remember it.’
Harry was suddenly very angry.
‘Is this all the thanks I get for having saved you? I am glad, repeat glad, that this is an engagement in name only because I would hate to be shackled to an ungrateful little shrew like you.’
He stalked out of the room.
Rose sat there for a long time. She finally decided that the least she cou
ld do was go to Harry and thank him. He should have realized she had only said these things because she was overset.
As she left the library, she was joined by her mother in the hall. ‘I had such a good nap, dear,’ said Lady Polly.
They walked outside together. A marquee had been erected for dancing. They entered the marquee. It was a splendid affair, having been laid with a French chalked floor and decorated with banks of flowers.
Harry Cathcart was dancing a lively polka with Mrs Winston. She was laughing up at him. Harry’s bad leg did not seem to be troubling him at all.
Lady Polly looked from Harry to her daughter’s set face. Really, she thought, we might be rid of him after all. Not that he isn’t a good man. But trade! Our name should not be allied with trade.
Kerridge mopped his brow and made a mental note to tell his wife not to put too much starch in his collars. The window of his office was wide open but seemed to let nothing else in but brassy heat and the smell of drains and horse manure.
Inspector Judd came in and put a cup of tea on his boss’s desk. ‘Thought you could do with that, sir.’
‘Ta. Sit down. I was really thinking of nipping round to the pub for a tankard of beer.’
‘Quiet day. You should be able to manage it, sir. You remember that thieving pair of servants at Lady Glensheil’s?’
‘Yes. Any word of them?’
‘No, disappeared into thin air. I was thinking of them only today, wondering how they’d managed to escape with all the police looking for them. Maybe we should have checked the ports.’
‘Waste of manpower. That sort never leave the country. They just sink down into some thieves’ kitchen. They’ll be caught sooner or later, mark my words,’ said Kerridge. ‘That sort always get found out.’
Alice Turvey and the pot-boy, Bert Harvey, had bought a little shop in Brooklyn. The chef at Lady Glensheil’s had taught Alice one day how to make meat pies with a light golden crust. They called their pie shop A Bit of England and built up a steady trade. They soon had enough money to buy false papers. They took the names of Mr and Mrs Kerridge.
Bert was already thinking of training up a cook and opening another shop.
They were regular attenders at St Anne’s Episcopal church in Montagu Street and were regarded as pillars of the community by the other tradesmen.
Lady Rose went to Deauville with her parents and then on to Biarritz. Harry stayed in London. She did not write to him or answer any of his letters.
On their return, Daisy surprised Rose by asking for an evening off.
‘You’re not going to get into any more trouble, are you?’ asked Rose anxiously.
‘No, I just want to be by myself for a bit.’
Becket surprised Harry by asking for an evening off. He readily granted it but could not remember Becket ever before asking for any time off.
Becket and Daisy met in Hyde Park. It was quiet in the evening, with only a few couples strolling about.
‘They’re not going to get married, you know,’ said Daisy gloomily. She and Becket had never spoken of marrying each other, and yet between them there was an understanding that they would be free to do so only if Rose married Harry.
‘Perhaps there might be another murder to bring them together,’ said Becket. ‘Let’s forget them and let me take you out for a nice supper. What would you like? I’ve been saving up. Champagne? Oysters?’
‘Jellied eels,’ said Daisy dreamily. ‘I would love some jellied eels.’
‘Then jellied eels it is!’
Table of Contents
Begin reading
Author biography
Title page
Copyright page
Contents
Dedication page
Epigraph page
