Rose hardly remembered the walk down the aisle; it was as if it were a blur. She recalled only that she had spied Cedric and, in her relief, her feet had seemed to go of their own accord towards him, so that she did not recall making her way there, only that somehow she had managed to arrive at his side breathless; but her feelings of nervousness had subsided. As she stood next to the young earl, he had turned to her to give her a quick, reassuring smile and wink. In that moment any qualms or reservations she might have had towards the suitability of a marriage between two persons from such very different positions in society had disappeared. For here was her darling Cedric, impossibly dashing and handsome in his tailcoats and cravat, waiting for her, his most ordinary betrothed, erstwhile shop girl and latterly amateur sleuth, anxious for her to become his wife. Incredibly, in that most important moment of her life to date, time had seemed to stand still for a few seconds, as if to give her the opportunity to relish its significance. For some reason her thoughts had turned to the past. She was reminded of the moment she had first set eyes on Cedric at Ashgrove House, striding across the lawns towards her and Lavinia, tall and slender, his blond hair slicked back, his chiselled features rivalling those of any matinee idol.
‘Oh, his lordship looked so handsome,’ Edna was saying, as if she could read Rose’s mind. ‘We all thought so, miss.’ She turned to survey the bed. ‘Now, I see the housemaid’s put out your clothes.’
‘Yes, but she hasn’t started running my bath yet,’ Rose said quickly, noting the girl’s look of disappointment that her duties had been undertaken by someone else. ‘Will you do that, Edna? And of course I shall need you to arrange my hair.’
‘Yes, m’lady,’ Edna said grandly, adopting a more deferential air.
‘How is everything at Crossing Manor?’ enquired Rose tentatively, a little while later as Edna brushed her hair in slow, laborious strokes. ‘With the servants, I mean I say, Edna, I think that will do. Your arm must ache like anything. My hair has never shone so much.’
‘Lady Lavinia’s lady’s maid swears by one hundred brush strokes twice a day,’ said Edna. ‘Eliza says I’m to start a few inches from the bottom to take out the tangles one by one and then to move up the hair to take out more knots until I reach the top of your head. She says it weakens the hair to brush it down from the roots.’
‘Does she, indeed? Oh dear,’ said Rose, thinking how often she had brushed her hair in just such a fashion.
‘There’s still a bit of sadness,’ said Edna quietly, reverting to Rose’s original question, ‘at Crossing Manor, I mean. There’s bound to be isn’t there, what with the deaths? Always will be. Still, they’ve done what they can to brush away the ghosts. The servants’ hall’s had a fresh lick of paint and the furniture’s been moved about a bit. But you can still feel it in the air if you’ve a mind to. The maids won’t stay in the room after dark and some won’t even go in there during the day, not alone.’
‘I suppose,’ said Rose, ‘that in time people will forget. There will be new servants. For them it will just be a story.’
‘Of course, there was a murder here at Sedgwick Court, wasn’t there, m’lady? Last year if I recall?’ asked Edna.
Rose stared at her maid’s reflection in the mirror. She could not decide whether Edna was excited or alarmed by the fact that she had vacated one residence in which there had been a violent death only to arrive at another which had experienced a similar crime. Aloud, she said: ‘It didn’t happen in the house. You’ve no need to worry on that score. It happened outside in the maze. I think that makes quite a difference, don’t you?’ She did not wait for Edna to respond, but carried on. ‘You needn’t go into the maze if you’d rather not. But Lord Belvedere and I are determined to banish any ghosts that may linger there. He and Lady Lavinia had such fun playing in the maze as children.’ She regarded her own reflection in the mirror. ‘Well, Edna, I think Eliza has taught you very well. I don’t think my hair has ever looked so neat.’
‘Very good of you to say so, miss,’ Edna said beaming. ’Course I’ve still got loads to learn. But it’s a start, as my mother would say.’
Later that morning, Rose, suitably clad in a thick woollen coat, felt hat and furs to combat the chilliness that was so often associated with late October, made her way to South Lodge. The house was situated in the grounds of Sedgwick Court beside one of the many gates to the park and had latterly become her mother’s residence. It was of Georgian origin and had additionally benefited from a couple of small extensions, which had increased its already spacious dimensions. Having, until recently, been occupied by a succession of estate head gardeners and their families, it possessed a particularly lovely and well-stocked garden which, even at that time of year, when few gardens looked their best, boasted a splendid sea of blue irises and delphiniums.
Rose did not have an opportunity to press the brass door bell, for the door was flung open dramatically and with such eagerness that she found herself taking a step or two back in trepidation. She had hardly a chance to recover her composure before she was scooped up in ample arms and embraced with such enthusiasm that she almost lost her hat; certainly her fur slipped from her shoulders and fell to the ground.
‘Oh, Miss Rose, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ exclaimed Mrs Dobson, disentangling herself from the visitor and holding the girl by her shoulders a little way from her so that she might take in her appearance. ‘Your dear mother will be that pleased to see you. We heard as how you got back yesterday. We thought you’d most likely come and see us today. Now, let me get you a nice cup of tea. Those foreigners don’t know how to make it, drink nothing but coffee and wine, so I’ve heard. But there’s nothing better than a cup of tea and I’ve just made some shortbread.’
Rose was not given an opportunity to respond before she was steered inside. Here at South Lodge at least she would always remain Rose Simpson. In the eyes of the world at large she might well now be Lady Belvedere and reside in a vast stately pile, but in Mrs Dobson’s eyes she would always be the little girl she had helped to raise. Her mother too was unlikely to look upon her differently. Her daughter was still the girl who, until recently, had been obliged to earn her own living. It was with this welcome knowledge that she entered the house, overcome by a feeling of relief that here at least she would not be obliged to be on ceremony, but could be herself.
Mrs Simpson was as pleased to see her daughter as her housekeeper was, though she was slightly more restrained in her display of emotion, taking Rose’s hand and steering her towards the settee in her cosy sitting room, where a fire burned brightly in the grate.
‘Now, my dear, you must sit down and tell me everything,’ she said. ‘How did you find Paris?’
‘Oh, it was wonderful,’ exclaimed Rose. ‘I loved everything about the city; the colours, the smells, the cafés of Montparnasse and Montmartre, Notre Dame Cathedral, the Arc de Triomphe on Les Champs Elysées; did you know it was commissioned by Napoleon? And of course the museums … the Louvre, why it must house one of the largest art exhibitions in the world. And the music halls and theatres and operettas. We seemed to visit them all; a different one each night. And the Eiffel Tower; how could I have forgotten the Eiffel Tower?’
‘How indeed? And the boutiques and the fashion houses?’ enquired Mrs Simpson, her previous occupation as a seamstress coming to the fore. ‘Did you visit any?’
‘Yes, of course. Madame Vionnet’s fashion house on Avenue Montaigne.’
‘Not the "Temple of Fashion"?’
‘The very same and –’
Rose stopped midway in her sentence. A commotion of sorts had erupted in the hall, the noise from which brought their conversation to an abrupt halt. Both women were taken by surprise and turned their attention towards the door. Amid the sound of footsteps, they could just make out what appeared to be raised voices, and they stood there quietly trying to catch snatches of what was being said. In the case of Mrs Dobson, whose voice was loud and distinctive at the best of
times, it was not very difficult. This, coupled with the fact that the woman was obviously indignant, her emotions high so that her voice seemed to resonate around the hall, bouncing off the furniture and the floor, coming as clearly to the two women’s ears as if she had been standing in the room beside them.
‘You can’t go in there, miss.’
It surprised both Rose and her mother that there was nothing deferential about the housekeeper’s tone. If anything, it was more a hissed command than a polite request. Rose stole a glance at her mother and wondered if Mrs Simpson didn’t now rather regret not employing a butler following her change in circumstances. It was apparent, however, that the visitor had no intention of complying with the servant’s instructions, for Mrs Dobson was obliged to repeat her words, sounding considerably more annoyed than before.
‘As I’ve told you, miss, you can’t go in there. Mrs Simpson’s with her daughter that’s just back from honeymoon.’
‘I thought you said she was not at home,’ the visitor replied indignantly.
‘She’s not at home to callers,’ replied Mrs Dobson sharply. ‘It’s only natural she wants to have a few quiet words with Lady Belvedere that’s just returned. You could leave your card; I’ll see she gets it, or you could come back later if you’ve a mind to.’ Her tone, however, suggested that a future journey might also prove to be a wasted excursion.
‘But I live on the other side of Sedgwick,’ protested the visitor. ‘It’s quite a walk.’ To Rose and her mother’s ears, the woman sounded petulant.
What would have happened next, whether a confrontation of sorts would have occurred and a stalemate ensued, two equally stubborn and determined minds, was never to be known. For the visitor, evidently becoming impatient at being kept waiting in the hall and of the opinion that the servant would not budge, took matters into her own hands and decided to literally sidestep the housekeeper. There was a short kerfuffle accompanied by Mrs Dobson’s irate voice, but this time the door to the sitting room opened and a woman in a tweed suit entered. She had not ventured more than a few steps into the room before the housekeeper burst her way in front of her.
‘I’m ever so sorry, ma’am. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I tried to explain how you was talking with Miss Rose.’ The housekeeper turned to glare at the newcomer. ‘Ever so insistent she was that she see you.’
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Dobson,’ said Rose’s mother, eyeing the newcomer with some reservation. ‘I’m afraid that I don’t think I have had the pleasure of –’
‘Mrs Simpson … and Lady Belvedere, I do believe,’ cried the woman, bestowing on the mother and daughter a smile of elaborate proportions. ‘I’m Miss Spittlehouse. I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this. I have come to see you about the church flowers.’
Chapter Four
‘The church flowers?’ Mrs Simpson stared at the woman in bewilderment. ‘I –’
‘Yes. You are in charge of the flower arrangements in the church, are you not? Whose turn it is to do them each week, that sort of thing?’ said Daphne, smiling sweetly. ‘Well, I should like to offer my services. I suppose I should have done so long before now …’ She uttered a high little laugh, allowing her sentence to drift into nothingness.
There was an awkward silence which, while only of a few moments’ duration, was, however, sufficient to cause the smile on Daphne Spittlehouse’s face to disappear and to be replaced by a look of surprise. ‘Oh dear. Have I made a mistake? Is it not you I have to see about it after all, Mrs Simpson? Oh, please, do accept my apologies –’
‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Simpson graciously. ‘I think it is Miss Bright to whom you need to speak. I believe it is she who organises the parish flowers.’
‘How very silly of me,’ said Daphne. However, she made no attempt to leave. If anything, the error appeared to have made her more determined to stay, for she stood resolutely in the sitting room, looking for all the world as if she were there by invitation.
Rose, who had not uttered a word since Daphne’s unexpected arrival, stared at the woman with interest. The manner in which she had burst into the room so unceremoniously, if nothing else, was enough to draw her attention. That the woman had gone to considerable efforts to defy the formidable Mrs Dobson, where a lesser person might have retreated, shamefaced, was sufficient to further arouse her curiosity. Standing before them as she was, it must be very obvious to the woman, even if she were not of a particularly sensitive disposition, that her presence at that moment was not desired. Patently she was trespassing on a family reunion of sorts and yet the woman’s conduct was most extraordinary. For she did not act as one might have expected. She showed no signs of embarrassment or discomfort. Indeed, she gave every indication that she intended to stay and participate in what was to follow, in essence, a private conversation between mother and daughter.
It was, however, the reason that Daphne had given for the purpose of her visit that Rose had found particularly fascinating. That she had come to inquire about the arrangements for the church flowers was so patently false as to be almost laughable. Rose stole a glance at her mother and decided that even Mrs Simpson, whom one might be forgiven for supposing possessed a less suspicious nature than her daughter, was looking at their visitor rather dubiously.
A stalemate of sorts threatened to ensue. Daphne Spittlehouse smiled her too bright smile, while Mrs Simpson stood in her own sitting room quite at a loss as to what to do next. She was painfully aware that Mrs Dobson, sullen and belligerent, remained poised and obstinate in the doorway, glaring at the back of the visitor’s head. Perhaps the fear came to her that her housekeeper might decide to take matters in to her own hands to rid them of their unwanted guest in a less than courteous fashion. Mrs Simpson took a hesitant step or two forward and attempted a hospitable smile. Her actions, however, were awkward and stilted, and her smile rather weak.
Rather belatedly, Rose took it upon herself to come to her mother’s aid. Had she been her late mother-in-law, her predecessor to the title of the Countess of Belvedere, Rose would undoubtedly have sent the woman on her way with some cutting remark or malicious comment, tapping the floor with a cane to emphasise her point. Rose, however, bore little resemblance to the late Lady Belvedere, her character being of a more charitable and patient disposition. Besides, it had occurred to her, as she had mulled over the possible reasons for Daphne’s visit, that it was she, not her mother, that Daphne Spittlehouse was intent on seeing. Indeed, the woman had gone to great lengths to achieve her wish, forsaking propriety and convention in pursuit of her goal. Rose found herself, therefore, struggling with a natural inquisitiveness to ascertain why Daphne had sought out her company so deliberately. She had a sinking feeling that the joyous mood between mother and daughter had been irretrievably spoilt, the few happy minutes of their reunion irreparably tarnished. Even if Daphne were to leave now, the harm had been done, the moment ruined.
It was with these mixed feelings uppermost in her mind that Rose was swayed to take a middle ground, neither effusively friendly to their unwanted guest, nor overly arrogant or condescending.
‘I believe your brother is a friend of my husband’s, Miss Spittlehouse,’ said Rose, her voice level. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I do hope, however, that you will excuse us, but my mother and I have some private affairs to discuss.’
‘Why, yes … yes, of course.’
The woman had entered the room full of a determined vitality. Now, however, she appeared to retreat within herself, her face forsaking the falsely bright smile. There was a slackening of the mouth and worry behind her eyes; there was even the possible threat of tears. There was also a sullenness about her, a look of petulance in the face like a favoured child that has failed to get its own way, strangely at odds with the woman’s age, for she was certainly not in the first blush of youth. That Miss Spittlehouse was in a highly agitated state was patently obvious, and mother and daughter exchanged surreptitious glances, unsure how best to proce
ed with such a troublesome visitor.
‘It would give me great pleasure, Miss Spittlehouse, if you would take tea with me tomorrow at Sedgwick Court.’
The words had escaped from Rose’s lips, unbidden, before she had had a chance to take them back. Her mother gave her a look of surprise, her eyebrows raised. Even Daphne Spittlehouse looked somewhat taken aback.
‘Oh, I say, would it really? That’s frightfully kind of you, Lady Belvedere. There is nothing I should like more. What time do you take afternoon tea, your ladyship? Half past four?’
Daphne’s delight at the invitation was evident, her thanks overly effusive, her face lighting up immediately, all traces of sorrow banished. Perhaps her joy was contagious, for Rose experienced a lifting of her own spirits. A moment ago she had regretted having spoken so rashly, now she thought that it might not be so bad after all. Her actions had been impulsive, the invitation given instinctively to alleviate the woman’s disappointment at being dismissed. Now the interloper was taking her leave with a spring in her step, and Rose was left thinking that tomorrow afternoon might prove interesting if nothing else.
‘Whatever possessed you, Rose, to invite that woman to tea?’ demanded Mrs Simpson, as soon as they heard the front door close behind their caller. ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to hear what she had to say now? I doubt that it would have taken very many minutes for her to come to the point of why she had chosen to call on us.’
Murder on Bonfire Night Page 4
