At first Rose’s parents were outraged by being summoned to Scotland Yard. Surely Scotland Yard should come to them. But when Jarvis told them it concerned their daughter, Lady Polly summoned Humphrey, who was packing up Rose’s clothes, and they set out.
When Lady Polly saw her daughter sitting in Kerridge’s office, she let out a shriek of dismay. Rose’s left eye was nearly closed by the enormous bruise on her cheek.
“What on earth happened?” she cried.
In measured tones, Harry described Rose’s ordeal. When he had finished, he said, “Did you not consider it odd that Lady Rose should be admitted wearing only the clothes she stood up in?”
“They said to send her clothes the following day.”
“And what was she supposed to do in the meantime for clean linen or a night-dress?”
Lady Polly rounded on Humphrey. “This is all your fault!”
“No, it’s not,” said Rose—much to Daisy’s disappointment. “It is you, my unnatural parents. To have me locked up in an asylum because I would not accept a proposal of marriage from a man more than double my age.”
“Here, now. We thought it was a country retreat,” protested the earl. He turned to Kerridge. “Have you had McWhirter arrested?”
“He is being brought in for questioning and The Grange is being raided. But Lady Rose cannot give evidence in court unless you wish the whole world to know that you considered your daughter mad.”
“This is your sort of job,” said the earl, turning to Harry. “Cover it up and send me the bill.”
“Were it not for my respect for your daughter, who had to shoot her way out of the place, I would gladly see you exposed in the press. It would be better for you and your daughter if you would accept the fact that she may never get married.”
Rose felt tears welling up in her eyes. She did not know why. “Don’t cry,” said Daisy, pressing her hand.
“I am very hungry,” sobbed Rose. “We have had nothing to eat.”
“I think you should take your daughter home,” said Kerridge. “I will call on you this evening when I have found out more.”
That evening, before dinner, Rose met her parents in the drawing-room. Daisy sat quietly in the corner and listened in amazement. She had expected the earl and countess to apologize to their daughter, not realizing that such as the earl and countess did not apologize to anyone, ever.
“We’ve been thinking, Rose,” said the earl, “that Cathcart may have the right of it. We have decided to accept that you will probably remain a spinster. Good idea. Save us the expense of another season, what. You always were bookish and interested in odd things like this vegetarian caper. We don’t mind so long as you don’t go back to supporting the suffragettes or anything scandalous like that.”
“We always try to do what’s best for you,” said Lady Polly.
“Such as having me locked up in an asylum?”
“That was Humphrey’s fault. I’ve fired her. Ordered two lady’s maids from that new agency. Haven’t got time to search around.”
“Humphrey was with you for years,” protested Rose.
“I’ve given her a good reference and some money to tide her over. More than she deserves.”
“Mama, have you thanked Daisy for saving me?”
“No, but thank you, Levine. Shall we go in to dinner?”
Harry called at his office before going to Eaton Square to hear from Kerridge if McWhirter had been charged.
Miss Jubbles was still there. For the first time, Harry saw the obsessive adoration in her eyes.
He came to a decision. “Miss Jubbles,” he said, “you should not be here so late, but I am glad you are. I have something to say to you.”
“Oh, sir!” Miss Jubbles blushed.
I think she expects me to propose to her, thought Harry. This is dreadful.
“Miss Jubbles, I regret to tell you that I have too many overheads and may have to wind up the business. I regret that I do not need your services any longer.”
Miss Jubbles turned as white as she had been red a moment before. “I will work for nothing!”
“No, I cannot have that. I will pay you three months’ wages. That will allow you time to find another position.”
Miss Jubbles looked around in a dazed way at what she had always thought of as “her room.”
“Becket will drive you home.” Harry opened the window and called down to Becket, who was sitting in the car outside, to come up.
“Becket will call at your home tomorrow with your three months’ pay,” said Harry.
Miss Jubbles stood up. She collected her hat and coat from the hat stand and put them on. Then she suddenly fell to her knees and held her hands up as if in prayer.
“Don’t send me away. I love you!”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Harry. “Ah, Becket, will you please drive Miss Jubbles home?”
Then he turned away and walked into his office and shut the door behind him.
Rose sat silently throughout dinner, her brain in a turmoil. To tell a rebellious spirit like Rose that she was no longer expected to marry made her long to do the opposite. For all her scorn of the season being nothing more than a cattle market, she did nourish romantic dreams of some intelligent man who would sweep her off her feet. Her thoughts strayed to Harry. He never seemed to regard her as a woman. She had a good mind to flirt with him and see if she could break his heart.
He gave way to the queer, savage feeling that sometimes takes by the throat a husband of twenty years’ married, when he sees, across the table, the same face of his wedded wife, and knows that, as he has sat facing it, so he must continue to sit until the day of its death or his own.
—RUDYARD KIPLING
Lady Polly had just risen as a signal to Rose and Daisy to join her in the drawing-room and leave her husband to his port when Brum, the butler, announced the arrival of Superintendent Kerridge.
“We’d better all hear what he has to say,” said the earl, getting to his feet.
Both Kerridge and Inspector Judd were waiting in the drawing-room. “This is a bad business, my lord,” Kerridge was beginning when Harry was announced.
“Ah, Cathcart,” said the earl. “Come in. Kerridge was just about to start his report.”
Harry stole a glance at Rose. He thought she was looking remarkably beautiful in a dinner gown of oyster satin with white lace panels, despite the bruise on her check.
Kerridge waited until Harry was seated and began again. “We raided The Grange and found eight people there, all female. They were in a dreadful condition. Most were full of drugs. There was one, a Miss Callum, who had been admitted only the week before. Turns out her parents died and she inherited a considerable estate. Her cousins conspired with McWhirter to have her committed. All ladies have been transferred to Saint George’s Hospital for observation. Some were half-starved.
“When we called at Dr. McWhirter’s consulting rooms, the place was ablaze. There was no chance of recovering any files. The good thing is that if the relatives of the ladies want them to be re-committed somewhere, they will need to apply to me first. A warrant is out for McWhirter’s arrest and the ports are being watched.”
He turned his grey gaze on the earl and countess. “Your daughter is very lucky that she has friends such as Captain Cathcart and Miss Levine or you might never have seen your daughter again.”
“Tish!” protested the earl. “We were going to call in a few days’ time. We would have found out what was up.”
“You would have been told your daughter’s condition had deteriorated. You might have been allowed to see her. She might have been heavily drugged, so full of opium, say, that she would look as if her wits had gone. Alarmed, you would press for further treatment, and so it would go on.”
“It’s a wicked world,” said Lady Polly, fanning herself so vigorously that little feathers escaped from her ostrich fan and floated in the air.
“Keep a good watch on your daughter,”
urged Kerridge. “McWhirter may still be in the country and he may want vengeance.”
_______
Miss Jubbles felt her heart was broken and her mother was no comfort. Her mother, incensed that her daughter had been the magnet that had drawn Mr. Jones to the house so often, told her it was all her own fault.
“How could you even imagine that a man of the captain’s class and age would look at you,” she jeered.
So, at the same time as Kerridge was leaving the earl’s home, Miss Jubbles put on her coat and hat and went out to get away from the sound of her mother’s voice.
There was a warm light spilling out from the rear premises of the bakery. Mr. Jones would be busy baking bread and rolls.
The night was chilly and a greasy drizzle was falling. Drawn by the smell of baking bread, Miss Jubbles went round to the back of the bakery and knocked on the door.
Mr. Jones opened it. The light shone out from the open door and lit up Miss Jubbles’s tear-stained face.
“Whatever’s the matter!” he exclaimed. “Come in. I was just about to take a break.”
Dora averted her eyes. Mr. Jones was dressed in a vest and old trousers. Sensing her embarrassment, he took down a white coat from a peg by the door and put it on. “Come in,” he repeated. “I’ve some nice Chelsea buns, and we can have tea.”
Miss Jubbles edged her way cautiously in. There were racks of loaves, rolls and buns sending out a sweet smell.
“George,” said Mr. Jones to his assistant, “make tea. And bring a couple of Chelsea buns. We’ll be in the parlour. Come with me, Miss Jubbles.”
Miss Jubbles hesitated, but the thought of going back to her mother made her shudder. So she followed him as he led the way to a little parlour on the first floor.
They sat in awkward silence until George arrived with the tea and buns. Mr. Jones went to a sideboard and took out a bottle of brandy. He put a slug of brandy into Miss Jubbles’s tea. “No, don’t protest,” he said. “You look as if you need it. Begin at the beginning.”
He was a good listener. Miss Jubbles poured it all out, stopping occasionally to sip brandy-laced tea and nibble on a warm sugary Chelsea bun.
“It’s all that Lady Rose’s fault,” she said. “I’ll get my revenge. Tomorrow, I’m going to the Daily Mail and tell them how she was masquerading as a common working girl.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Mr. Jones. “See here, they’ll print the story all right . . . Then what happens? Never get on the wrong side of the aristocracy or you’ll be finished.”
“But they’ll never know it was me.”
“That captain’s a detective. He’ll find out. He’ll remember telling you. What’ll he think of you? Now—here, forget the tea, have some more brandy to strengthen you—did he ever, and think carefully, show any signs of being attracted to you in any way?”
“He was very kind.”
“Kind doesn’t amount to anything. I was kind to your ma and do you know what happened? She thought I was keen on her and became all twisted and bitter when she found I wasn’t.”
Miss Jubbles blinked. “She said nothing of it to me.”
“Well, she wouldn’t. So let’s think about this here captain, now. Did he ever press your hand, gaze into your eyes, anything like that?”
A slow blush crept up Miss Jubbles’s checks. “Do you mean I imagined the whole thing?”
“Easy done. See here, know why your ma was so furious?”
Miss Jubbles shook her head.
“I told her I was keen on you. Look, see, I imagined you felt warm towards me because that’s what I wanted to think. We all get carried away some time or another.”
Miss Jubbles stared at him. Something warmer than the brandy began to course through her veins. She could feel her self-worth gradually being rebuilt in that cosy little parlour, brick by brick.
“Why, Mr. Jones! I never dreamt, never imagined . . .” He took her hand in his.
“You’re quite the little heart-breaker . . .Dora.”
A few days later, Lady Glensheil sent out invitations to a house party at her Surrey residence, Farthings.
Her invitation was received gratefully by Lady Polly. “It’s just what we need,” she said to her husband. “Get Rose down to the country, fresh air, and away from the fear of that terrible doctor. We shall accept, of course. She has sent me a note with her invitation to say it will be a small party.”
“Still, I wonder who else is going,” said her husband.
“What’s in the post?” demanded Mrs. Jerry Trumpington across the breakfast table.
Her husband lowered his morning newspaper and looked at her. “Haven’t opened it yet.”
“You’re impossible. Give it to me. I don’t know why I put up with you.”
He signalled to a footman and handed him the post, which the footman placed next to Mrs. Jerry.
Mr. Jerry Trumpington surveyed his wife and began to indulge in one of his favourite fantasies. She was a greedy woman. In his mind’s eye, she choked on a lump of food. He would sit there calmly, watching her slowly choke to death. That gross body of hers would writhe about and then crash onto the floor like some great diseased tree. He would wait until she gasped her last. A simple funeral. No point in wasting money on the dead. No flowers. What about hymns?
“Here’s one!” called his wife down the table. He blinked the dream away and looked at her with something like shock in his eyes because in his mind he was already following the coffin to the graveside.
“What?”
“Lady Glensheil wants us to go to her house party. We must go. She’s got a French chef.”
“When is it?”
“Two weeks’ time.”
“Bless me. Such short notice. Bit autocratic of her. I’ve got work in the City anyway.”
Mr. Trumpington was director of a tea company. Although tea and beer were not considered trade, Mrs. Jerry felt it was rather demeaning of her husband to work at all.
“It’ll sound so common, me having to say my husband’s working.”
“You spend so much money, I have to keep working. By the way, that gentleman’s watch you bought from Asprey’s.”
“I told you and told you. That was for nephew Giles.”
“But I saw Giles the other day and he said he had never received such a watch.”
“It must be one of the other nephews. Stop prosing on. It’s only a watch.”
“A gold half-hunter is not just an ordinary watch.”
“Oh, shut up about the watch!” she roared.
Her husband bowed his head and went back to arranging her funeral.
_______
Lord Alfred turned Lady Glensheil’s invitation over and over in his long fingers. What was an old battleaxe like Lady Glensheil doing sending him an invitation? Still, it would mean getting out of London and away from his creditors. He had lost heavily at the gaming tables and needed to rusticate. Also, if that superintendent from Scotland Yard came calling again, he would find him gone.
The stage is set,” said Harry a week later. “The three have accepted.”
“I’ve looked up Farthings,” said Kerridge. “There’s an inn nearby called The Feathers. I’ll book in there the first weekend. Slip out and give me a report. Lady Rose has accepted?”
“Yes, and her parents as well, so I don’t suppose she’ll be able to be of much help. Lady Rose telephoned me the other day.”
“Aha! You pair getting friendly.”
“I have no interest in a young female who specializes in getting into trouble.”
“If you say so.”
Three days before the house party, Lady Polly contracted a feverish cold. “I will need to tell Lady Glensheil that we cannot go,” she said.
“Mama, I can go with Daisy. Then there’s my new maid, Turner. She will be with us as well. You would not want me to stay in London without your protection while that wicked doctor is still at large.”
“I suppose not. Lady Glensheil is a s
tickler for etiquette, so don’t disgrace yourself. And do try to un-Cockneyfy Daisy. She looked at an artichoke at dinner last night and said, ‘Am I supposed to eat them bleeding leaves?’ ”
“If it had not been for Daisy . . .”
“Oh, don’t start again. You may go. But behave yourself!”
It was lilac time when Rose, Daisy and Rose’s new maid set out for Farthings. More motor cars than ever before were appearing on the streets of London. Rose had originally thought them nasty, smelly, noisy things, but now she looked on them with a jealous eye. She did wish her father would buy one, but he had even refused to buy her a bicycle.
The weather was unusually warm and sunny. The trees and hedgerows were bright green with new leaves forming arches over the road as they drove deeper into the countryside.
Daisy twisted her head round and looked through the window at the back of the carriage. “There’s a car following us. It’s been there all the way from London.”
“Probably Captain Cathcart.”
“No, it’s not his car.”
“Then it might be one of the other guests.”
“I keep worrying about that doctor.”
“He wouldn’t dare come near me. Besides, Captain Cathcart will be there.”
Daisy sometimes felt impatient with Rose. Couldn’t she see what a suitable match the captain would make? And then she, Daisy, and Becket could maybe be together.
Harry and Becket, with Becket driving, headed towards Farthings. Two ladies’ bicycles were strapped on the back of their car. “Don’t you think, sir, that the earl and countess will consider a bicycle too expensive a present to give an unmarried young lady?”
“I bought one for Daisy as well.”
“Still . . .”
“Lady Rose did tell me on the telephone that she had changed her mind about motor cars but said that her father would not even buy her a bicycle. Stop worrying about it, man. I shall discuss the matter with her, and if she considers the present out of order, she can leave it behind.”
“We’ll need to teach them to ride the things,” said Becket.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Hasty Death Page 10
