“I beg your pardon! Oh, you feel obliged to flirt like the other men in the party. You do not have to waste time on such frivolities with me.”
“Are you being deliberately infuriating, or are you just gauche?”
Rose bridled. “I think you should keep your mind on essentials. Miss Gore-Desmond may have been murdered.”
“You would make a good nanny. Stop giving me orders. It is time we went back.”
Luncheon was a jolly affair for all but Rose and Harry. Everyone seemed brightened up by the fact that accidental death had been confirmed. What goes on in their heads, wondered Rose. Look at Margaret, elegant and serene. How could she? Perhaps it was time to unsettle them all. She turned to Sir Gerald Burke on her right and said, “I met Miss Gore-Desmond’s maid, Quinn, at the inquest. She told me her mistress had never used arsenic cosmetically to clear her skin.”
“It’s not very fashionable these days,” he said. “She probably kept it a secret.”
“I didn’t think one could have secrets from one’s lady’s maid.”
“Oh, one can, I gather, with professional, well-trained lady’s maids. If you will forgive me for saying so, I notice that you are a trifle over-familiar with yours.”
“I do not believe servants should be treated as pieces of machinery. They have hearts and souls and feelings, just like us.”
“Nonsense. They do not have the sensitive finer feelings of their betters. They are made of coarser fibre.”
“Surely that is nonsense.”
Sir Gerald stared at her a moment and then turned away to speak to Deborah Peterson.
Rose decided to try her luck with Clive Fraser on her right. “I went to the inquest this morning,” she began.
“How horrid for you,” he said, his handsome face creased in sympathy. “No place for a lady. Still, good verdict.”
“I met Quinn, Miss Gore-Desmond’s lady’s maid. She said her mistress had never used arsenic.”
“Jolly good. Loyal servant, what.”
“But I think she was telling the truth.”
His eyes stared at her as if trying to solve a complex problem. Then he shook his head and said, “The weather’s turned a bit sharp. Jolly castle, this. Like the ones in Young England. Only thing I ever read were the stories in those magazines. Knights and ladies. You must think me sentimental, but I’m a soft-hearted chap.”
“Then you must have noticed the distressing state of the Telby villagers—being soft-hearted, I mean.”
He goggled at her. “What about them? Tidy little pub.”
“I believe the pub, like the village, is owned by Lord Hedley. He obviously favours it, but not the housing or condition of the villagers.”
“Wait a bit…wait a bit.” He banged his head. “You’re one of the Shrieking Sisterhood. That’s why you’ve these odd ideas. Pity. You being so pretty and all.”
He turned away to speak to Lady Trumpington on his other side. By order of precedence, Rose should have been at the head of the table next to the marquess, but Hedley seemed to delight in the unconventionality of ignoring strict rules of protocol.
Harry covertly watched Rose repulse first the one and then the other. He felt impatient. If she would only try to flirt a bit, be a bit more feminine, she would get more out of them.
So after the male guests had set out for an afternoon’s shooting, he asked Rose if she would care to go for a walk.
Soon they were walking out over the drawbridge under a steel-grey sky. Daisy and Becket were walking behind.
“I could not help noticing your behaviour at luncheon,” began Harry.
“And what was wrong with it, may I ask? I was simply trying to elicit information.”
“You won’t get any information out of any of them if you hint at murder and go on like the grand inquisitor. If Hedley gets to hear of your suspicions, he’ll send you home.”
“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” said Rose. “I am weary of this fake castle, its guests, and you.”
“See what I mean? If you wish me to treat you like an equal—then go and boil your head, you rude…thing.”
“How dare you speak to me like this.” Rose stopped and glared at him, her fists clenched.
“You deserve it. I bet you I can get more information over the tea-table than you can.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“By being my charming self.”
“I wonder what that charming self is like. You see, I have never met it.” Rose swung round. “Come along, Daisy. It is too cold. I wish to go indoors.”
“What’s upset you?” asked Daisy, trotting along to keep up with Rose’s fast pace.
“Insufferable cad!”
“The captain. What did he say?”
“He criticized my behaviour at luncheon. He said I would never get any information if I kept hinting at murder and going on like the grand inquisitor. He even bet me he could get more information at afternoon tea than I could.”
“Now, there’s a challenge,” said Daisy. “And I know just what you should do.”
“What?”
“That pretty chiffon-and-lace tea-gown, the rose-coloured one. Then a softer hairstyle—a few tendrils escaping and lying on your neck. Your pearls.”
“I don’t understand this, Daisy.”
“You’ve got to look ever so vulnerable. You twitter that you’re afraid. Why? they’ll ask. And you bend your neck and say in a whisper that Miss Gore-Desmond’s death frightened you. You say you’ve always been considered psychic and are a great follower of Madame Blavatsky, raising the dead and all that. Hint that her spirit has been in touch with you.”
“They will think me extremely silly.”
“Oh, no, start with the ladies and you’ll be amazed. Had a friend down in Whitechapel who claimed to be a medium and she charged a lot for getting in touch with the dead. She worked hard. Read all the obituaries. Had the rich coming down from the West End to consult her. ‘A few more,’ she says to me, ‘and I’m off to America.’”
“And did she go?”
“No, the police raided her and found out all the secrets of wires under the table, gauze on wires to make it look as if a spirit was flying across the room, and they got her boy-friend as well for doing all the male voices. He was good, too. Worked in the halls as a ventriloquist.”
Rose started that afternoon with the American sisters, Harriet and Deborah, who were usually shunned by the rest, who were jealous of their wealth.
Both girls had collected plates of cake and were sitting at a lace-draped table by the window. The window was of stained glass, depicting a knight slaying a dragon. Because it allowed very little light in, all the gaslights had been turned up full.
“May I join you?” asked Rose.
“By all means,” said Harriet. “If I may say so, Lady Rose, you are a trifle pale.”
Daisy had liberally dusted Rose’s face with powder. Rose had refused white lead make-up despite Daisy’s protests that Lillie Langtry used it. She did not want to die of lead poisoning.
“I know I am being silly,” said Rose, bowing her head. “But I am frightened.”
“Oh, the death of that poor girl,” said Harriet. “Well, she did it to herself.”
“May I tell you something in confidence?” asked Rose.
They both leaned towards her. “Go on.”
“Have you read the teachings of Madame Blavatsky?”
“The spiritualist. We tried to, but Ma caught us with it and threw the book out of the window saying the woman was a dangerous charlatan.”
Damn all Americans and their rotten common sense, thought Rose.
“You must think me such a silly-billy,” she whispered, “but, you see, I have always been considered psychic, and at night I can feel Mary Gore-Desmond’s presence.”
Harriet exchanged glances with her sister. “Look, don’t tell anyone, Lady Rose, but we’ve got a ouija board with us. Would you like to try? I mean, it’s not as if we mis
s her or anything, and it will make us upset.”
“You don’t miss her?”
Harriet said, “She was nasty. Downright nasty. Do you know what she said to us? She said, ‘Unlike me, you pair will never know whether the men just married you for your money.’ I said I’d marry for love and she tittered and said, ‘I can’t imagine a man marrying you for anything else.’
“So I rounded on her. Didn’t I, Deborah? I told her straight. No one’s going to look at a skinny mean-faced person like you.”
“Was she angry with you?” asked Rose.
“Not a bit. She got this smug smile on her face and said, ‘I’m spoken for.’”
“Maybe someone in Derbyshire. I think that’s where her home was,” suggested Rose.
“That’s what we thought,” said Deborah eagerly. “But she said it was one of the fellows here. I say, when do we start with the ouija board?”
“Give me an hour and I’ll meet you in the library,” said Rose.
Upstairs, Rose rang for Daisy and told her about the ouija board. “You’re lucky,” said Daisy. “My friend, the psychic, had one.”
“What’s it like?”
“Well, the board is about eighteen by twenty inches. It’s got the letters of the alphabet across the middle and numbers one to nine—oh, and a zero—in a line underneath. At the top left-hand corner there’s a Yes and in the top right, a No. Down the bottom left it says Good Eve and bottom right Good Night.”
“A polite board.” said Rose.
“Oh, my friend told me the spirits like a bit of courtesy. Now, a little table about three or four inches high with four legs is placed on top of the board. Someone sits down next to you and you each grasp the planchette—they calls it that—with thumb and forefinger. Then the question is asked: ‘Are there any communications?’ The table will move around to Yes or No. Then you go on asking questions and the answers are spelled out by the legs of the table.”
“But what if nothing happens?” asked Rose.
“You make it happen. It only takes a little nudge.”
Daisy was sprawled in an armchair in Rose’s room while Rose sat at her dressing-table. She eyed her maid in the mirror and felt a sharp rebuke trembling on the edge of her lips.
Almost as if Daisy sensed the change in atmosphere, she leapt to her feet. “I am going down to the stillroom, my lady. Mrs. Trumpington’s lady’s maid has made some rose-water and she promised me a phial of it for you.”
“Be back in time to come with me to the library.”
Daisy bobbed a curtsy. “Certainly, my lady.”
The American sisters were in high excitement. “Never thought to have such fun in this stuffy hole,” said Deborah. “I wrote home to my friend and said we were staying in this fake castle and she wrote back saying, weren’t we good enough to be invited to a real castle? So shaming.”
“You and Deborah start first,” said Harriet.
Daisy gave a discreet cough. “May I suggest, ladies, that we turn down the gas and light a candle? The spirits can be very shy.”
“Oh, do that now,” said Deborah. “I can’t wait.”
“Aren’t you frightened?” asked Rose.
“We’ve played with it before and never had anything to be frightened about,” said Harriet. “Last time I asked the board for the name of the man I would marry and it spelled out Xazurt. What sort of name is that?”
Daisy placed a lighted candle on the table which held the ouija board with its little table.
“You’re supposed to take the board on your lap,” said Deborah, “but it’s so awkward. You sit next to me, Lady Rose, and take the corner of the little table nearest you between your thumb and forefinger. As you’re the psychic, you start.”
“Are there any communications?” asked Rose.
To her amazement, she felt the table move. “It’s resting on Yes,” screeched Deborah. “Go on. Ask it something.”
Rose longed to ask if Miss Gore-Desmond had been murdered but decided to ask something silly and simple. “Will Miss Deborah Peterson marry?”
The little table lurch and the leg rested again on Yes.
“My turn,” said Deborah. “What is the name of the man I will marry?”
“It’s moving,” said Rose.
Slowly the letters were spelled out. H-A-R-R-Y.
“There’s that divine captain, sis,” squeaked Harriet.
“There is also Harry Trenton,” Rose pointed out.
“Oh, he’s so dull. Ask it for his second name.” So Rose put the question but this time for some reason the little table did not budge an inch.
“It does that sometimes,” said Deborah, disappointed. “Maybe we should pack it up and try another time.”
“Wait,” said Rose, throwing back her head and closing her eyes. “I feel a presence.”
The table jerked over the alphabet and came to rest on M. Then jerkily it went on to spell out the full word—MURDER.
Deborah screamed. Harriet shouted, “Light the gas.”
Daisy darted around the room with a taper until every gaslight was lit.
“That was sure a fright,” said Harriet, fanning herself. “I mean, what murder? Mary’s death was an accident.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t,” said Rose, whose thumb and fingers were aching with the effort of guiding the legs of the table over the right letters. “I mean, Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone’s maid knew something and she has disappeared.”
“You mean Mary might have been murdered and Hedley’s used his influence to get the whole thing kept quiet?” asked Deborah.
“Perhaps.”
“But that’s awful,” exclaimed Harriet. “I say, I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes books. Have you read the latest, The Hound of the Baskervilles?”
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll lend you a copy. You know something,” said Harriet, “I don’t think you’re a psychic at all. I saw the way you moved the table. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to spoil Deborah’s fun.”
“Fun!” exclaimed Deborah. “I got the fright of my life.”
“I think you suspect a murder and are trying to find out if we know anything. Come on, fess up.”
Rose gave a reluctant smile. “I’m sorry. But I am sure there was something suspicious about Mary’s death. Her lady’s maid said she never used arsenic as a cosmetic to clear the skin. But if Hedley knew of my suspicions, he would send me home. I would like to find out how she really died.”
“But how do you go about it?”
“You ask questions. I confess I have been very bad at it so far. I have been too direct with the gentlemen. I do not really know how to flirt.”
“How too horribly sad,” said Harriet. “But we do, don’t we, sis? We’re the best flirts in America. And if this lot here think we’re going to waste our dowries on them, they’re mistaken. I want a duke. It would be fun.”
“I think she might have been having an affair,” said Rose.
“What? That mousy little thing? You mean, one of the men did her in?”
“Perhaps. Or a jealous woman. Your lady’s maids might have heard something.”
The sisters’ faces were immediately marked by the same looks of hauteur. “We do not converse with our servants,” said Harriet. “Too vulgar. Anyway, we’ll flirt with the men and see what we can find out. You haven’t seen us in action because we didn’t figure there was anyone worth bothering about. But just you wait until this evening.”
Rose thought the sisters were in splendid form after the gentlemen joined them in the drawing-room after dinner. They flirted, they chatted, they flattered, until they were surrounded by a group of adoring men.
When she had all their attention, Deborah said, “We had such a fun time today. Lady Rose is a psychic.”
Rose was aware of Harry’s amused eyes on her. “She’s in contact with the spirit world,” Deborah went on. “So we got out the ouija board.”
Rose stiffened. She did not want them to talk abo
ut murder.
“And what did the spirits tell you?” asked Freddy Pomfret.
“I’m going to marry someone called Harry,” said Deborah.
“That’s either Harry Cathcart or Harry Trenton,” said Freddy.
“Or a Harry I haven’t yet met,” said Deborah.
Freddy addressed Rose, his eyes bright with malice, because he obscurely blamed her for having caused his recent disgrace. “In touch with the spirits, are you, Lady Rose?”
“It’s not good to talk about it,” said Rose repressively.
Harry Cathcart led her aside. “What have you been playing at?”
“I’m just trying to stir things up. Mary Gore-Desmond told the American sisters that she was spoken for.”
“I wonder who she was referring to.”
“Anyway, they are going to help; the Petersons, I mean.”
“If Hedley knows what you’re about, you’ll be sent home.”
“I don’t think they’ll tell anyone. What did you find out?”
“That Quinn was less than honest with us. She confided to Miss Maisie Chatteron’s lady’s maid that she was thinking of applying for a new position. When asked, she said that a mistress’s behaviour reflected on the lady’s maid and she had no intention of having her career damaged.”
“So she knew Mary Gore-Desmond was having an affair,” exclaimed Rose. “You must motor over to Derbyshire tomorrow and ask her for the identity of the lover.”
“I already planned to do that.”
“I shall come with you.”
“I would prefer to go alone.”
“Nonsense. You would be better to have me along with you to provide an air of respectability.”
“You are not regarded as the epitome of respectability—or had you forgotten?”
“You cannot leave me out.”
“Oh, very well. We’ll set off at seven in the morning before the others are awake to ask questions. Becket has found out the Gore-Desmonds’ address.”
Daisy sat in a shadowy corner of the hall. Freddy Pomfret and Tristram Baker-Willis came out of the drawing-room and moved over to the fireplace to light cigarettes.
“So our Lady Rose is psychic,” sneered Freddy. “Never heard such a load of rubbish.”
Snobbery With Violence: An Edwardian Murder Mystery Page 11
