by T E Kinsey
‘Betty, this is your room; you don’t have to knock.’
‘I know, dear, but I’ve never quite been able to work out the etiquette of sharing a room with a stranger.’
‘Then let us declare ourselves no longer strangers so that you can bloomin’ well relax and feel free to come and go as you normally would.’
‘Righto,’ she said. ‘Are you going down to the servants’ hall for dinner?’
‘I feel as though I ought, but I’m really not certain I can face it this evening. I’m absolutely done.’
She sighed with relief. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear it,’ she said. ‘How would it suit you if I were to pay a visit to Mrs Ruddle and see if I can get a little supper to bring up? We can dine up here again away from all the hubbub.’
‘That, Betty Buffrey, old chum, would suit me very well indeed.’
‘I’ll be back in two shakes,’ she said, and scurried off.
By the time she returned with a modest cold collation on a tray, I had cleared a space on the rug and poured two glasses of water.
‘Here we are,’ she said as she put the tray down. ‘Not quite up to the standards of the party night, but there are a couple of slices of pie and some nice ham. I managed to track down some chutney, too.’
She had indeed managed all those things. She had found some bread, a lump of cheese, and a few tomatoes as well. We tucked in with gusto – I, for one, hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast.
‘I heard you were working with the locals,’ she said between mouthfuls of pie.
‘I cannot tell a lie,’ I said. ‘I am indeed pitching in.’
‘Oh, do say it’s hugger-mugger. You’re spying on them, aren’t you?’
I laughed. ‘You’re a sharp one, missy,’ I said. ‘Yes, I’m using it as an opportunity to keep an eye on things. It gets me into meals upstairs, too.’
‘Lawks, how exciting. Who are you spying on? I bet it’s that Kovacs bloke. He’s one of them Austro-Hungarian spies, isn’t he? He’s over here up to no good. You’re still working for the King, aren’t you?’
I regarded her quizzically for a moment. ‘Do you really not know?’ I said at length.
‘Know what?’
‘About the car crash.’
‘Yes? We talked about it the other day. You said as how you’d seen the body.’
‘And you know that it was sabotage?’
She turned sharply towards me, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘No!’ she said. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘That’s precisely what we’re trying to find out.’
‘Does Mrs Beddows know?’
‘That it was sabotage?’ I said. ‘I thought everyone knew by now.’
‘Not me. And Mrs Beddows never said a word.’
‘Does she tell you much?’
‘To be truthful, no, she doesn’t. Nothing important, anyway. I get to know about the Earl of Thingummy tupping Lady Whatnot, and how the Marchioness of Heaven-knows-where has tricked Sir No-one-you’ve-heard-of out of his fortune, but nothing I care about.’
I brought her up to date with the story so far. She sat goggle-eyed, with a slice of tomato wobbling on the fork that had stopped halfway to her mouth.
‘That Mrs Beddows,’ she said when I had finished my tale. ‘She told me none of that.’
‘It doesn’t sound like it’s the sort of thing she’s especially interested in. Did she not mention the crash at all?’
‘Not really. She was a bit off when she came back to her room that afternoon. When I asked her what was wrong, she just said, “Oh, that oaf Dawkins went and crashed his motor car, so we all had to come back inside.” I didn’t even find out the poor man had died until I heard someone talking about it in the servants’ hall.’
‘Did she not get on with Dawkins?’ I asked.
‘She was mad with him when I went to see to her on the morning after the party. “That upstart, flippin’ gutter-blood driver,” she said. Only she was a sight more ripe with her language. “He only went and made advances to me. To me, Buffrey!” she said. “Of all the . . .” And then she ranted on for a bit. Words I can’t bring myself to say, most of ’em.’
‘I had no idea she felt so strongly about it,’ I said. ‘I’d heard he’d tried it on with her, but she must get that all the time, a beautiful woman like that. Married or otherwise.’
‘Oh, she does. And she loves it. But she makes a great show of not getting along with anyone. It’s her special affectation. No one can get close to the fearsome Rosamund Beddows. She stands alone, and all shall tremble in her presence.’
‘I say, Betty. That’s not like you.’
She seemed to have surprised even herself. ‘I don’t suppose it is,’ she said quietly. ‘Sometimes, though . . . sometimes.’ She paused again. ‘You don’t think it was her, do you?’
‘Sabotaged the motor car? Anything’s possible.’
‘Was it difficult to do?’ she asked.
‘Not especially,’ I said. ‘Anyone who has ever ridden a bicycle could figure out how the brakes work.’
‘She’s definitely ridden a bicycle. Would it involve getting dirty?’
‘Almost certainly. The saboteur would have to lie on their belly to reach under the motor car.’
‘She’d never do that, then,’ said Betty flatly. ‘She has a phobia of being dirty. She bathes twice a day as it is. I can’t imagine her lying on a coach house floor.’
‘Even so,’ I said. ‘Would you be a dear and pay special attention to her clothes? She might have overcome her fear of dirt for the sake of teaching Dawkins a lesson. Even if she brushed the worst of it off, anything she was wearing would still show signs.’
Betty’s half-smile was difficult to read. Was it anxious or gleeful? Was she horrified or delighted by the idea that her mistress might be a murderer?
Chapter Ten
‘What ho, Florence,’ said Lady Hardcastle sleepily the next morning.
‘“Florence”, my lady?’ I said as I set down the breakfast tray. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
‘What? Oh, no. Did your mother do that, too? I was always “Emily Charlotte” if I’d been misbehaving. If I’d been especially beastly, she would add the “Ariadne”, but she usually considered it too much effort. No, we were discussing names last evening at dinner, and it struck me what a wonderfully evocative name you have. Tuscany in the summertime, museums, the Ponte Vecchio. I vowed to use it more.’
‘As you wish, my lady. Although I should point out that I was named after the Lady with the Lump.’
‘I’m reasonably certain it was a “lamp”.’
‘That would be much more reassuring to wounded soldiers in the middle of the night, yes. Did my name come up in the conversation, or was this a private thought?’
‘Your name comes up frequently,’ she said. ‘You always make an impression.’
‘I hope that’s a good thing.’
‘Always, dear. But in truth, you remained in the conversational shadows. The boys became fixated on “The Fair Rosamund”, who was, so she claims, named after that very lady.’
‘Mistress of King Henry II?’ I said.
‘I say, well done, you. Fishy had to send one of the footmen to the library to fetch a volume of the encyclopaedia to settle that one. I guessed Henry I. Harry was absolutely insistent that it was Richard III—’
‘The King with the Lump.’
‘Quite so. He’s a cabbage head.’
‘Richard III?’
‘No, silly, my brother. Anyway, you and your knowledge would have won me a fiver. There was a wager.’
‘A fiver? I wish I’d been serving now – fools and their money are soon parted.’
‘We should start a general knowledge game. You can be the ace up my sleeve.’
‘As long as you split the winnings with me, my lady, I’m in.’
‘Splendid. So much more reliable than cards. We shall introduce it to fashionable society and clean up.’
‘Right you are. It’s funny that you should mention Mrs Beddows, though, my lady. Her name came up in my conversation with Betty as well.’
‘Did it? Gossip?’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I pinch a slice of toast? I’m famished.’
‘Help yourself, dear – I presumed you’d brought extra so we could share.’
‘Thank you. Mrs Beddows, then. Betty reports that she was furious with Dawkins after his “improper” advances at the party.’
‘Was she, indeed? You did say that it was possible that she was irked by it.’
‘I did. Not merely irked, though. Actually hopping mad.’
‘Mad enough to commit mischief?’
‘Possibly, my lady.’
‘Interesting,’ she said, smashing open a boiled egg.
‘The one thing that counts in her favour is that she has a phobia of dirt.’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘A phobia? Of dirt?’
‘So Betty says. Even if it’s no more than a fervent dislike, it still indicates strongly against her being inclined to get down on the floor and wriggle about in the dust.’
She was still laughing. ‘To be truthful, I find it hard to imagine Roz wriggling under any circumstances. Wriggling is such a joyful activity. Roz and joy are not frequent companions, I feel.’
‘That’s the impression she likes to convey,’ I said. ‘Betty has the measure of her mistress, and that’s very much her opinion, too.’
‘We’d be foolish to discount her completely based on a dislike of grime, mind you. I’ve been giving some thought to the events of that night. Our examination of the stables yesterday morning was quite instructive, don’t you think? We know – or at least we firmly believe – that someone let themselves out of the house in the dead of night in possession of a key and a candle. That person slipped into the stables by the side door, took up a pair of pliers and tampered with Number 3. He couldn’t find the hook for the pliers in the dark, so he dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the workbench. Then he let himself out the way he came and went back to the house. I say “he”, but it could as easily be Roz as anyone.’
‘When did the party end?’
‘At two. Sharp.’
‘Could anyone have gone down there before then?’
‘They could,’ she said. ‘It would have been a risk, though: the motor cars were on display as part of the celebrations. Anyone tampering with one of them could have been spotted at any moment. There’d be no especial need to come in through the side door, either: the main doors were all folded back. And no need for a candle: the place was lit up like a theatre stage.’
‘So “dead of night” is right. If there were still guests here at two, and the junior servants started stirring at around four, our saboteur had less than two hours to get to work.’
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘The trouble is, I can’t think of any suspect who would have been better placed to wander the grounds at three in the morning than any other.’
‘No knowledge is entirely without value, though, my lady. You told me that.’
‘Did I? How very pompous of me.’
‘I cleave to your every pronouncement, my lady, however pompous. You know that. What plans for the day, though? Any special wardrobe requirements?’
‘Sports togs, I think. Apparently, it’s going to be sunny again, so there’s talk of tennis. And blasted croquet of all things. I do so hate croquet. So petty and spiteful.’
‘I shall make sure you’re properly prepared,’ I said.
‘And you? More below-stairs snooping?’
‘Below stairs, above stairs, in the grounds and gardens, my lady. No corner of the estate will escape my scrutiny.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ she said. ‘Would you care for some marmalade?’
There was, as always, a massive pot of tea at the centre of the table in the servants’ hall. Lined up in close attendance, like eager acolytes around their glazed china master, were fresh cups, a milk jug, and a sugar bowl. It should have been a place of quiet relaxation and idle chatter. Of course, it wasn’t.
There was quiet chatter, but the table was a hive of industry. Clothes were being mended, silverware polished, and one young maid was sorting candles into small bundles for delivery to bedrooms all over the house. There were two oases of calm: Mr Spinney was reading a newspaper, occasionally sharing titbits with Mrs McLelland, while Betty sat alone, staring into thin air. I squeezed in next to her.
‘Good morning, Betty, fach,’ I said. ‘You were up early this morning.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘I was summoned. Mrs Beddows needed to get ready.’
‘I thought they were playing tennis,’ I said. ‘How much getting ready does that entail? I just laid out a tennis dress and a pair of plimsolls.’
‘Ah, but Lady Hardcastle is calm and rational. And confident in herself. And not insanely competitive. There was hair to be set, make-up to be applied, muscles to be massaged. And that was before we got round to trying on six different hat-and-ribbon combinations. She brings two tennis rackets. Who owns two tennis rackets?’
I laughed. Mr Spinney caught my eye, clearly trying to decide whether to say something to a visiting servant about speaking so disparagingly about her employer. Unfortunately, Mrs McLelland’s face showed no such indecision – she was obviously very annoyed – and I was unable to stop myself from laughing again. Mr Spinney returned quickly to his newspaper, having decided the battle was over before it had begun.
‘That’s handy,’ I said. ‘Lady Hardcastle’s tennis racket was broken during our move to Littleton Cotterell. She never got round to replacing it. Her local friends aren’t too keen on tennis.’
‘Mrs Beddows would never lend her a racket. She’s very particular about her tennis rackets.’
‘She sounds like a keen player,’ I said. ‘Is she good?’
‘She’s rubbish. Absolutely hopeless.’
The maids and footmen were concentrating on their work, trying to pretend not to earwig, but their barely stifled laughter gave them away. Mr Spinney cleared his throat and rustled his newspaper, trying to regain control. Muted conversations were resumed.
‘Still no news about Mr Dawkins in the newspaper, Mrs McLelland,’ said Mr Spinney. ‘I must say, I find that rather odd. A man dies in tragic circumstances at one of the country’s most important houses, and no one bats an eyelid. Most odd.’
‘Would you rather they made a fuss? Stoked a scandal?’ said Mrs McLelland.
‘Of course not. Perish the thought,’ he said quickly.
‘Well, then. Just be thankful they’re leaving it be. It was a tragic accident, that’s all. And no need for a fuss.’
The maid with the candles looked up from her work. ‘’Cept they says it wasn’t an accident, Mrs McLelland,’ she said.
‘Who’s “they”, girl?’
‘Morgan, for one. He says the brakes didn’t work. Says someone fiddled with ’em.’
‘You should all know better than to tittle-tattle,’ said Mrs McLelland. ‘The police are satisfied that it was an accident, and that should be good enough for us.’
‘But—’ said the maid.
‘That’s enough!’ said Mrs McLelland sharply. ‘Get on with your work. Those candles should have been taken up hours ago.’
She put down her teacup with a clatter and left the room. An awkward silence followed. Mr Spinney sighed.
I put my own teacup down a great deal more gently. ‘Well, Betty, old chum,’ I said. ‘I ought to be getting on, I suppose. I have an important errand to run, but then I thought I might watch the tennis. Will you be free to join me?’
‘I should think so,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you later down by the tennis court.’
My errand, of course, was to get a report from Evan Gudger. A good spy looks after her agents, makes them feel valued. Encourages them. I found him, as I’d expected, loafing in the kitchen yard.
‘Good morning, Evan,’ I said c
heerily.
He mumbled a reply.
‘Are you well?’
He mumbled again.
‘Splendid,’ I said. ‘Did you manage to do as I asked?’
He looked at his shoes. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said after a few moments’ pause, ‘I did. I had a good old poke around Herr Kovacs’s room. And Mr Waterford’s too. I didn’t reckon he should be left out.’
I didn’t reckon it was the first time he’d rummaged through their things, either, but I knew better than to say anything. Instead, I said, ‘Well done. Did you find anything?’
He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a scruffy scrap of paper. ‘I copied this off a letter on Herr Kovacs’s writing desk.’
I took the paper. Evan’s untidy handwriting was difficult to read in places, but if he had copied it correctly, it was a letter from Herr Kovacs offering to buy the racing team.
‘This is very interesting, Evan, thank you. You’re certain you copied it exactly?’
‘You think I’m an idiot like everyone else?’ he snapped. ‘Just because I don’t write so good.’
‘I meant nothing of the sort. I shall be reporting this to my mistress, and I need to be certain of the source. We’ve put a lot of trust in you. Checking isn’t a sign of mistrust.’
‘Yeah, well, they all think I’m thick. But I ain’t.’
‘I don’t give a tinker’s cuss what “they all think”, Evan,’ I said. ‘You’re working for me now, and I’m just making certain.’
‘I heard ’em talkin’, too,’ he said after another pause.
‘Who?’
‘Kovacs and Waterford. I was puttin’ Mr Waterford’s shirt studs on when Herr Kovacs comes in. “Ah, Monty,” he says, all chummy, like. “Have you had time to think about my offer? With the bad publicity that will follow the accident, you know Lord Riddlethorpe stands no chance. I could be the one to save you from ruin.” And Mr Waterford says, “We’ve only just announced the team, Viktor. We’re not going to sell.” It was somethin’ like that, anyway.’
‘I say, Evan, well done,’ I said. I gave him a few coins from my purse. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, and I’ll make sure there’s more. I need you to do one important thing for me right away, though.’
