“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.
∨ Hasty Death ∧
Seven
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.”