“Betty?” asked Harry eagerly. “English?”
He shook his grey head. “Betty spoke Breton as well as French. Stayed with us for six months, about. Then one day, we sent her into Saint Malo to buy some cloth and she never returned. We tried to find her. She had called at the mercer’s and paid for the cloth and it was there waiting for us. We searched the town but no sign of her.”
“She changed her name to Dolores Duval,” said Harry. “She was murdered in London.”
The family looked at him in shock. Then the grandfather’s brows lowered and he said, “Get out of here. Dirty English coming around my home, trying to accuse me of murder.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Get out or I’ll set the dog on you.”
Harry walked towards the car. A blue dusk was settling down over the sleepy countryside. The air was redolent of woodsmoke, manure and the ammonia smell of animals. He thought of Rose. He remembered that look she had given him in Madame de Peurey’s garden. He suddenly came to a decision. When this case was over, he would ask her to marry him. If she refused, he would never see her again.
♦
The duchess received his news that Dolores had originally been called Betty-something and had disappeared one day on a shopping expedition to Saint Malo.
“This is all becoming rather fatiguing and boring,” she complained.
Rose looked at her uneasily. If the duchess became tired of their company so soon, she and Daisy would be returned to the convent.
The hotel was not grand enough for the duchess, although the food was good and the rooms clean.
Rose’s worst fears were realized when they set out the next morning for Paris. As she arranged her various shawls and scarves before leaving, the duchess said, “This is all very tiresome. I think I was a bit hasty about that convent. Sterling ladies. Do you good to go back.”
“I really think the regime is unnecessarily harsh,” pleaded Rose. “Can you not bear with us a little longer? My parents should soon be returning.”
♦
The earl and countess of Hadshire reclined side by side on deckchairs on the terrace of the Palace Hotel. “Suppose we should be thinking of packing up,” said the earl sleepily.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Lady Polly. “The Cremonts are going on to Cairo. We’ve never been to Cairo.”
“The Season will be starting soon,” her husband pointed out.
“And why should we scamper back for the Season? Rose is in Effie’s care and Effie can cope with her. Cairo would be fun, camels and things. I’m really weary of the Season, dressing Rose and parading her around and watching her get into more trouble. Effie can cope.”
♦
There was a shock waiting for the duchess and her party when they arrived back at the Crillon. There seemed to be a great number of press outside. Magnesium flashes went off in their faces. Waiting for them in the entrance hall was a commissioner of police and two detectives.
The commissioner approached. He looked a little bit like Kerridge with his heavy features and grey hair. He bowed low. “I am Thierry Lemonier. I regret to say I have many questions to ask you.”
“About what?” snapped the little duchess. “Come up to my rooms. I am tired and do not wish to stand in the public gaze being interrogated by a bunch of peelers.”
“We need to interview your whole party.”
“Then follow me,” said the duchess and stalked ahead, trailing scarves and stoles.
They arranged themselves in the duchess’s private drawing room. Lemonier began. “You visited a certain Madame de Peurey two days ago, did you not?”
“We saw the creature, yes,” said the duchess.
Harry interposed. “What’s this all about?”
“Madame de Peurey was found yesterday in her garden by her maid. Her throat had been cut.”
“Good heavens! Fetch me brandy,” said the duchess. She rounded on Rose. “I should never have become involved in your detective exploits. Now look at the mess!”
Harry told Lemonier the reason for their visit, ending up by saying that they had all been in Saint Malo the day before. Lemonier noted down the hotel they had been staying at and then told them he would be grateful if they would remain in Paris.
“But I’m tired of all this,” raged the duchess. “I want to go home!”
“Did you see any suspicious persons while you were visiting?” asked Lemonier.
“No,” said Harry. “Did her servants not see something?”
“They were going about their duties. Madame de Peurey liked to have a siesta in the garden in the afternoons if the weather was fine. The garden can be easily accessed from the road.”
“There was a man on a bicycle,” said Daisy suddenly.
“You never said anything,” said Rose. “What man?”
“It didn’t seem important at the time,” said Daisy. “I looked back and there was this man cycling behind us. He was pedalling furiously and I thought he might be trying to race the motor.”
“Description?” asked Lemonier.
“I can’t say. He had a cap down over his eyes and he was wearing goggles.”
“Height?”
“Medium, and he was wearing a grey tweed jacket and knickerbockers.”
“Dolores Duval left everything to Madame de Peurey,” said Harry. “Perhaps, Mr Lemonier, you could ask the French lawyer who now inherits.”
Lemonier made a note.
“There is something else,” said Harry. He told Lemonier about Dolores being originally called Betty and how she had worked on the farm.
“We will interview her lovers,” said Lemonier. “Fortunately we know who they are. I shall return tomorrow. I may have more questions for you.”
♦
When he and his detectives had left, the duchess said angrily, “Go away, the lot of you. I’m tired.”
Outside her drawing room, Harry said to Rose, “I am going to telephone Kerridge.”
“This is awful,” said Rose. Her lip trembled and with a sudden impulse he folded her in his arms. “There now,” he said gently. “I will look after you. Go to your rooms and I will join you shortly.”
Rose smiled at him tremulously. He pressed her hand and hurried off, leaving Rose looking after him, torn between an odd sort of elation and fear.
But ten minutes later, Becket arrived to say that the captain had been called to police headquarters to discuss the case further.
“Are you going with him?” asked Daisy.
“No, he went off in a police car that was sent for him.”
“I feel restless,” said Rose, pacing up and down. “Let us go for a walk.”
Daisy and Becket exchanged glances. “Do you mind if I stay here?” asked Daisy. “I am very tired.”
“Do not worry. I shall go myself, only a little way.”
“Becket,” said Daisy, “go to Her Grace and ask that one of the footmen accompany Lady Rose.”
While he was gone, Rose changed into a blouse, skirt and long coat. Becket seemed to be away a long time and when he returned his normally pale face was flushed. “Her Grace is in a taking,” he said. “She said her servants are no longer to be of use to us. It is my opinion she is sulking.”
“Oh, I’ll go myself,” said Rose. “The streets are full of ladies walking on their own.”
Rose walked out of the hotel and stood looking at the cars and carriages circling around the Place de la Concorde. She had a sudden impulse to see Notre Dame. She went back into the hotel and asked for directions and then she set out again on foot after refusing the concierge’s offer of a carriage.
The concierge picked up the telephone after she had left and dialled police headquarters. He had been told to report on the movements of the duchess’s party.
Rose made her way down to the Seine, along the quays of the right bank and then crossed to the left at the Pont Neuf. She walked steadily, enjoying the rare feeling of freedom.