Rose recognized Cyril immediately. She waited for him to settle down so that she could get a chance to talk to him about Dolly. But she had to wait quite a time. The duties of a gentleman at five-o’clock tea were onerous. He had to carry teacups about, hand sugar, cream, cakes or muffins, all the time keeping up a flow of small talk. He had to rise every time a lady entered or left the room.
At last he found a chair beside Rose and settled himself with a sigh. “Thought I was never going to get anything to eat.”
“There is plenty left,” said Rose. “Ladies do not eat, you know.”
“Except for your companion.”
Rose looked to where Daisy was ruining her gloves by putting a muffin dripping with butter into her mouth.
“You must be as distressed as I am about the death of poor Miss Tremaine,” began Rose.
“Oh, that? Beastly business. I was grilled at Scotland Yard. Can you believe it?”
“How too frightful for you,” said Rose, smiling into his eyes.
“I say, that fiancé of yours was there! Aren’t you ashamed of him being in trade?”
This was insolence, but Rose chose to ignore it. “His work certainly takes him away from me a lot.”
“If I were your fiancé,” said Cyril, “I would stick by your side the whole time.”
Rose rapped his arm with her fan and giggled, “Oh, sir, you flatter me.”
Cyril eyes brightened. Rose was a considerable heiress and rumour had it that her engagement was shortly about to be broken. She was hardly ever seen out in society with her fiancé, and the gossips had said that he had never even visited her when she was in the country.
“I do miss Dolly,” said Rose, looking suddenly sad. “I wonder why she was running away?”
“I think I can tell you that,” said Cyril. “I think she was one of Sappho’s sisters.”
Rose stared at him, puzzled. What had Dolly to do with Greece, and why was Cyril leering at her in that odd way? She remembered the lines of a Lord Byron poem: “What men call gallantry, and gods adultery/Is much more common where the climate’s sultry.” He was always writing about Greece and he did have some poem about Sappho. Had there been some scandal? Had Dolly been in love with a married man? Her thoughts raced round and round at the same busy rate that had once animated the dead squirrels of Daisy’s coat.
“I do not understand you, sir.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Cyril hurriedly, realizing if Rose did actually understand him, she might think he was calling her a lesbian as well. He fetched up a sigh. “Deuced pretty girl, what?”
“Yes, indeed and so sad. Did she ever say anything to you about being threatened by anyone?”
“No, on the contrary, my friend Berrow was about to make her an offer.”
“Lord Berrow is quite old, is he not?”
“Stout fellow. In his prime.”
“I am surprised to hear you speak so well of him when it looked as if he was about to succeed where you had failed.”
“Believe me, Lady Rose, our friendship will survive anything. Now, I do not like to hear about murder from those pretty lips of yours.”
“I wonder, sir, if you would mind asking Mrs. Barrington-Bruce to remove the fire-screen?”
Cyril darted off. When he returned it was to find his place had been taken by Sir Peter, who had just arrived.
“When I came in,” said Peter, “you were flirting with that dreadful toad, Banks.”
“I was trying to find out information about Dolly,” whispered Rose.
“He is an awful pill. Do you think he killed her? He’s vicious, I think. There was some scandal.”
“Oh, here he comes,” said Rose, raising her fan. “Do talk about something else.”
Daisy slipped from the room. On entering the house she had seen a telephone in the hall. She had wanted to phone Becket to tell him she was back in town, but Matthew had gone on a week’s leave and the study door was locked. She looked nervously about.
The hall boy, who had been half asleep in his chair, stirred himself. “You looking for the Jericho, madam?”
“No, I wonder if I might use the telephone?”
“Is it all right with Mrs. Barrington-Bruce?”
“Oh, yes.”
“That’s all right, then. I’m just going down to the kitchen. If anyone needs me, ring the bell.”
Daisy waited until the green baize door had closed behind him and then picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect her.
To her relief, Becket answered the phone. “It’s me, Daisy,” she whispered. “Why hasn’t the captain called?”
“He did not know you were back. He wrote a letter of apology to Lady Rose but she did not reply.”
“Her father reads all her post. He probably destroyed it. The captain should call.”
“I’ll tell him. We are going to Oxford tomorrow. The captain wishes to talk to Mr. Jeremy Tremaine.”
“I wish we could go with you. I wish – ”
Daisy heard the drawing-room door upstairs begin to open and hurriedly replaced the receiver.
“I sometimes wonder if perhaps I should be focusing my attention on Lord Berrow,” said Rose to Peter.
“He’s even more foul than Cyril.”
“That is interesting. A murderer surely must be a foul person. Perhaps I will flirt with him a little when I next see him.”
“Isn’t your fiancé annoyed when he sees you flirting with other men?”
“Oh, no, he will understand it is all part of research.”
“And what does your oh-so-frequently-absent captain think of me?”
Rose looked at him in surprise. “He knows you are my friend. You are famous in society for being available to escort ladies who have been left stranded by their escorts.”
He laughed. “What a reputation to have! Do you not care for me a little?”
“You are a flirt, sir. Of course I value your friendship. Why is Daisy grimacing and winking at me?”
“Miss Levine, may I say, is a most unusual companion.”
“Excuse me.” Rose got up and made her way to the corner of the room where Daisy was standing. “Why are you making all those funny faces?”
“I phoned Becket to say I was back in town,” whispered Daisy. “The captain sent you a full letter of apology. Your father must have torn it up.”
Rose was suddenly furiously angry. She knew that her father would bluster and deny that she had been sent any such letter.
“You know, Daisy, I sometimes feel like marrying anyone just to have my own home and freedom.” Rose looked thoughtfully across the room at Peter.
“Bad idea,” said Daisy. “Men you marry can turn into heavy fathers.”
“How would you know that, pray?”
“Observation.”
Daisy watched anxiously as Rose went back to join Peter and saw the ease with which Rose chatted and smiled at him. But the captain would surely call that evening.
Harry arrived home late. Becket helped him out of his coat and told him about the destroyed letter.
“I will see Lady Rose tomorrow,” said Harry.
“We are leaving early for Oxford, sir,” Becket reminded him.
“I shall call on her when we return.”
Rose was prepared for bed by her maid. She picked up a book to read before going to sleep and then crossed to the window, parted the curtains and looked down into the square.
Two men were standing over by the gardens, black silhouettes in the night. Something made her let the curtain fall and turn off the gaslight. She returned to the window and parted the curtains an inch and looked down again. The two men had moved into a pool of lamplight. Cyril Banks and Lord Berrow. As she watched, they both looked up at the house.
She dropped the curtain quickly and stood there, her heart beating hard, suddenly frightened. Where was Harry?