A police sergeant stood there, with a constable at his side. The butler, Curzon, appeared in the hall.
The police sergeant said something in a low voice and then both policemen were led off to the study.
♦
The castle was hushed and sombre. The wind had died down but great black clouds still tore across the sky.
Rose was once more on her way downstairs for afternoon tea when she heard Curzon announcing in tones of doom, “Detective Superintendent Kerridge.”
The superintendent and another detective vanished into the marquess’s study. Rose joined Margaret and the others in the drawing-room where a lavish afternoon tea was being served.
The American twins, Harriet and Deborah Peterson, were whispering together. The rest were moodily silent until Mrs. Trumpington raised her voice. “Who just arrived? I heard a carriage. Curzon?”
The butler, who had entered the room after Rose, said, “Persons from Scotland Yard have arrived, madam.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Mrs. Trumpington selected a large slice of Madeira cake, scoffed it down, brushed off the crumbs which decorated her jet-embroidered gown, and declared, “I mean, the silly girl obviously took arsenic for her skin. Took too much, that’s all. And anyway, that doctor had no right to jump to the conclusion that it was poisoning. And how does he even know it was arsenic?”
“He says she smelled of garlic,” said Sir Gerald-Burke.
“So?”
“Evidently a sign of arsenic poisoning. Then she’d vomited all over the place and –”
“Ladies present. I say.” Harry Trenton.
“You did ask,” remarked Gerald languidly. “It’s all such a bore. I suppose we will all have to be interviewed by the police.”
Lady Sarah Trenton gasped and fell back in her chair with her eyes closed.
“Has she fainted?” asked Neddie Freemantle.
“Acting as usual,” said Frederica Sutherland roundly. “She’s always acting and posing.”
Sarah opened her eyes and glared at them all. “I have delicate sensibilities which the rest of you seem to lack.”
“Did they find arsenic in her room among her cosmetics?” asked Margaret.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Trumpington. “Ask the maids. There’s been an army of them in there cleaning up and laying her out.”
“That’s destroying evidence,” gasped Rose.
They all stared at her and she flushed at being suddenly the centre of so much attention. “It’s just that Scotland Yard has recently opened a fingerprint bureau. If the room had not been cleaned, they could have taken all our fingerprints and discovered if there was anyone who had been in her room.”
“Trust our walking encyclopaedia to know that,” said Gerald waspishly, and Rose, who had begun to regard him as a friend, gave him a hurt look.
The door opened and Lord Hedley came in. “The police want to interview you one at a time. Sorry about this. It’s all the fault of that doctor, Perriman. First it’s the working classes getting uppity, now it’s the middle classes. They make trouble to get their revenge on us.”
“Why would they want to do that?” asked Rose.
“Envy. Pure envy,” said the marquess. “Your parents phoned, young lady. I told them there was no need to travel here. Once this trivial matter has been resolved, we can all relax and enjoy ourselves. Now, the police will begin with the ladies. Lady Rose? Perhaps you should go first.”
“Why?” Rose wanted to ask. But she got up and followed the marquess through a door in the hall and along a corridor. “I’ve put him in the estate office,” said the marquess. He ushered Rose in and closed the door.
Rose and Kerridge took stock of each other. Kerridge saw a very beautiful girl in high-boned white lace blouse and tailored skirt. Rose saw a thickset grey-haired man, with calm grey eyes and a thick grey moustache, standing behind a desk.
“Please be seated, my lady,” said Kerridge. Another detective sat a little away from Kerridge and a policeman with a large notebook was perched on a hard chair in a corner of the room. A stuffed fox glared down from the wall behind the desk, its mouth open in a snarl.
“Now, Lady Rose,” said Kerridge, “where were you on the night Miss Gore-Desmond died?”
“I was in my room and I heard someone shouting – I think shouting, “Get a doctor.” My maid and I put on our dressing-gowns and followed the sound of the voices. Lady Hedley came out of what I now know to have been Miss Gore-Desmond’s room. She said Miss Gore-Desmond had been taken ill. I had a glimpse inside the room of Lord Hedley, the butler and housekeeper, and, I think, Mr. Trumpington. I am afraid that is all I can tell you.”
“What kind of lady was Miss Gore-Desmond?”
“I didn’t really get to know her. She seemed – well, prickly, as if she despised us all.”
“Did she favour any gentleman in particular?”
“Not that I noticed. She sewed a lot. Petit point. She did not converse much, or if she did, I did not notice. Will that be all?”
“Just one other thing. Do you know a certain Captain Harry Cathcart?”
High colour stained Rose’s cheeks. “I believe he is an acquaintance of my father.”
“The bridge and the station at Stacey Magna were blown up.”
“Yes, but what has that to do with the death of Miss Gore-Desmond?”
“Just curious. Have you any idea who was responsible?”
“The Bolsheviks, of course. Everyone knows that.”
Rose thought she heard him mutter, “Except me,” but could not be sure.
“That will be all for now. Shall I ring for a footman?”
“I can find my own way back, thank you.”
He consulted a list. “Would you be so kind as to ask the Misses Harriet and Deborah Peterson to step along?”
“Certainly.”
“Why did you ask her about that business at Stacey Magna?” asked Inspector Judd.
“Because I have a nagging feeling that it had more to do with stopping the king visiting than any plot by Bolsheviks. But we’d better stick to this business here. What’s worrying you, Judd? You’ve a face like a fiddle.”
“You say this Lord Hedley is rich.”
“Yes, very.”
“And yet you say those suits of armour are fake? Why didn’t he have real ones?”
“No feel for history. I was reading up on this place. There used to be a beautiful house here and Lord Hedley’s father tore it down and took out all the Adam furniture and burnt it all. He built this about thirty years ago, when everyone wanted everything to look like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.”
The American sisters entered the room and Kerridge began to question them. After they had left he worked his way through all the guests, ending up with the Marchioness of Hedley.
“Are you going to be long?” she asked.
“No, my lady,” said Kerridge soothingly. “Just a few questions.”
“No. Meant are you going to be long here Tiresome. Can’t abide policemen.”
“This may be a case of murder,” said Kerridge severely.
“Tish, tosh! Silly girl used the stuff as a cosmetic. That’s all.”
“Did she have any enemies?” pursued Kerridge doggedly.
“Well, nobody liked her. I didn’t.”
“Why, my lady?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you not like her?”
“No grace. No manners. Ferrety little thing.”
“Why did you invite her?”
“Hedley’s idea. “We’ll have a season’s-failures party.” That’s what he said.”
“But the Misses Peterson, the Americans, have not yet had a season?”
“Them? They’re foreigners. Need all the help they can get.”
“Was Miss Gore-Desmond romantically involved with any of the gentleman?”