“You would make a good nanny. Stop giving me orders. It is time we went back.”
♦
Luncheon was a jolly affair for all but Rose and Harry. Everyone seemed brightened up by the fact that accidental death had been confirmed. What goes on in their heads, wondered Rose. Look at Margaret, elegant and serene. How could she? Perhaps it was time to unsettle them all. She turned to Sir Gerald Burke on her right and said, “I met Miss Gore-Desmond’s maid, Quinn, at the inquest. She told me her mistress had never used arsenic cosmetically to clear her skin.”
“It’s not very fashionable these days,” he said. “She probably kept it a secret.”
“I didn’t think one could have secrets from one’s lady’s maid.”
“Oh, one can, I gather, with professional, well-trained lady’s maids. If you will forgive me for saying so, I notice that you are a trifle over-familiar with yours.”
“I do not believe servants should be treated as pieces of machinery. They have hearts and souls and feelings, just like us.”
“Nonsense. They do not have the sensitive finer feelings of their betters. They are made of coarser fibre.”
“Surely that is nonsense.”
Sir Gerald stared at her a moment and then turned away to speak to Deborah Peterson.
Rose decided to try her luck with Clive Fraser on her right. “I went to the inquest this morning,” she began.
“How horrid for you,” he said, his handsome face creased in sympathy. “No place for a lady. Still, good verdict.”
“I met Quinn, Miss Gore-Desmond’s lady’s maid. She said her mistress had never used arsenic.”
“Jolly good. Loyal servant, what.”
“But I think she was telling the truth.”
His eyes stared at her as if trying to solve a complex problem. Then he shook his head and said, “The weather’s turned a bit sharp. Jolly castle, this. Like the ones in Young England. Only thing I ever read were the stories in those magazines. Knights and ladies. You must think me sentimental, but I’m a softhearted chap.”
“Then you must have noticed the distressing state of the Telby villagers – being soft-hearted, I mean.”
He goggled at her. “What about them? Tidy little pub.”
“I believe the pub, like the village, is owned by Lord Hedley. He obviously favours it, but not the housing or condition of the villagers.”
“Wait a bit…wait a bit.” He banged his head. “You’re one of the Shrieking Sisterhood. That’s why you’ve these odd ideas. Pity. YOU being so pretty and all.”
He turned away to speak to Lady Trumpington on his other side. By order of precedence, Rose should have been at the head of the table next to the marquess, but Hedley seemed to delight in the unconventionality of ignoring strict rules of protocol.
♦
Harry covertly watched Rose repulse first the one and then the other. He felt impatient. If she would only try to flirt a bit, be a bit more feminine, she would get more out of them.
So after the male guests had set out for an afternoon’s shooting, he asked Rose if she would care to go for a walk.
Soon they were walking out over the drawbridge under a steel-grey sky. Daisy and Becket were walking behind.
“I could not help noticing your behaviour at luncheon,” began Harry.
“And what was wrong with it, may I ask? I was simply trying to elicit information.”
“You won’t get any information out of any of them if you hint at murder and go on like the grand inquisitor. If Hedley gets to hear of your suspicions, he’ll send you home.”
“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” said Rose. “I am weary of this fake castle, its guests, and you.”
“See what I mean? If you wish me to treat you like an equal – then go and boil your head, you rude…thing.”
“How dare you speak to me like this.” Rose stopped and glared at him, her fists clenched.
“You deserve it. I bet you I can get more information over the tea-table than you can.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“By being my charming self.”
“I wonder what that charming self is like. You see, I have never met it.” Rose swung round. “Come along, Daisy. It is too cold. I wish to go indoors.”
“What’s upset you?” asked Daisy, trotting along to keep up with Rose’s fast pace.
“Insufferable cad!”
“The captain. What did he say?”
“He criticized my behaviour at luncheon. He said I would never get any information if I kept hinting at murder and going on like the grand inquisitor. He even bet me he could get more information at afternoon tea than I could.”
“Now, there’s a challenge,” said Daisy. “And I know just what you should do.”
“What?”
“That pretty chiffon-and-lace tea-gown, the rose-coloured one. Then a softer hairstyle – a few tendrils escaping and lying on your neck. Your pearls.”
“I don’t understand this, Daisy.”
“You’ve got to look ever so vulnerable. You twitter that you’re afraid. Why? they’ll ask. And you bend your neck and say in a whisper that Miss Gore-Desmond’s death frightened you. You say you’ve always been considered psychic and are a great follower of Madame Blavatsky, raising the dead and all that. Hint that her spirit has been in touch with you.”
“They will think me extremely silly.”
“Oh, no, start with the ladies and you’ll be amazed. Had a friend down in Whitechapel who claimed to be a medium and she charged a lot for getting in touch with the dead. She worked hard. Read all the obituaries. Had the rich coming down from the West End to consult her. “A few more,” she says to me, “and I’m off to America.”.”
“And did she go?”
“No, the police raided her and found out all the secrets of wires under the table, gauze on wires to make it look as if a spirit was flying across the room, and they got her boy-friend as well for doing all the male voices. He was good, too. Worked in the halls as a ventriloquist.”
♦
Rose started that afternoon with the American sisters, Harriet and Deborah, who were usually shunned by the rest, who were jealous of their wealth.
Both girls had collected plates of cake and were sitting at a lace-draped table by the window. The window was of stained glass, depicting a knight slaying a dragon. Because it allowed very little light in, all the gaslights had been turned up full.
“May I join you?” asked Rose.
“By all means,” said Harriet. “If I may say so, Lady Rose, you are a trifle pale.”
Daisy had liberally dusted Rose’s face with powder. Rose had refused white lead make-up despite Daisy’s protests that Lillie Langtry used it. She did not want to die of lead poisoning.
“I know I am being silly,” said Rose, bowing her head. “But I am frightened.”
“Oh, the death of that poor girl,” said Harriet. “Well, she did it to herself.”
“May I tell you something in confidence?” asked Rose.
They both leaned towards her. “Go on.”
“Have you read the teachings of Madame Blavatsky?”
“The spiritualist. We tried to, but Ma caught us with it and threw the book out of the window saying the woman was a dangerous charlatan.”
Damn all Americans and their rotten common sense, thought Rose.
“You must think me such a silly-billy,” she whispered, “but, you see, I have always been considered psychic, and at night I can feel Mary Gore-Desmond’s presence.”
Harriet exchanged glances with her sister. “Look, don’t tell anyone, Lady Rose, but we’ve got a ouija board with us. Would you like to try? I mean, it’s not as if we miss her or anything, and it will make us upset.”
“You don’t miss her?”
Harriet said, “She was nasty. Downright nasty. Do you know what she said to us? She said, ‘Unlike me, you pair will never know whether the men just married you for your money.’ I said I’d marry for love and she tittered and said, ‘I can’t imagine a man marrying you for anything else.’