Rose decided to he. “The doctor said my clothes should be as loose as possible.”
“Oh, in that case…but not a blouse and skirt for luncheon. The tea-gown, Daisy. The pink one. No padding, Rose? You will look most odd. Still, I am sure they will excuse your appearance. Perhaps a little rouge, Daisy.”
“No rouge,” said Rose. “And Daisy, just brush my hair and tie it back with a ribbon. I am, just for once, not going to have the weight of those pads on my head.”
♦
Luncheon was a fairly silent affair. The Petersons’ aunt, a Miss Fairfax, had been overheard to say loudly and forcefully that her nieces should never have been allowed to visit such a monstrous place and the men were hopeless and dilettante. She was a large, raw-boned woman with square hunting shoulders, a prominent nose and sharp grey eyes. Her voice had an American twang, which might have been pleasing to the ear had she not used her voice to condemn everything in sight. Hers was practically the only voice raised at the table, where everyone was now seated in correct order of precedence.
Rose was seated on the marquess’s left:and her mother on his right. At the other end of the table, her father was on the marchioness’s right and Lady Sarah Trenton’s father, Viscount Summertown, on her left. Harry was with the least-distinguished in the middle of the table. He had Maisie Chatterton on one side and Mrs. Jerry Trumpington on his other.
At last, over the pudding, Margaret Bryce-Cuddlestone raised her voice. “Is there no end to this?”
Everyone looked at her. Her voice was high and strained. “Questions, questions, questions,” she raged. “Tin sick of policemen. Lord Hedley, can’t you use your influence and get rid of them?”
“Fve tried,” he said heavily. “But now the press are baying for blood, there’s no way of removing Kerridge. I phoned the Prime Minister several times but his secretary keeps telling me he’s busy.”
Rose found her voice. “Don’t you think it would be better to help the police all we can? I mean, it looks as if the maid was killed and we don’t know about Mary Gore-Desmond.”
Inspector Judd appeared in the doorway. He whispered something to the butler, Curzon, who approached Lord Hedley and inclined his head, murmuring in a low voice.
“Tell Kerridge I’ll be with him shortly,” said the marquess. “This is all I needed.”
“What’s happened?” asked Lady Polly.
“The maid’s suitcase has been dredged up from the moat. Her belongings were all in it and it had been weighted down with bricks.”
Looking down the table, Rose saw that the enormity of the situation they were in had struck all the guests at once.
And Mrs. Fairfax made matters worse. “So someone here’s a murderer,” she said.
∨ Snobbery with Violence ∧
Nine
You may attempt the upper classes With your villainous demitasses, But Heaven will protect the working girl.
– EDGAR SMITH
Bertram-Brookes was the first to find his voice. “You cannot mean one of us, surely.”
“Who else?” demanded Mrs. Fairfax.
“My dear lady,” drawled Bertram, screwing his monocle into one eye and glaring at her through it, “it appears to have escaped your attention that we are surrounded by servants. The lower orders, Mrs. Fairfax. All prone to violence and nastiness.”
“Hear, I say,” mumbled Harry Trenton, rolling an anguished eye in the direction of the wooden-faced butler.
“Seems obvious to me,” said Mrs. Fairfax. “Servants seem regular enough. You lot don’t.”
“The weather really has turned cold,” said Lady Hedley, “but the autumn colours are quite beautiful.”
“Quite,” several voices agreed.
“It’s no use changing the subject,” said Mrs. Fairfax. “Someone kills Mary Gore-Desmond. Her maid knows who it is and ends up in the moat.”
“It wasn’t her maid,” said Frederica Sutherland, “it was Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone’s maid.”
“Oh, really? How interesting.” Mrs. Fairfax glared at Margaret. “Well, if you ask me, who else would want a maid hushed up but her mistress?”
There was a shocked silence. Margaret, her face white, fled the table.
Sir Gerald Burke, his eyes alight with malice, smiled at Mrs. Fairfax and said, “Amazing. Quite amazing.”
“What is?” she demanded.
“Americans are always being damned as vulgar and coarse. I never believed it before. After all, your nieces, ma’am, are a delight. But now, here you are, a prime example of everything that is coarse and unrefined.”
“Take that back, you whipper-snapper!”
Lady Hedley rose to her feet as a signal for the ladies to join her, seemingly ignoring the fact that the dessert had not yet been served.
To everyone’s relief, Mrs. Fairfax announced loudly that she was going to He down.
Once the ladies were gathered in the drawing-room, Mrs. Jerry Trumpington said, “Wouldn’t it be too marvellous to be like that? I mean, to say exactly what one is thinking?”
“Might start a lot of wars,” said Rose.
“May I remind you all,” said Lady Hedley, “that you are in a civilized household? No more ugly talk of murders, please.”
Mrs. Trumpington and Lady Polly went over to speak to her. The Peterson sisters approached Rose. “When do you think we can get out of this place?” asked Harriet.
“Soon, I hope,” said Rose. “But, oh, I wish we could find out what actually happened. Is your aunt usually so blunt?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” said Deborah. “She’s supposed to be chaperoning us at our first season next year, but we’d better tell our parents that shell frighten off anyone who comes near us.”
“Do you think she was right about Margaret Bryce-Cuddlestone?” asked Harriet.
Rose said slowly, “I cannot imagine her doing anything so awful.”
“Maybe it is one of the servants,” said Deborah. “I mean, Mary Gore-Desmond’s death could have been accidental, Colette could have broken the heart of one of the servants who got mad and hit her on the head and then dumped her in the moat.”
“Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone was very upset,” said Rose. “I’ll pay her a visit and see if she is all right.”
When Rose entered Margaret’s room, it was to find her seated at the window, staring moodily out.
“I am sorry you had to endure that at luncheon,” said Rose. “What an awful woman!”
Margaret shrugged and then asked, “And how are you, after your ordeal?”
“Physically, I’m well, but I still jump at shadows.”
“That doctor, Perriman, is good, do you think?”
“Yes, he seemed intelligent and efficient.”
“And discreet? I mean, not the sort of man to go blabbing about one’s physical condition?”
“Is there anything seriously wrong with you?”
“No, I just get tired. I’m worried about something.”
“I’ll get Dr. Perriman for you. What shall I tell him?”
“Just tell him I want him to examine me. That’s all.”
I wonder if she thinks she is pregnant, thought Rose. She instructed a footman to call the doctor and returned to the drawing-room. The men had joined the ladies and were sprawled about, talking or reading newspapers.
Harry approached Rose. “You’re looking worried. What’s happened?”
Rose told him about Margaret needing to see a doctor, and then said, “It started me wondering whether Mary Gore-Desmond’s death was in fact suicide.”
“Why?”
“Well, say Margaret did spend a night with Lord Hedley and became…er…pregnant, that might frighten her. She would be ruined.”