Our Lady of Pain Read online

  Harry helped Dolores to alight. She smiled up at him from under the brim of a hat trimmed with pink silk roses. Harry smiled back. Then he offered her his arm and led her towards his office.

  Jealousy raged in Rose’s bosom but she did not recognize the emotion as jealousy. She considered it righteous anger. By being seen so publicly with such a well-known courtesan, Harry was not only damaging his reputation, but, by association, hers as well.

  For once Daisy, wrapped in her own misery, was deaf to her mistress’s complaints.

  There was not very much social life in London before the Season. But there were calls to make and little supper parties to go to. And at each event, Rose received sly digs from the other ladies about her fiancé having been seen so often with Dolores.

  The crunch came for Rose when she attended the opera with her parents and Daisy. Her parents only attended the opera because it was the thing to do and both were apt to fall asleep when the first note of the overture sounded.

  Looking across at the other boxes, Rose suddenly stiffened with shock. Harry had just entered a box opposite with Dolores. She was wearing a golden silk gown with a heavy diamond-and-ruby necklace. A diamond tiara flashed on her blonde hair. Rose wondered bitterly which ladies of Paris had found their jewels missing after their doting husbands had given them to Dolores.

  Her heart sank even further when her father suddenly exclaimed, “There’s Cathcart in the box opposite with that French tart!”

  The countess fumbled for her opera glasses, raised them to her eyes and hissed, “Disgraceful. Rose, he will be summoned and you will break off your ridiculous engagement. Peggy Struthers is going to India with her gel. I’ll ask her to chaperone you.”

  “I do not want to go to India!”

  “You will do as you’re told.”

  Rose could not pay attention to the opera. Dolores was flirting boldly and Harry seemed to be enjoying every moment of it.

  At the interval, when everyone mingled in the crush bar, Lord Hadshire approached Harry, drew him aside and muttered, “Your presence is requested tomorrow at eleven o’clock. No, don’t say a word.”

  Dolores had left Harry’s side to speak to some men. Rose followed her and as she turned away to rejoin Harry, Rose said loudly and clearly, “Leave my fiancé alone, you bitch, or I’ll kill you!”

  There was a sudden shocked silence.

  “That’s it!” said Lady Polly furiously, joining her daughter. “We’re going home.”

  Rose barely slept that night. She tossed and turned, wondering all the while how she could stop her parents’ sending her to India. Parents of failed debutantes always hoped that their hitherto unmarriageable daughters would become marriageable when out in India and surrounded by lonely men far from home.

  At last, Rose decided boldness was the only answer. The only record of Dolores she had been able to find in the office was her address in Cromwell Gardens in Kensington.

  She would go there in the morning and confront Dolores and find out what was going on.

  Daisy was alarmed when she heard Rose’s plan the next morning. “Don’t come with me,” said Rose. “Go to the office, and if the captain asks, say I am unwell.”

  Not wanting to occasion comment by taking one of her father’s carriages, Rose hailed a hack and directed the driver to Kensington.

  She paid off the hack in Cromwell Gardens and stood looking up at the house. Could Dolores really afford a whole house? But on approaching the door, she found it had been divided up into four flats, and Dolores’s name was on a card indicating that she lived in a house made up of two flats, one on the ground floor and one above.

  Rose pulled the white bell stop. She waited and waited. Then she tried the handle of the front door. It was unlocked. She went into a large square hall. A cleaning woman was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor.

  “Which is Miss Duval’s flat?” asked Rose.

  “Door on your left, missus,” said the woman over her shoulder.

  The door was slightly open. Rose knocked and then called. No reply. She stepped inside the flat. She would leave her card on a tray she could see on the side table. She took out her card case, and then put it away again. Dolores might only be amused by the fact she had called. Then she saw the door to a front parlour was open. She walked towards it. Perhaps there might be some evidence of why Dolores had hired Harry.

  The first thing she saw was one slippered foot lying behind a sofa by the window. Her heart began to thud. Rose walked around the sofa and let out a sharp scream of fright. Dolores was lying dead on the floor. She was dressed only in a white silk-and-lace nightgown and an elaborately embroidered dressing gown. A red stain of blood had seeped from a hole in her chest. A revolver was lying on the floor beside her. Numb with shock, Rose picked up the revolver.

  A loud scream erupted from behind her. Rose swung round, eyes dilated with fright, the revolver still in her hand. It was the cleaning woman. “Murder!” she screeched and then ran out into the street, shouting, “Murder. Perlees! Murder!”

  People began to crowd in to Dolores’s flat. Rose stared at them and they stared at Rose until a man walked forward and took the revolver from her.

  “What’s going on here?” A policeman thrust his way through the crowd. A chorus of voices rose, some shouting, “She murdered her. She had the gun in her hand.”

  “I didn’t … I found her,” whispered Rose through white lips.

  “Name?”

  “Lady Rose Summer.”

  The policeman turned and shooed everyone out of the flat. He saw a telephone on a table by the fireplace and dialled Scotland Yard.

  “My business with Miss Duval is confidential,” Harry was saying to the enraged earl.

  “You paraded yourself and that trollop at the opera in front of everyone. Your engagement to my daughter is off. What is it, Jarvis?”

  The earl’s secretary was hovering nervously in the doorway.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I have received an urgent call from Scotland Yard. Lady Rose has been arrested for murder.”

  A little sincerity is a dangerous thing,

  and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.

  —OSCAR WILDE

  Superintendent Kerridge knew Rose. She had been involved in several of his previous cases. He had her escorted to his office and served with hot sweet tea, anxious to interrogate her quickly, as he was sure the earl was about to descend on him with a battalion of lawyers.

  Kerridge was a grey man: grey hair, grey bushy eyebrows, grey face, and all set off with a grey suit. He had a soft spot for Lady Rose, probably because he sensed a misfit like himself. Inside Kerridge burned a dreamer who would like to see the aristocracy hanging from the lamp posts. But he kept his views to himself. He had a wife and children to look after.

  “Now, my lady,” he began, “tell me exactly what happened and why you were there.”

  “I saw Harry—Captain Cathcart—at the opera with Miss Duval. He had told me he was investigating something for her, but I felt he was disgracing me by association. He had no right to appear to be escorting her. I went to have it out with her. The door was open. When I walked in, I saw a foot protruding from behind the sofa. I walked round. She was dead. Shot. I screamed. There was a revolver lying next to her. I was dazed with shock. I picked it up and then the cleaning woman rushed in and began crying murder.”

  There came the sounds of a loud altercation outside and Kerridge damned the advent of the motor car, which got people from point A to point B so quickly.

  A police officer put his head around the door. “Sir, Lord Hadshire is here—” he had begun when he was rudely thrust aside. The earl bustled in, followed by his wife, Lady Polly, Captain Harry, and Sir Crispin Briggs, Q.C.

  “Don’t say another word,” the earl barked at his daughter.

  “Has she been charged?” asked Briggs.

  “Not yet,” said Kerridge heavily. “I had just begun to interrogate her.”

/>   “Then if you wish to ask her any more questions, you can do it at our house with Sir Harry Briggs present.”

  Kerridge sighed. “Then I shall visit you this afternoon. I have witnesses to interview. Captain Cathcart. A word with you.”

  He waited until Rose was bundled out by her parents and barrister.

  Harry sat down and looked at Kerridge bleakly. “What on earth was Rose up to?”

  “It seems the final straw came when you squired Miss Duval to the opera. Lady Rose went to confront Miss Duval. She says she found her dead, and in a moment of shock, picked up the revolver. She was found like that by the cleaning woman and several other witnesses. It looks bad.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Sent over to the Bureau already. So what was Miss Duval’s business with you?”

  “Miss Duval had received various threatening letters. She wanted me to find out who had written them and to protect her until such time as I found out the culprit.”

  “Why did she not go to the police?”

  “She begged me not to. She had a fear of the police. Miss Duval had been in some trouble in Paris. A certain aristocratic lady claimed that Miss Duval had stolen a pearl necklace. Miss Duval said that the necklace had been given to her by the lady’s husband. It was a great scandal and she said she received rough treatment from the police and the newspapers.”

  “Do you have the letters?”

  “Miss Duval kept them at her flat.”

  “What were the threats like?”

  “Things like, ‘I am coming to kill you. Your sort of woman shouldn’t be alive.’ Written on cheap paper.”

  Kerridge stood up. “We’d better get to Kensington as soon as possible. I must see these letters.”

  “Becket will drive us. He’s waiting downstairs.”

  Becket was silent and miserable during the drive. Rose in trouble meant Daisy would be drawn into possible danger. He wished he had told Daisy the whole truth of his fear of marriage. Marriage would mean leaving the captain’s employ, where he had been so secure, and venturing into the world of business because the captain had promised to set him up in some trade. Becket had been poor when the captain had rescued him and he dreaded failing in business and returning to a life of poverty. Then Phil Marshall, also rescued by the captain and working for him, had been excited at the idea of taking over Becket’s job, and was plainly upset and disappointed when Becket showed no signs of leaving. Daisy had initially suggested that they set up a dress salon using costumes designed by Lady Polly’s seamstress, Miss Friendly. But Becket felt it was somehow not a manly job. He preferred setting up a pub, but Daisy had balked at the idea of pulling pints.

  “Look out!” shouted Harry. “Pay attention, Becket. You nearly ran over that man.”

  At Cromwell Gardens, Kerridge nodded to the policemen, who were still taking statements from the cleaning woman and the neighbours, and went into the flat. The pathologist, who had been kneeling beside the body, rose up at their arrival.

  “Clean shot right through the heart,” he said. “No signs of a struggle.”

  Detective Inspector Judd entered. “Doesn’t seem to be any break-in or tampering with the locks. It was someone she knew.”

  “We’re looking for threatening letters that the captain here said were sent to her. Let’s start.”

  They all searched diligently, but there was no sign of the letters. They were just about to give up when a sharp voice cried out, “What is going on? What are you doing here?”

  They all swung round. A tall, severe-looking woman stood in the doorway to the front parlour.

  Harry recognized her. “The lady’s maid,” he said quickly to Kerridge. “Miss Thomson, I am afraid I have bad news for you. Your mistress has been murdered.”

  Miss Thomson sank down onto the nearest chair, her hand at her throat. “Those letters,” she said. “I told her to go to the police.” Her voice had a Scottish burr.

  “Why were you absent from the house?” asked Kerridge. “And what about the other servants?”

  “Miss Duval insisted we all take the day off.”

  “Who works here apart from yourself?”

  “There’s the parlourmaid, Ralston; the cook-housekeeper, Mrs. Jackson; the kitchen maid, Betty; and Mrs. Anderson, who comes in three times a week to do the rough. Mrs. Anderson is here. She says she came back for something. The rest will all be back by early evening. How was my mistress murdered?”

  “Miss Duval was shot. Did she say anything about expecting a visitor?”

  “Miss Duval did not. But I had the feeling she was going to entertain someone she did not want us to see.”

  “Have you any idea who that person might be?”

  “I thought it might be a certain royal personage.”

  “Keep that thought to yourself,” snapped Kerridge. Dear God! Was he going to have to interview the king?

  “How long have you been in the employ of Miss Duval?”

  “Ever since madam came to London. She got rid of her French staff. She did not trust them and suspected one of them of sending snippets about her to the newspapers.”

  “So when did she come to London?”

  “Only a month ago,” said Harry.

  “And how did she hire the staff?”

  “Madam hired the others through an agency. She had advertised for a lady’s maid in the Times before leaving Paris. I applied for the post.”

  “Your previous employer?”

  “Lady Burridge.”

  “And why did you leave?”

  “Lady Burridge died.”

  “Now, we are looking for threatening letters sent to Miss Duval. Do you know where she kept them?”

  “Certainly. She kept them in a little bureau in the boudoir upstairs.”

  “Show us.”

  Harry and Kerridge followed the lady’s maid’s erect figure up the stairs. “Why did you choose to work for a member of the demi-monde?” asked Kerridge.

  She turned on the landing. “Miss Duval paid good wages and was kind. I shall miss her.”

  She led the way into a pretty boudoir and went straight to the bureau. “Oh, that one,” said Kerridge gloomily. “That’s already been searched.”

  “There are no signs of a frantic search,” said Harry. “There were no drawers pulled out and left open. Neither was the outer door forced. It looks as if Miss Duval knew her visitor, may even have confided in this visitor and shown him the letters. What about her jewels? And why was she clad only in her nightgown and dressing gown? It looks as if she was expecting a lover.”

  “Madam fretted at the restriction of stays. She went around clad only in her undress most mornings. I tried to persuade her to wear something more seemly, but she laughed at me and called me a fuddy-duddy.” Thomson sat down as if her legs had suddenly given way. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Jewels!” said Harry sharply. “Has anything been taken?”

  Thomson went to a large jewel box. “The key is in the lock,” she said. “That’s odd. It is always kept locked. I have one key and madam had the other.”

  She threw open the lid. Inside were a series of trays with rings and earrings. She lifted them out. In the well of the box were piles of necklaces. “Madam kept her diamonds at the bank,” said Thomson. “But there is a sapphire necklace, a ruby necklace and a necklace of black pearls missing.”

  “You are sure?” asked Kerridge.

  “I check the inventory every evening. Also I made a daily inventory of the lace box.” Lace was in vogue for trimmings and some of it was priceless.

  “Why is there dust over everything?” asked Thomson.

  “Men from the fingerprint bureau dusted everything for prints before we began our search.”

  Kerridge hated to ask the next question, but he knew where his duty lay. “Why did you assume this visitor might be a royal personage?”

  “It was something madam said. We had been shopping at Fortnum’s. There was a part
icular tea they sell that madam liked. His Majesty visited the store while we were there. He seemed much taken with my mistress. He drew her aside and whispered something to her. Madam blushed and laughed and for the rest of that day was very elated.”

  “But she didn’t say anything specific?”

  Thomson shook her head.

  “Friends? Did she have a particular friend she may have confided in?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Gentlemen friends?”

  “Only Captain Cathcart.”

  “Very well, Miss Thomson. You may retire. We will wait for the rest of the staff to arrive.”

  When she had gone, Kerridge eyed Harry suspiciously. “Were your relations with Miss Duval strictly business?”

  “Yes. I was protecting her and trying to find out who had sent the letters.”

  “I tell you what’s odd,” said Kerridge heavily. “Here’s a famous French tart whose business it is to find herself a wealthy protector. But the only person around is you.”

  “Miss Duval told me she did not wish to … er … return to business until whoever had written those letters had been found.”

  “What was she like?”

  “I would estimate she was at the top of her profession. You see, it’s not just what they do in bed, it is how they can charm and entertain out of it. She was warm-hearted, witty and funny. I liked her immensely.”

  “Liked? That was all?”

  “Yes.”

  Kerridge took out a large pocket watch. “We had better go and interview Lady Rose.”

  Harry felt low during the drive to the earl’s. He had not been quite honest with Kerridge. He had been charmed and fascinated by Dolores. Apart from her charm and her undoubted sexual attraction, she had exuded an almost maternal warmth. He felt guilty when he thought about Rose. Yes, he had kissed Rose passionately and she had responded, but when he had seen her again, she had seemed cold and remote. It had not dawned on Harry that the normally courageous Rose was shy. The newspapers tomorrow were going to crucify her. He was sure the neighbours who had found her with the revolver had already talked, not to mention the cleaning woman.