Sick of Shadows Page 6

  “No, but Dr. Linley said that he saw them on Farmer Jones’s cart heading towards Plomley today and then they came back in a hired carriage.”

  Rose was sewing at the machine in the parlour when they came in and she smiled with relief when she saw all the happy faces.

  “Everything all right?” she asked.

  Sally rushed forward and hugged her. “I don’t know how you did it, but Bert’s got a raise and Lady Blenkinsop won’t be troubling us. I’ll get tea on.”

  The children were so excited about their new frocks and about going to the fair that Rose decided to dress up for the occasion, never thinking for a moment that by doing so she was putting her life at risk.

  Rose had given Sally one of her best hats, a leghorn straw embellished with little yellow silk flowers.

  “You do look a picture,” said Bert to his wife, his face beaming with love. Rose felt a pang. This policeman saw his thin, hard-faced wife as beautiful. That was real love. Would any man ever look at her like that?

  The day of the fair dawned sunny and warm. Rose was wearing a white lace gown embroidered with blue forget-menots. On her head she wore a straw hat covered in silk forget-me-nots. A fine cashmere shawl was thrown round her shoulders and she carried a white lace parasol. Daisy was wearing a green silk gown with a little rakish green hat perched on her curled hair.

  The fair lasted two weeks. They decided to visit on the second week, after the horse fair was over, because the gypsies raced each other up and down the main street and there were always accidents.

  They wandered around the dozens of stalls. The children clamoured for brandy snaps filled with cream and then walked around to look at the gypsy caravans where the women sat outside making pretty little pincushions stuffed with bran to sell at the fair.

  Bert was on duty, so Sally kept near him, pushing the baby in a pram made out of an orange box and an old set of wheels.

  The children dragged Rose and Daisy to the steam roundabouts and Rose good-naturedly helped Daisy lift the smallest child up onto the brightly painted horses before climbing on herself. How wonderful it was to ride round and round while the barrel organ churned out music-hall songs. The current favourite was: “Oh! Oh! Antonio, he’s gone away—left me on my own e-o, all on my own e-o, I’d like to meet him and his new sweetheart, then up will go Antonio—and his ice cream cart.”

  Dr. Linley stopped to watch them. He was a keen amateur photographer. He raised his new Kodak camera just as the carousel slowed to a halt and snapped a photograph of Rose sitting side-saddle on the painted horse.

  In the evening, he developed the photographs in his darkroom. He stared at the photograph of Rose. It was perfect. She was holding on to her hat and her lips were curved in a smile.

  There was a new magazine for amateur photographers and they offered a prize every year for the best photograph. The next day, Dr. Linley entitled the photograph “A Summer’s Day at the Fair,” and posted it off.

  The year moved into high summer, and in July Bert took two weeks’ leave and they all went on holiday to Scarborough on the Yorkshire coast.

  Daisy reflected that she had never seen Rose so happy. She took the children swimming and never once did she complain about the rather seedy lodging-house where they stayed.

  Sally’s face was filling out now that, thanks to the payment from Rose’s family, they could afford good food at every meal, and she was not so careworn looking after the children, as Rose and Daisy took the burden of that duty off her hands. For the first time in years, she and Bert were able to spend time alone together.

  When they returned to the village they were all glowing with good health. Rose started to organize a concert to raise funds to repair the school roof. Daisy was to be the star performer, but Rose had promised to sing one song.

  The village hall was packed when Rose, accompanied by Daisy, walked onto the stage and began to sing:

  “Birds in the garden, all day long, singing for me their happy song

  Flowers in the sunshine, wind and dew, all of them speak to me of you;

  You that I long for, near or far, you that I follow, like a star,

  Day may be weary, weary and long, you will come home at evensong.

  When you come home, dear, all will be fair,

  Home is not home if you are not there;

  You in my heart, dear, you at my side,

  When you come home at eventide.”

  Rose sang with a depth of feeling Daisy had never heard in her voice before. She thought of Becket and wondered whether Rose had been thinking of the captain.

  There was a great roar of applause.

  Rose took Daisy’s hand and led her forward. Then they both bowed, and just as they bowed, a shot rang out.

  Women screamed, Bert blew his whistle, Daisy dragged a trembling Rose from the stage. “He’s here! He’s found us,” whispered Rose.

  FOUR

  Why should your fellowship a trouble be,

  Since man’s chief pleasure is society?

  —SIR JOHN DAVIES

  Two days had passed since the attempted murder of Lady Rose Summer. The countryside round about had been scoured for the would-be assassin. All railway stations were watched. Bert had a description of the man. He had called in at the village pub, The Feathers, with a magazine and had shown a photograph in it to the landlord. The photograph had won the annual prize and the story with it said it had been taken by a Dr. Linley of Drifton in Yorkshire.

  “I didn’t know any better,” protested the landlord. “You didn’t say to tell no one about her. I told him, ‘Oh, that’s Rose what lives with our policeman.’ ”

  He described the man as being of medium height, stockily built, with a large red face, a brown moustache and wearing a dark suit and a bowler hat.

  Kerridge had travelled to the village accompanied by Harry and Inspector Judd. Rose and Daisy were confined to the cottage and told not to venture out of doors.

  Kerridge said to Bert, “It’s no use you fretting, Shuffle-bottom. It’s not your fault. How were we to guess that wretched doctor would take a photograph of her? From the description, it’s no one we know. The Honourable Cyril isn’t at all like the description of this stranger in the village.”

  “What about Dolly’s brother, Jeremy?” asked Harry.

  Kerridge shook his head. “No, Jeremy Tremaine is thin and tall. What are you getting at? That her own family would kill her? Rubbish.”

  “It did cross my mind,” said Harry. “They were so blatantly ambitious.”

  “What I can’t understand,” said Kerridge, “is why he’s still after Lady Rose? As I said before, he must surely know that she would have told the police everything.”

  “Cyril could have hired someone,” said Harry. “I mean, he might blame Rose for his rejection.”

  “But she knew Dolly only for a very short time.”

  “He might not know that. There was also that speculation in the newspapers that Lady Rose might be keeping quiet out of loyalty to her friend. How did he manage to escape from a hall full of people?”

  “He stood by the side door and fired and then escaped out into the night. Everyone was screaming and tumbling about, trying to escape. Lots of confusion. No one really saw him because they were all looking at Lady Rose and Miss Levine on the stage. Lady Rose can’t continue to stay here. What are we to do with her?”

  “Her parents are in Biarritz. You managed to keep this out of the newspapers?”

  “Yes, clamped down on the whole thing.”

  “I see no reason to tell them of this.” Or poor Lady Rose really will be shipped out to India, he thought, “With any luck we will have solved the case by the time they return. I suggest Lady Rose should return to London. My Aunt Phyllis will act as chaperone and I myself will move into the earl’s town house.”

  “If you gentlemen would like to discuss this over dinner,” said Bert. “My Sally’s just fed the children and they’ve gone back to school. Lady Rose will take di
nner with you and you can tell her your plans.”

  Harry was taken aback to find Rose standing over the cooking pots on the range, wrapped in a long white pinafore. Daisy was laying the table with the help of Sally.

  Rose turned round as they entered. “Please sit down,” she said. “I am about to serve.”

  She lifted a leg of lamb out of one oven and then a tray of roasted potatoes and vegetables out of the other. She put the potatoes and vegetables in a casserole and placed it on the table and then put the leg of lamb on a large dish and put it in front of Harry. “Will you carve, please? I do not have the skill.”

  I will never understand the upper classes, thought Kerridge. Here is the captain, her fiancé, and yet she goes on as if he’s a stranger.

  When they were all seated over plates of lamb, Rose asked, “How are your investigations progressing?”

  “Not well at all,” said Kerridge. “By Jove, this lamb’s delicious. You will make the captain a good wife. How are you coping with the shock, Lady Rose?”

  “I am managing,” said Rose stiffly, remembering how, last night, she had clung on to Sally and wept.

  “We have decided that you should return to London,” said Kerridge. “We saw no reason to alarm your parents with news of this. The captain’s Aunt Phyllis will chaperone you and the captain himself will move into the town house as well.”

  Daisy brightened. Living with the captain meant living with Becket.

  “May Daisy and I not stay here?” asked Rose. “He will surely not try to come here again and it is easier to watch out for strangers in a small village than it is in London.”

  “There’s miles of places around this village where he could lie in wait,” said Kerridge. “I will arrange for you to make a press statement saying that you only knew Miss Tremaine briefly and she never said anything about anyone. There was only that note about her running away.”

  “Lady Rose’s photograph was in the newspapers after the death of Dolly Tremaine,” said Harry. “Maybe one of the locals recognized her and blabbed.”

  “If one of the locals had recognized her and it had got about, the press would have been here,” said Kerridge. “No, it was that doctor’s photograph that did the damage. May I have some more lamb?”

  Rose felt tearful the next day as she said goodbye to Sally, Bert and the children. Harry, waiting beside the closed carriage that was to take them to York, saw the way her lip trembled and was amazed that the usually haughty Lady Rose had formed such an affection for these people.

  “I shall come back, I promise,” said Rose, hugging Sally.

  The children began to cry. Daisy cried as well, although, unlike Rose, she was longing to get to London again and see Becket.

  Rose was silent on the long journey. Harry made several attempts to engage her in conversation, but she only answered in dreary monosyllables.

  But as the train from York was approaching Paddington, Rose suddenly asked him, “What is this aunt of yours like? Who is she?”

  “She is Lady Phyllis Derwent, widow of Lord Derwent. She is very kind.”

  “It is nearly August,” remarked Rose. “Lady Phyllis will not be obliged to do very much chaperoning. Everyone goes to Scotland in August to shoot things.”

  “Then you will have time to rest after your horrible experience.”

  Aunt Phyllis was waiting for them. Her butler answered the door to them, Brum having gone to Biarritz with the earl and countess. Unlike Brum, the butler, Dobson, was a small round genial man with mutton-chop whiskers and small twinkling eyes.

  They followed him up to the drawing-room. Aunt Phyllis rose to meet them. She was a thin, languid lady, dressed in a sea-green tea-gown bedecked with many long necklaces of pearls mixed with arty lumps of decorated china beads strung with black thread. Her long face was highly painted. Her eyes were a pale washed-out blue under wrinkled lids. The hand she extended to Rose was covered in rings.

  “Welcome,” she said. “I trust you had a good journey?”

  “Yes, I thank you.”

  “Such a too, too sickening experience. I do not know what Harry was about, to billet you with the peasantry.”

  “They were not peasants.” Rose fixed her with a hard stare. “In fact they were decent charming people with no false airs or graces. I was happy there.”

  “Dear me. How original.” Aunt Phyllis turned to Harry. “Is Rose to be kept indoors?”

  “No, through Superintendent Kerridge a statement is being issued to the press today to say that she knew very little about Dolly Tremaine.”

  Becket entered the room and Daisy wished she could throw herself into his arms.

  “Ah, Becket,” said Harry. “Any news?”

  “The Tremaine family departed for their home in the country some time ago. The son, Jeremy, is studying divinity at Oxford.”

  “I would really like to talk to the Tremaines now that their grief will have subsided a bit. Where do they live?”

  “Dr. Tremaine is rector of Saint Paul’s in the village of Apton Magna in Gloucestershire.”

  “I will go with you,” said Rose.

  “That will not do at all,” said Aunt Phyllis. “I forbid it.”

  “You are a guest in my home,” said Rose coldly, “so may I point out you are not in a position to forbid anything.”

  “My sweet child! Do not be in such a taking. I was merely concerned for your welfare,” said Phyllis. She did not want to give up free accommodation and free meals for herself and her servants.

  “As it is better I should be with my fiancée every time she ventures out of doors,” said Harry, “then perhaps it would be a good idea if she accompanied me.”

  Lord and Lady Hadfield were basking in the sun on the terrace of the Grand Hotel at Biarritz. The earl was asleep with a newspaper over his face.

  His wife poked him awake with the point of her parasol.

  “Brum says you received a telegraph this morning. What was it?”

  “Hey, what? Oh, that? Simply Cathcart saying that all was well with Rose.”

  “Such a relief,” sighed Lady Polly, looking out at an expanse of deep blue sea. “It is so pleasant to be spared the worry of her.”

  “I wish I had a son,” complained the earl. “Boys are less trouble.”

  “Oh, go back to sleep,” snapped his wife, thinking again of all those little graves in the churchyard at Stacey Court. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried and tried. She had given birth to three boys, all of whom had died in childbirth and had gone to join their little sisters in the family grave. Only Rose had survived. Difficult Rose.

  To Daisy’s dismay, the captain had changed his mind about staying at the earl’s town house. He had decided that it might occasion too much unfavourable comment, given that he was only engaged to Rose and not married to her.

  But at least she and Becket were to join Rose and Harry on the outing to Gloucestershire.

  Both wearing carriage dresses and heavily veiled, they climbed into Harry’s car the following day.

  The sun was shining and the shops and houses of London all had blinds and awnings, fluttering in the lightest of breezes. They gave the effect of a city under full sail.

  Harry was driving with Rose beside him. Rose was overawed by the beauty of the motor car. It was the new Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, the genius of the odd alliance between Charles Rolls, an aristocrat, and Frederick Royce, a working man from very poor beginnings. The Silver Ghost cruised along beautifully, keeping to the speed limit of twenty miles per hour.

  “Your business must be doing very well,” she remarked.

  “Because of my Rolls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Business has been excellent if tiresome. But people are prepared to pay a fortune for me to cover up scandals or even to find their lost dogs. I have told my secretary, however, that I am not taking on any further business until this case is solved.”

  They stopped at an inn in a village outside Oxford for lunch because they had s
et out early that morning. “I wonder if Jeremy Tremaine is at the university,” said Harry.

  “Hardly.” Rose poked at the food on her plate. She would not confess that she was still nervous and frightened, expecting assassins to jump out from behind every bush. “It’s high summer. What college does he attend?”

  “Saint Edwin’s.”

  “I wonder if this visit to the Tremaines is really necessary. They cannot know anything and they will hardly admit they drove their daughter into trying to run away because they were forcing her into marriage with Lord Berrow.”

  “They might just know something,” said Harry. “If you’ve finished toying with your food, we’ll get on the road again.” Inspector Judd entered Kerridge’s office looking excited. “A man’s been dragged out of the Thames under Westminster Bridge.”

  “So?”

  “He hadn’t been in the water long and he looks like the man from Plomley.” The police artist had made a sketch of Rose’s would-be assassin from the Plomley landlord’s description, and the picture, prominently displayed on posters, had already been distributed to every police station in Britain.

  Kerridge leaped to his feet and grabbed his bowler hat. “We’d best get down there and have a look.”

  The body was lying, covered with a blanket, on the landing stage at Charing Cross. “Anything in his pockets?” asked Kerridge.

  “I recognized him from the poster,” said the policeman, “and left him just as he was when he was dragged out of the river and gave instructions that you should be informed, sir.”

  “Good lad. Let’s have a look.”

  The constable pulled back the blanket. “He can’t have been in the water long,” commented Kerridge. “Who found him? Where exactly was he found?”

  “It was low tide and two children found him, half in, half out of the river.”

  “That artist did a good job. Let’s see what he has in his pockets.”

  Kerridge knelt beside the body and began to pull out the contents of the dead man’s pockets. There was a gold watch, a wallet containing a wad of notes, a blackjack, and, in one coat pocket, to Kerridge’s delight, a pistol—a lady’s purse pistol. “This looks like our man,” said Kerridge. He turned the body over with the help of Judd. Someone had struck the man a vicious blow on the back of the head.