Snobbery With Violence: An Edwardian Murder Mystery Page 7

  She studied Daisy for a moment and then asked, “Do you not find your life here dull?”

  “Oh, no, my lady. I like dull. I can’t get enough of dull. And three good meals a day!”

  “Very well, Daisy. There is one thing more. I have over-prided myself on my intelligence but I lack common sense. I made a bad mistake with Blandon.”

  “I’ll tip you off if there’s another masher,” said Daisy eagerly. “Can tell ’em a mile off.”

  Five

  O blind your eyes and break your heart and hack your hand away,

  And lose your love and shave your head; but do not go to stay

  At the little place in What’sitsname where folks are rich and clever;

  The golden and the goodly house, where things grow worse for ever;

  There are things you need not know of, though you live and die in vain,

  There are souls more sick of pleasure than you are sick of pain

  —G. K. CHESTERTON, THE ARISTOCRAT

  Rose began to feel apprehensive as her father’s coach bowled along the country roads towards Telby Castle, home of the Marquess of Hedley. Would the other guests shun her? If they do, she thought fiercely, then Daisy and I will simply pack up and go home. There had been no need to buy new clothes for the visit. Lady Polly had pointed out to her daughter that a fortune had already been spent on dresses for the season.

  The sky was a clear hard blue and there was a chill in the air. The leaves on the trees were blazing with autumn colours.

  A new beginning, thought Rose. Perhaps this is a new beginning. And if not, well, there were jobs in London for women who knew how to type. There were lodging houses for businesswomen at reasonable rates. Whatever happened, she was resolved not to rot in the country for the rest of her life.

  She was wearing one of the new corselets which had very slight boning, and had left off the usual padding. She had covered her gown with a heavy cloak before making her goodbyes to her mother, knowing that Lady Polly would have been appalled to learn that her daughter was not steel-corseted into the fashionable hourglass figure and leaning-forward look.

  Under her tailored travelling dress she was wearing a silk petticoat with a frou-frou of ruffles from the knee to the hem. Rose, who had considered her mind above fripperies, nonetheless enjoyed the swishing rustling sound the petticoat made when she moved.

  Daisy was learning to be a lady’s maid very quickly, but Rose often sensed a naughtiness in her little maid and often wondered how long Daisy would be content to be a servant.

  Telby Castle had been built in the latter years of the old queen’s reign. It was a sort of folly with towers and battlements, arrow slits and stained-glass windows. It even had a drawbridge and a moat.

  The new building had replaced a Georgian gem of a house with furniture and rooms designed by Robert Adam.

  “Not a good master,” volunteered Daisy, who had been told she was allowed to speak freely when she was alone with her mistress.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Rose.

  “Didn’t you notice? When we came through Telby Village, it was ever so poor.”

  Rose had been brought up like everyone else in England to believe that God put one in one’s appointed position, but surely not to abuse that position, she thought, wondering if she might find the courage to tell the marquess he ought to do something about his tenants. Then she sighed. Such a remark would be considered the height of unfeminine insolence.

  She was shown to an apartment in one of the four towers. To her relief, Daisy was allocated a small room off her own bedchamber. When the housekeeper left, Rose said, “When you go down to the servants’ hall, you will need to find out which is my bell. Oh, there’s the dressing gong. I wonder who else is of the house party.”

  Daisy was rapidly unpacking the trunks. “What dress, my lady?”

  “White, I suppose. The moiré with the lace inserts. My pearls, I think. White gloves. The kid shoes with the little bows and those new sequinned evening stockings.”

  Daisy helped Rose put her hair up over the pads and fixed it in place after she had dressed. “You look really beautiful, my lady. Maybe there’s a handsome gentleman in the party.”

  “After my recent experience, I have no interest in men.”

  “Garn!”

  “No, I mean it. Now pick up my stole and fan and follow me to the drawing-room. The second gong has just been sounded. You’d better ring the bell first and get a guide.”

  A liveried footmen escorted them down from the tower into an enormous fake baronial hall where fake suits of armour glistened under fake tattered medieval flags.

  A butler took over and led them across the hall, opened a heavy carved door and sonorously announced, “Lady Rose Summer.”

  It seemed to Rose at first that she had entered a room full of staring eyes. Red light from a large fire flickered on monocles and lorgnettes. Then the marchioness came forward. “Nice to see you, dear. Pleasant journey?”

  “Yes. I—”

  “Good. Let me see. Take you round. Introductions. No, I won’t. You’ll get to know everybody in good time. Ah, dinner.”

  “Got the honour,” said a young man with patent-leather hair, holding out his arm. “I’m Freddy Pomfret. Deuced fine place this, what?”

  “Very fine, yes,” said Rose politely and was led into dinner. She wondered briefly whether the marquess would serve roast ox to chime with the surroundings, but the dinner was the usual extravagant fare. A large silver epergne in the centre of the table depicting General Wolfe’s army scaling the heights of Quebec restricted her view of the guests opposite her. Freddy was on her right and his friend, Tristram Baker-Willis, was on her left.

  The words of Miss Tremp came back to Rose. “Ninety men out of every hundred,” the governess had said, “offer a remark upon the weather, but unless there has been something very extraordinary going on in the meteorological line, it is better to avoid the subject if possible.”

  Fortunately for Rose, the bomb explosions near her home fascinated her two dinner companions so much that she was obliged to say little. Freddy ranted about the Bolsheviks and when she eventually turned away to Tristram, he ranted in much the same vein.

  At last the marchioness rose as a signal that the ladies were to follow her to the drawing-room.

  Rose had counted nine men and nine women in the house party, the number not including their hosts.

  The marchioness introduced Rose and she tried to remember all the names. There were two American sisters, Harriet and Deborah Peterson, buxom and healthy-looking but disappointing Rose because they did not have American accents but the clipped, staccato speech of the others.

  Then there was a thin, waspish girl called Mary Gore-Desmond who said little but kept flashing angry little resentful glances all around her. A Scottish beauty, Frederica Sutherland, was telling them all about the joys of hunting in a voice which could have been heard across two six-acre fields and three spinneys.

  Mrs. Jerry Trumpington, ensconced in an armchair by the fire, was a toad of a woman with a fat lascivious face and very thick lips. She was talking about food to a dark, elegant woman, Margaret Bryce-Cuddlestone.

  Standing together in a corner: mousy Maisie Chatterton, and a tall, pseudo-theatrical lady called Lady Sarah Trenton.

  After the introductions, it looked as if Rose was going to be ignored, but Margaret Bryce-Cuddlestone approached her and said with a smile, “Are you getting over your terrible treatment at the hands of that cad, Blandon?”

  “I’m getting over it,” said Rose ruefully, “but I don’t think anyone else is.”

  “Walk with me a little,” urged Margaret. “That awful Trumpington woman is about to heave herself to her feet. She’s just been watching you as if you are a particularly succulent lamb chop. If we engage in deep conversation, she’ll hopefully leave us alone. This party does seem like a bore and I’ve only just arrived. Still, we’ve all got to find husbands.”

  “Have
you had a season?” asked Rose.

  “Yes, and I failed. Ma and Pa got two offers for my hand and I turned both down, so I’m in disgrace. I was let out of my cage to go to this house party and more or less ordered to come back with a husband.”

  “Is there anyone you find attractive? Who are they all?”

  “Well, there’re your dinner companions, Freddy and Tristram. Need I say more? The Honourable Clive Fraser is handsome and rich, but dull, very dull. Sir Gerald Burke is terribly amusing. Quite the rattle. But no money and there are rumours that he was, well, a friend of Oscar Wilde.”

  “Is he a playwright as well?”

  “Not quite. Harry Trenton is so-so—hunts, shoots and kills everything that moves, ideal for the Scottish female over there. Jerry Trumpington is married to the awful Mrs. Trumpington. And then there is Neddie Fremantle. He’s called Neddie because he laughs like a donkey, haw, haw, haw. And finally Bertram Brookes, quiet and acidulous.”

  “It was very kind of Lord Hedley to invite me,” said Rose. “As you will understand, I have not been in the way of getting any invitations at all.”

  “It’ll pass. You are not what I expected. The rumour was you didn’t like anyone and talked like an encyclopaedia.”

  “I wanted to find an intelligent husband,” mourned Rose.

  Margaret gave an elegant little shrug. “You will have to forget that. They do not exist in our class. Did you not meet young men before your come-out? There must have been the local hunt balls and parties, dinners and so on.”

  “My parents really thought I was a schoolgirl and I am afraid my governess did not remind them of my age. It was only on my seventeenth birthday when they asked how old I was that they realized they would need to prepare me for a season. So I was trained in etiquette and dancing by various ladies. I first attended a few parties, just before the start of the season in London, but it was at one of those parties that I met Sir Geoffrey.”

  Margaret nodded in understanding. Parents of their class quite often saw little of their children.

  They were then joined by the gentlemen. Freddy and Tristram bore down on Rose and began to pay her extravagant compliments until she felt she couldn’t bear their company any longer. She excused herself and went to her hostess and pleaded she had a headache. The marchioness summoned Daisy, and, followed by her maid, Rose escaped.

  Once in her room, she confided in Daisy. “I had to get away. There were two young men praising my appearance in a very warm way which I felt was not at all the thing.”

  “Who were they?” asked Daisy, taking the bone pins out of Rose’s hair.

  “Freddy Pomfret and Tristram Baker-Willis.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “In a way, almost alike. They both have short dark hair smeared down with grease and very white faces and rather thick white lips. Both very slim. Freddy has a small moustache and Tristram is clean-shaven. It’s all right, Daisy, you can go to bed. If you just help me out of my gown and unfasten my stays, I can do the rest.”

  Daisy lifted the gown over Rose’s head and then untied the ribbons of the corselet.

  “I really do feel a fish out of water,” mourned Rose as Daisy stooped and unclipped the long suspenders. “But there’s something odd about this house party. Or maybe it is just me and there’s nothing odd at all.”

  “Never mind, my lady. It’s the first day. Would you like me to fetch you a cup of Bournville cocoa?”

  “That would be very welcome. Press the bell.”

  “It’s all right, my lady. I’ll go to the kitchens myself. Got to find my way around.”

  Daisy left and went down the stairs. Once in the hall, she could hear one of the ladies singing in a high reedy voice while someone accompanied her on the piano.

  She went straight to the dark recesseses at the back of the hall and pushed open a green baize door.

  Down the winding stone staircase and into the vast kitchen, where plates of sandwiches were being piled up. “Not more food, surely,” said Daisy. The butler looked across at her in surprise. “Our guests always have sandwiches before they go to bed.”

  “I came to get a cup of cocoa for my lady,” said Daisy.

  “I’ll fix it for you,” grumbled the cook.

  “Just give me the tin and show me where the milk is and I’ll do it myself,” said Daisy.

  The butler, Curzon, had heavy eyebrows and they nearly disappeared under his hairline. “You are lady’s maid to Lady Rose Summer, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are?”

  “Daisy Levine.”

  “Levine, I suggest in future you remember your place. You should have rung the bell.”

  “Now I’m here, I may as well get it,” said Daisy pertly.

  “Oh, let her get it,” snapped the cook. “We’re all exhausted.”

  She took down a tin of Bournville cocoa and placed it with a jug of milk on the table, along with a small pan.

  “Ta,” said Daisy.

  Curzon headed off out of the kitchen, followed by three footmen carrying trays of drinks and sandwiches.

  “You got on the wrong side of him,” said the cook.

  “Don’t care. Don’t live here, thank God,” said Daisy. “You’d think they’d have built a modern house instead of this castle.”

  “It’s not bad. There’s a lot of help and the stove’s gas. The last place I worked they hadn’t changed anything in the kitchen since the eighteenth century. And gaslight everywhere here. No need for oil lamps.”

  “Some houses in London have electricity,” said Daisy.

  “I’m Mrs. Mason,” volunteered the cook. “Your young lady got herself a bit of a reputation.”

  “Wasn’t her fault,” said Daisy.

  “Lady Rose should be careful. Some of these young men like to roam the corridors when they’ve had too much to drink.”

  Daisy carefully measured cocoa into a cup, lifted the pan from the stove, and carefully filled a cup.

  “Thanks,” said Daisy, heading for the door.

  “Ring the bell next time,” said Mrs. Mason. “Old Curzon is a stickler for etiquette.”

  Daisy made her way rapidly back up to the tower. But when she entered Rose’s room, it was to find her mistress was fast asleep. Daisy turned off the gaslight and sat down in a corner and sipped the cocoa.

  It would be the way of the world, she thought, if Rose were regarded as some sort of fallen woman. Men never got the blame. She finished the cocoa and went out again and listened. The guests were beginning to retire for the night. Daisy sat and waited and waited. It might be as well to take precautions.

  “Jolly useful having cards on the doors,” whispered Freddy to Tristram an hour later. The bed candle he was holding dripped hot wax on his hand and he swore. All the gaslight had been turned off for the night.

  “I say,” said Tristram, staggering and holding on to the wall for support, “we won’t go too far, will we?”

  “Bit of a kiss and a cuddle. Say she asked us to call. With her reputation, who’s going to believe her?” Freddy giggled and hiccupped. “Hold the candle up so as I can read the card on the door. I thought this was her room.”

  “No, it’s that old fright, Mrs. Jerry Trumpington. Try the one below.”

  They staggered together back down the staircase. “Here, let’s try this door,” said Freddy. “Ah, got it. Here we go.”

  He opened the door gently and they both approached the bed on which a silent figure lay asleep.

  Freddy lay down on one side of the figure and Tristram on the other.

  “Now,” whispered Freddy. He grabbed the sleeping figure.

  Which shot up and screamed and screamed. A shaft of moonlight fell on the terrified features of Mrs. Jerry Trumpington.

  “Sorry,” babbled Freddy. “Thought it was my room.”

  Mrs. Trumpington’s lady’s maid rushed in and began to scream as well. Sir Gerald Burke appeared in the doorway. Freddy and Tristram tried
to get past him but he blocked the way. More guests began to appear carrying bed candles.

  Daisy joined the crowd. When all attention was focused on the guilty pair, she slid Rose’s card neatly out of the holder and put back Mrs. Trumpington’s card.

  “What is going on here?” demanded the Lord Hedley.

  “Frightfully sorry, wrong room,” pleaded Freddy.

  But Mrs. Trumpington had recovered from her fright. As her maid lit the gaslight, a distinctly salacious look began to appear in her small eyes.

  “Two of you got into my bed. Why was that?”

  “Too much to drink,” said Tristram desperately.

  “Oh, you naughty, naughty boys,” said Mrs. Trumpington.

  “What’s the matter?” Mr. Trumpington, a small man with a beaten air, shuffled to the front of the crowd wrapped in a violently coloured silk dressing-gown.

  Mrs. Trumpington laughed. “I do believe these wicked, wicked boys were trying to seduce me.”

  “Can’t be true,” said her husband. “I mean, why?”

  “Downstairs, you two,” said the marquess to Freddy and Tristram. “The rest of you go to bed.”

  Daisy slipped quietly back up to Rose’s room. Rose was fast asleep. She had not awakened during the whole commotion.

  Rose entered the breakfast room the following morning still blissfully unaware of the happenings of the night before. One long sideboard was laden with a row of silver dishes kept hot by spirit lamps. There was a choice of poached or scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, sausages, devilled kidneys, haddock and kedgeree. An even larger sideboard offered pressed beef, ham, tongue, galantines, cold roast pheasant, grouse, partridge and ptarmigan. A side table was heaped with fruit: melons, peaches, nectarines and raspberries. And in case anyone should prove to be still hungry—scones and toast and marmalade and honey and specially imported jams.

  Rose, an early riser, was relieved to see there was only one other guest in the breakfast room, Margaret Bryce-Cuddlestone.