Death at Daisy's Folly (20 page)

“No,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “She'll think we've bin spyin' on 'em. Snoopin' on their secrets.”

Spying?
Amelia was suddenly seized with the hysterical desire to laugh.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the
other's tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

-RUDYARD KIPLING
“Female of the Species”

The criminal classes are so close to us that even the policeman can see them.

—OSCAR WILDE
A few maxims for the instruction of the over-educated.

 

 

U
pon her return to Easton Lodge a little past one in the afternoon, Daisy went directly to her suite of rooms, where she stripped and bathed quickly, suffused with the despairing sense that she could never scrub off the dirt and odor of the workhouse—or, like Lady Macbeth, the blood that she had all day felt on her hands. She changed into a luncheon dress of stiff garnet silk and sat to have her hair rearranged, all the while listening for the luncheon bell, which would not ring until Bertie and Brooke came in from that unspeakable business at the Folly.

On any other day, Daisy would have been beside herself at the thought of delaying luncheon for nearly an hour. That concern paled, however, in comparison with the other horror which every hour grew greater. She stared blindly at her reflection in the mirror as her maid added a few fresh garnet-colored chrysanthemums to her hair. But all she saw was a pair of apprehensive eyes, the pupils grown large and dark, and pale lips that would tremble in spite of all her efforts to still them. She had been so foolish, so desperately, dreadfully reckless, and now it would all come out. Not in public, of course, for Bertie would act swiftly to protect her, as he had done when Charlie Beresford's wife made such a howling to-do over her correspondence with Charlie. But Bertie could do nothing if it got into the newspapers. Oh, dear God, the newspapers, she thought, with a shudder. They would be on her like leeches!

The luncheon bell sounded and Daisy opened a jar of color and shakily rouged her pale lips and cheeks. Then she stood and picked up her handkerchief, resolute. She must compose her face in a careless smile, walk downstairs as if she had not a care in the world, and chat with her guests—all the while trying to think out what to do.

Should she go to Brooke, confess what she had done, and throw herself on his mercy? Perhaps he would consent to take her away somewhere until the commotion died down—to Mexico, perhaps. He was always running off to Mexico to see about his mines. Or perhaps she should appeal first to Bertie. She frowned, trying to think things through in something like a logical fashion. Perhaps she should take matters into her own hands, and do what had to be done without confiding in anyone else. When she was sure that at least some of the damage had been repaired, she could speak to Bertie, or to Brooke, or to both of them. Mexico was always an option, of course.

She went to the door, glancing over her shoulder, as she always did each time she left this room, for one last look in the cheval glass. The image there was perfection itself: that of a woman at the very peak and pinnacle of her beauty, a woman without peer in the entire realm. She smiled, and the woman in the glass returned the smile famous for its caressing sweetness and voluptuousness, the smile that enchanted so many men. In praise of that smile, Oscar Wilde had once written a graceful sentiment on the back of her theater program. The first line went something like, “Daisy's sweet smile commands my passion.” Poor Oscar. Neither his art nor his place in society nor his powerful friends had protected him from outraged morality and the fury of the law. She shuddered. How pitiable a future in prison must be.

Once again the despair engulfed her, and she was reminded of Oscar's horrid little book,
The Picture of Dorian Gray.
How could she appear so lovely and serene and pure, while within be so torn and tormented by what she had done, what she wanted to do, what she had failed to do? She felt herself a woman of great dreams and high hopes, not for herself, but for her causes, for all the poor, helpless people she hoped to help. And yet she continually betrayed those dreams by her deadly carelessness. It was as if she had been given the heart to do wonderful things, but her judgment was unequal to her heart, and her fortune and social position had cursed her. And now this awful business with Reggie- Oh, God, was there no end to the troubles she created for herself?

A little later the twenty guests were seated at tables for four arranged in one corner of the drawing room, screened off from the rest of the room by a row of potted palms. The group was subdued. Of course, they already knew what had happened, but when Bertie stood beside his chair, tapped magisterially on his water goblet with a spoon, and announced that Reggie Wallace had been shot dead, little cries of pretended astonishment rippled around the room.

“Murdered? Reggie?” cried Felicia Metcalf, her gloved hand going to her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Wallace?” Malcolm Rochdale exclaimed. “Preposterous ! The man can't be dead. He was hale and hearty at dinner last night. Quite his usual self.”

“Don't be tiresome, Malcolm,” Verena Rochdale retorted acidly. “Nobody remains hale and hearty with a bullet in his head.” She reached into her reticule, took out a bottle of salts, and handed it to Felicia. “Didn't you hear what Bertie said? Reggie didn't just turn up his toes and die. Somebody
shot
him!”

A vision of Reggie lying dead flashed through Daisy's mind. The thought made her sick and giddy, and she reached unsteadily for her champagne glass. But it wasn't his death she had to fear, she reminded herself. It was what he had left behind that concerned her.

Malvina Knightly, her bosom full of hothouse roses, let out a loud wail. “What an unspeakably horrible thing!” she cried. “One simply
cannot
trust the servants these days. They are a criminal class. We shall all be murdered in our beds!”

“Now, now, Malvina,” her husband Milford murmured, and patted her hand, his diamond rings flashing. “You have nothing to fear, my dear. Whoever did in Reggie is certainly not interested in
you.”

“Milford is right, Malvina,” said old Sir Thomas Cobb, with a look that was meant to express sadness. Sir Thomas was Reggie's father-in-law. But there had never been any love lost between them, Daisy knew, especially after Reggie's wife died. In fact, old Sir Thomas had accused him more than once of murdering her. “But one mustn't be too quick to accuse the servants,” Sir Thomas added. “If you ask me, it's the Anarchists who did it. Talk of criminals! They have it in for anybody who has property.”

Sir Friedrich Temple, who had sat silently until now, spoke up. “Whatever the motive for Reggie's murder, we can be sure that Bertie has the situation well in hand,” he said. “I had the privilege of being with him when he was organizing things, and I can report that he has taken several important steps to insure our safety.”

Bertie looked gratified. “Thank you for your confidence, Freddy. Of course, it goes without saying that we are all terribly saddened by—”

Bertie's voice became a buzzing in her ears, and Daisy reached for her champagne glass again. The bewilderment, the shock these people were expressing—it was all quite ridiculous, of course. Every person in the room had heard of Reggie's death within moments after his body was found. But pretense was so much a part of their lives that it came without effort, without thought, even. They pretended that their marriages were satisfactory, their money sufficient, their friends congenial, their love affairs stimulating. Lies, all of it! Beneath those shrouds of pretense, their marriages decayed, their friends deceived them, and their love affairs made a mockery of the word. Even now, as she looked around the room, she could not name three who were what they seemed. The glittering jewels were paste, the expressions of marital contentment were false, the fat purses supplied by the moneylenders—

Daisy caught Samuel Isaacson's sharply knowing glance and turned away, only to encounter the glance of her husband, like a slap on her cheek. Reading accusation in his look, and anger, she shivered. Her maid had reported that Brooke had stationed himself over the body until Bertie arrived. What had he seen? What did he know?

“—a terribly tragic event, of course,” Bertie was saying in a melancholy tone, “and we shall all certainly miss dear old Reggie. He was a splendid sportsman and a loyal friend.” He paused and cleared his throat. “But I daresay that you have already glimpsed the difficulty. There are many who, if they learned of Reggie's unexpected and calamitous departure—coming only a day after the death of the stableboy—would not hesitate to use it to drape our names in scandal. This matter must be kept among ourselves.”

“Scandal!” Celia Rochdale exclaimed. She licked her pretty lips, her eyes bright. “Oh, dear!”

“It's all right, Celia,” Eleanor Farley said comfortingly. “You're far too young to worry about scandal. No one could possibly believe that you had anything to do with—”

“One is
never
too young to concern oneself with scandal,” Verena Rochdale said.

“But what about the police?” Lillian Forsythe asked. “When they come, the press won't be far behind.”

The police! Daisy stiffened. That was something she had not considered. If the police discovered—

“Not to worry, Lillian.” Brooke was speaking to Lillian, but Daisy felt that his remark was directed to her. “Bertie has taken complete charge of this affair. Matters are well in hand.”

There was a buzz of excited response around the room. Taken charge of the affair? What could that mean? Daisy searched her husband's expressionless face, but found no clue.

Bertie nodded gravely. “Brooke is quite right, Lillian. You are not to worry about the police. Desirable as it might be to officially exonerate each of us from suspicion—”

“Exonerate us?” Felicia jerked upright in her chair, Verena's salts in her hand. “Why, that's ridiculous! Pardon me for contradicting you, sir. but no one can possibly suspect us of shooting Reggie.”

“Or of bashing a stableboy on the head,” Lillian put in, lifting her chin. “Utter nonsense!”

“Exactly,” Bertie said soothingly. “The problem is, however, that although an official investigation would certainly allay any public suspicion that one of us in a moment of lunacy lost his or her head and committed murder, we cannot permit it. Ergo, no police.”

There was a spontaneous burst of applause. Daisy suddenly felt limp, like a marionette whose strings had gone loose, and a feeling of gratitude swept through her. Dear Bertie! He already knew, without her appealing to him, how much she needed his protection!

“But at the same time,” Bertie was continuing, “we cannot permit Reggie's murder to go unresolved. We must find the guilty party. To accomplish that, I have personally commissioned an investigation, in which I intend to play a substantial role.”

Daisy heard Knightly's sudden chuckle. “Do you, Bertie? By Jove, what a capital idea! A murder investigation—what fun! Only you would have thought of it.” He pursed his lips. “I wonder—what would you think of a small wager on the outcome?”

“A wager?” Felicia cried, half-hysterically. “You can speak of betting, when dear Reggie lies dead? What kind of man are you, Milford Knightly? Have you no
soul
?”

“I should think it in doubtful taste, myself,” Malvina. Knightly agreed, with a sliding glance at her husband.

“Oh, don't be such a prude, Malvina,” Knightly returned. “There's no reason why we can't have a bit of fun out of this dreadful affair. Why, Reggie himself would be the first to lay odds. He wouldn't want us sitting around, drawing long faces and moaning about how sad we are.”

Thomas Cobb was scowling. “I don't understand the bit about commissioning an investigation. What is all that about, Bertie?”

“It is about murder, Thomas,” the Prince said sagely. “And while I agree with Milford that we might indeed have a bit of seemly sport, our inquiry will, be conducted on the most professional basis. Of that I assure you.”

“Professional basis?” Daisy asked. Now that she was assured that the police would not be involved, she felt much better. “But if not by the authorities, then by whom, Bertie ?”

“By two of our own, my dear Daisy,” the Prince said. “By Charles Sheridan, with whom many of you are acquainted, and his associate, Miss Kate Ardleigh.”

There was a profound silence. “Miss ... Ardleigh?” Lillian asked, her voice rising incredulously. “You must be joking, sir!”

“Not at all,” Bertie said, smiling and rubbing his hands. “Charles Sheridan, for those of you who don't know, is a world-class scientist, whose credentials in the modern investigation of crime have already become well established. He assures me that Miss Ardleigh—Kate—is an asset to his work, and that the two have worked together successfully in the past. And I, of course, shall personally supervise the inquiry, and monitor its every phase.”

“Bravo, Bertie!” said Milford Knightly. His wife glared at him.

The Prince ignored the remark. “One of my first tasks has been to order an autopsy of our deceased comrade, who now resides in the game larder.”

“The game larder?” Felicia Metcalf reached for the smelling salts again.

“I have also dispatched Kirk-Smythe to guard Reggie's room.” His Highness paused and looked about him. “Now, do you have any questions?”