Hasty Death (13 page)

‘Tish!’ protested the earl. ‘We were going to call in a few days’ time. We would have found out what was up.’

‘You would have been told your daughter’s condition had deteriorated. You might have been allowed to see her. She might have been heavily drugged, so full of opium, say, that she
would look as if her wits had gone. Alarmed, you would press for further treatment, and so it would go on.’

‘It’s a wicked world,’ said Lady Polly, fanning herself so vigorously that little feathers escaped from her ostrich fan and floated in the air.

‘Keep a good watch on your daughter,’ urged Kerridge. ‘McWhirter may still be in the country and he may want vengeance.’

Miss Jubbles felt her heart was broken and her mother was no comfort. Her mother, incensed that her daughter had been the magnet that had drawn Mr Jones to the house so often,
told her it was all her own fault.

‘How could you even imagine that a man of the captain’s class and age would look at you?’ she jeered.

So, at the same time as Kerridge was leaving the earl’s home, Miss Jubbles put on her coat and hat and went out to get away from the sound of her mother’s voice.

There was a warm light spilling out from the rear premises of the bakery. Mr Jones would be busy baking bread and rolls.

The night was chilly and a greasy drizzle was falling. Drawn by the smell of baking bread, Miss Jubbles went round to the back of the bakery and knocked on the door.

Mr Jones opened it. The light shone out from the open door and lit up Miss Jubbles’s tear-stained face.

‘Whatever’s the matter!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in. I was just about to take a break.’

Dora averted her eyes. Mr Jones was dressed in a vest and old trousers. Sensing her embarrassment, he took down a white coat from a peg by the door and put it on. ‘Come in,’ he
repeated. ‘I’ve some nice Chelsea buns, and we can have tea.’

Miss Jubbles edged her way cautiously in. There were racks of loaves, rolls and buns sending out a sweet smell.

‘George,’ said Mr Jones to his assistant, ‘make tea. And bring a couple of Chelsea buns. We’ll be in the parlour. Come with me, Miss Jubbles.’

Miss Jubbles hesitated, but the thought of going back to her mother made her shudder. So she followed him as he led the way to a little parlour on the first floor.

They sat in awkward silence until George arrived with the tea and buns. Mr Jones went to a sideboard and took out a bottle of brandy. He put a slug of brandy into Miss Jubbles’s tea.
‘No, don’t protest,’ he said. ‘You look as if you need it. Begin at the beginning.’

He was a good listener. Miss Jubbles poured it all out, stopping occasionally to sip brandy-laced tea and nibble on a warm sugary Chelsea bun.

‘It’s all that Lady Rose’s fault,’ she said. ‘I’ll get my revenge. Tomorrow, I’m going to the
Daily Mail
and tell them how she was masquerading
as a common working girl.’

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Mr Jones. ‘See here, they’ll print the story all right . . . Then what happens? Never get on the wrong side of the aristocracy or
you’ll be finished.’

‘But they’ll never know it was me.’

‘That captain’s a detective. He’ll find out. He’ll remember telling you. What’ll he think of you? Now – here, forget the tea, have some more brandy to
strengthen you – did he ever, and think carefully, show any signs of being attracted to you in any way?’

‘He was very kind.’

‘Kind doesn’t amount to anything. I was kind to your ma and do you know what happened? She thought I was keen on her and became all twisted and bitter when she found I
wasn’t.’

Miss Jubbles blinked. ‘She said nothing of it to me.’

‘Well, she wouldn’t. So let’s think about this here captain, now. Did he ever press your hand, gaze into your eyes, anything like that?’

A slow blush crept up Miss Jubbles’s checks. ‘Do you mean I imagined the whole thing?’

‘Easy done. See here, know why your ma was so furious?’

Miss Jubbles shook her head.

‘I told her I was keen on you. Look, see, I imagined you felt warm towards me because that’s what I wanted to think. We all get carried away some time or another.’

Miss Jubbles stared at him. Something warmer than the brandy began to course through her veins. She could feel her self-worth gradually being rebuilt in that cosy little parlour, brick by
brick.

‘Why, Mr Jones! I never dreamt, never imagined . . .’

He took her hand in his. ‘You’re quite the little heart-breaker . . . Dora.’

A few days later, Lady Glensheil sent out invitations to a house party at her Surrey residence, Farthings.

Her invitation was received gratefully by Lady Polly. ‘It’s just what we need,’ she said to her husband. ‘Get Rose down to the country, fresh air, and away from the fear
of that terrible doctor. We shall accept, of course. She has sent me a note with her invitation to say it will be a small party.’

‘Still, I wonder who else is going,’ said her husband.

‘What’s in the post?’ demanded Mrs Jerry Trumpington across the breakfast table.

Her husband lowered his morning newspaper and looked at her. ‘Haven’t opened it yet.’

‘You’re impossible. Give it to me. I don’t know why I put up with you.’

He signalled to a footman and handed him the post, which the footman placed next to Mrs Jerry.

Mr Jerry Trumpington surveyed his wife and began to indulge in one of his favourite fantasies. She was a greedy woman. In his mind’s eye, she choked on a lump of food. He would sit there
calmly, watching her slowly choke to death. That gross body of hers would writhe about and then crash onto the floor like some great diseased tree. He would wait until she gasped her last. A simple
funeral. No point in wasting money on the dead. No flowers. What about hymns?

‘Here’s one!’ called his wife down the table. He blinked the dream away and looked at her with something like shock in his eyes because in his mind he was already following the
coffin to the graveside.

‘What?’

‘Lady Glensheil wants us to go to her house party. We must go. She’s got a French chef.’

‘When is it?’

‘Two weeks’ time.’

‘Bless me. Such short notice. Bit autocratic of her. I’ve got work in the City anyway.’

Mr Trumpington was director of a tea company. Although tea and beer were not considered trade, Mrs Jerry felt it was rather demeaning of her husband to work at all.

‘It’ll sound so common, me having to say my husband’s working.’

‘You spend so much money, I have to keep working. By the way, that gentleman’s watch you bought from Asprey’s.’

‘I told you and told you. That was for nephew Giles.’

‘But I saw Giles the other day and he said he had never received such a watch.’

‘It must be one of the other nephews. Stop prosing on. It’s only a watch.’

‘A gold half-hunter is not just an ordinary watch.’

‘Oh, shut up about the watch!’ she roared.

Her husband bowed his head and went back to arranging her funeral.

Lord Alfred turned Lady Glensheil’s invitation over and over in his long fingers. What was an old battleaxe like Lady Glensheil doing sending him an invitation? Still, it
would mean getting out of London and away from his creditors. He had lost heavily at the gaming tables and needed to rusticate. Also, if that superintendent from Scotland Yard came calling again,
he would find him gone.

‘The stage is set,’ said Harry a week later. ‘The three have accepted.’

‘I’ve looked up Farthings,’ said Kerridge. ‘There’s an inn nearby called The Feathers. I’ll book in there the first weekend. Slip out and give me a report.
Lady Rose has accepted?’

‘Yes, and her parents as well, so I don’t suppose she’ll be able to be of much help. Lady Rose telephoned me the other day.’

‘Aha! You pair getting friendly.’

‘I have no interest in a young female who specializes in getting into trouble.’

‘If you say so.’

Three days before the house party, Lady Polly contracted a feverish cold. ‘I will need to tell Lady Glensheil that we cannot go,’ she said.

‘Mama, I can go with Daisy. Then there’s my new maid, Turner. She will be with us as well. You would not want me to stay in London without your protection while that wicked doctor is
still at large.’

‘I suppose not. Lady Glensheil is a stickler for etiquette, so don’t disgrace yourself. And do try to un-Cockneyfy Daisy. She looked at an artichoke at dinner last night and said,
“Am I supposed to eat them bleeding leaves?”’

‘If it had not been for Daisy . . .’

‘Oh, don’t start again. You may go. But behave yourself!’

It was lilac time when Rose, Daisy and Rose’s new maid set out for Farthings. More motor cars than ever before were appearing on the streets of London. Rose had
originally thought them nasty, smelly, noisy things, but now she looked on them with a jealous eye. She did wish her father would buy one, but he had even refused to buy her a bicycle.

The weather was unusually warm and sunny. The trees and hedgerows were bright green with new leaves forming arches over the road as they drove deeper into the countryside.

Daisy twisted her head round and looked through the window at the back of the carriage. ‘There’s a car following us. It’s been there all the way from London.’

‘Probably Captain Cathcart.’

‘No, it’s not his car.’

‘Then it might be one of the other guests.’

‘I keep worrying about that doctor.’

‘He wouldn’t dare come near me. Besides, Captain Cathcart will be there.’

Daisy sometimes felt impatient with Rose. Couldn’t she see what a suitable match the captain would make? And then she, Daisy, and Becket could maybe be together.

Harry and Becket, with Becket driving, headed towards Farthings. Two ladies’ bicycles were strapped on the back of their car. ‘Don’t you think, sir, that the
earl and countess will consider a bicycle too expensive a present to give an unmarried young lady?’

‘I bought one for Daisy as well.’

‘Still . . .’

‘Lady Rose did tell me on the telephone that she had changed her mind about motor cars but said that her father would not even buy her a bicycle. Stop worrying about it, man. I shall
discuss the matter with her, and if she considers the present out of order, she can leave it behind.’

‘We’ll need to teach them to ride the things,’ said Becket.

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

Becket suddenly thought of being able to put his arm around Daisy’s waist as he helped her learn how to ride, and smiled in the sunshine.

F
arthings was a pleasant Elizabethan manor-house. A beautiful old wisteria covered most of the front, its delicate purple blossoms moving gently in
the lightest of breezes.

As they went through the usual arrival ritual of being shown to their quarters, Daisy fretted about that car which had been behind them all the way. Whoever was driving it wasn’t a guest
because it had driven on past the gates. The driver was wearing goggles and a muffler up round his face and he had a cap pulled low down over his forehead.

In her new status as companion, she would no longer eat with the servants and so would have no chance to tell Becket of her fears.

They had been given two bedrooms and a little sitting-room. Rose stood by the window, watching the other arrivals.

‘Good heavens, Daisy. There’s Tristram Baker-Willis, Freddy’s friend. And here comes Mrs Jerry and her husband. You know, I’ve just thought of something. With
Freddy’s flat being searched when he was shot, one assumed that the murderer had taken away any incriminating papers. But what if Freddy did not keep any evidence he was using to blackmail in
his flat, but had it somewhere else? I must ask the captain. Or, wait a bit, what if the murderer found the evidence, took away his own stuff along with the others and then decided to do a bit of
blackmailing himself?’

‘There’s the dressing gong,’ said Daisy.

‘The arrivals are going to have to look sharp. Ring the bell for Turner.’

Daisy could never get used to the fact that she was expected to avail herself of Turner’s services as well. Not that Turner presented any difficulties. Being lady’s maid to an
aristocrat was a step up for her. Her last job had been as lady’s maid to an elderly widow in Bournemouth. She was in her thirties, polite and correct and self-effacing.

But Daisy loved the luxury of having someone to do her hair and mend and clean her clothes.

When they were ready, Rose in a low-cut white silk gown and Daisy in dark grey silk which Lady Polly considered suitable to her station, they rang the bell for a footman to guide them
downstairs, because it was one of those old rambling mansions with many odd staircases.

Lady Glensheil moved forward to meet them, or rather she glided, as if on castors. She was a high-nosed aristocrat with a noble bosom. She was dressed in lilac taffeta and a great rope of black
pearls hung round her neck.

‘Glad you could come, Lady Rose, and this is . . . ?’

‘My companion, Miss Levine.’

‘We are a small party. May I present Lord Alfred. Lord Alfred, Lady Rose Summer and Miss Levine.’

‘Charmed,’ he said in a voice heavy with boredom.

‘And Mr Baker-Willis.’

‘We’ve met,’ said Rose curtly.

And so the introductions went on. Apart from the suspects, there were two ladies Rose already knew from the house party at Telby Castle, Frederica Sutherland and Maisie Chatterton. She had also
met two of the gentlemen before, Sir Gerald Burke and Neddie Freemantle. Harry was the last to arrive.

‘That awful bruise has nearly gone, I see,’ he remarked.

‘I’ve been wondering what happened to papers or letters or whatever Freddy was using to blackmail people.’

‘Maybe the murderer took the stuff away with him.’