Sick of Shadows

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A
LSO BY
M
ARION
C
HESNEY

Sick of Shadows

Hasty Death

Snobbery with Violence

BY
M. C. B
EATON

The Skeleton in the Closet

The Agatha Raisin Series

The Perfect Paragon

The Deadly Dance

Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate

Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley

Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener

The Vicious Vet

The Quiche of Death

SICK

OF

SHADOWS

MARION CHESNEY

St. Martin’s Paperbacks

NOTE:
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

For my sister, Matilda Chesney-Grenier,
with love and many thanks
for all the Edwardian research books

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

SICK OF SHADOWS

Copyright © 2005 by Marion Chesney.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004051358

ISBN: 0-312-99800-7

EAN: 9780312-99800-4

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / August 2005

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / November 2006

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

ONE

“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.

—ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
  

The aristocracy lived in a closed world protected by a shell of wealth and title, as hard and as glittering as a Fabergé egg. The vast outside world of England where people could die of starvation barely caused a ripple in their complacency.

Then, horror upon horrors, the unthinkable happened. A Liberal government was elected, proposing old-age pensions and health insurance and other benefits for the lower classes. They further proposed eight-hour days, workers’ compensation, free school meals and free medical services. Even that aristocrat, young Churchill, had turned Liberal and was saying, “We want to draw the line below which we will not allow persons to live and labour.”

With a few exceptions, the aristocracy closed ranks as never before. The old idea that the House of Commons was an assembly of gentlemen had passed.

Admittedly these winds of change were at first regarded as irritating draughts, such as were caused when a lazy footman had left the door of the drawing-room open. But with the newspapers heralding the reforms every morning, high cultured voices could be heard exclaiming over the grilled kidneys at breakfast tables. “Who is going to pay for all this? Us, of course.”

Many blamed the fact that free elementary education had been introduced in 1870. The lower classes should not have been taught to think for themselves.

So the aristocracy hung grimly onto the snobberies and rules of society which kept the hoi polloi outside.

But the Earl and Countess of Hadfield felt that the enemy was within the gates in the form of their daughter, Lady Rose Summer, who had cheered the result of the election. At first they thought she had reformed. She had become engaged to Captain Harry Cathcart. Admittedly it could be said that the captain was in trade because he ran his own detective agency, but he came from a good family and had enough money to support their daughter in the style to which she was accustomed.

Nonetheless the couple showed no sign of setting a date for the wedding, nor, for that matter, did they see much of each other.

Rose’s parents did not know that her engagement was one of convenience, thought up by the captain to prevent Rose being shipped off to India with the other failed débutantes.

Then Rose had made a companion out of Daisy Levine, a former chorus girl whom she had first elevated to the position of maid and then to that of companion.

Rose, with her thick brown hair, delicate complexion and large blue eyes, was still considered a great beauty, but she repelled men with her encyclopaedic knowledge and radical ideas.

Her parents would have been amazed, however, if they had guessed that Rose went to considerable pains to please them. She suffered seemingly endless days of parties and teas and calls and balls, all of which bored her, but she felt she owed her parents some dutiful behaviour for having failed at her first Season and cost them a great deal of money.

One evening in late spring, Rose and Daisy were preparing to attend yet another ball. Rose was relieved because on this one rare occasion the captain had promised to escort her. This would be at least one evening free from the pitying looks and sniggers of the débutantes who kept asking slyly where her fiancé was.

It was an even more boring life for her companion, Daisy. Daisy, like Rose, was barely twenty, and yet she was not expected to dance and was condemned to sit and watch with the other companions.

And then, half an hour before they were all due to depart for the Duke of Freemount’s ball, Harry Cathcart telephoned to say that an urgent case had come up and he could not be there. Folding her lips into a thin line, Lady Polly, Rose’s mother, asked the earl’s secretary to telephone Sir Peter Petrey to come immediately and escort Rose. Peter was a willowy effete young man who specialized in filling in at dinner parties when someone had cancelled at the last minute and escorting ladies to balls whose escorts had failed to turn up. He was handsome with thick fair hair and a lightly tanned face.

Lady Polly suppressed a sigh when she saw him. Why couldn’t Rose have picked someone like that? The unworldly Lady Polly did not know that Peter had no sexual interest in women at all, her lack of knowledge in sexual matters being hardly surprising in this Edwardian era where an eminent surgeon had declared that no lady should ever enjoy sex—only sluts did that.

“Where is the wretched man?” asked Peter as he led Rose up the grand staircase at the Freemounts’ town house.

“Working, I suppose,” said Rose.

“My dear, a beauty like you should never have involved yourself with a chap in trade. There, now. That was too, too wicked of me. But were you mine, I would never leave your side.”

Rose’s companion had put her mistress wise to Sir Peter and so Rose smiled amiably and accepted the compliment. She often toyed with the idea of marrying Peter. It would be an arranged marriage, of course, but that way she would have her own household and be spared the labour of producing a child every year.

Rose curtsied to her hosts and entered the ballroom. “With Peter again,” she heard the duchess say loudly. “Too sad.”

Her voice carried. With so many of the aristocracy hard of hearing because of blasting away at birds and beasts with their shotguns, the duchess, like so many, spoke in a high clipped staccato voice which carried right cross the ballroom.

Rose usually derived some comfort from being the most beautiful lady in the ballroom. But that evening, she was eclipsed.

A new arrival to society was pirouetting around the floor on the arm of a besotted guardsman. She had masses of thick blonde hair woven with tiny white roses. Unlike Rose’s slim figure, hers was of the fashionable hourglass variety, with a generous white bosom displayed by the low cut of her evening gown. Her eyes were enormous in her heart-shaped face and of a deep brown, which contrasted seductively with her fair hair and perfect skin.

Daisy, sitting next to an elderly dowager, Countess Slerely, whispered, “Who’s the new beauty?”

The countess raised her lorgnette and then lowered it. “Oh, that. That is Miss Dolly Tremaine. Her father is only a rector. She really has nothing more than her looks to recommend her. I’m afraid she’ll have to marry someone very old. All the young men want money. Where is Lady Rose’s fiancé?”

“Coming later,” lied Daisy.

“Most odd. For her sake he should really stop being a tradesman.”

“Being a detective isn’t really trade,” said Daisy defensively.

“The only trades that are acceptable,” declaimed the countess, “are tea and beer. Nothing else.”

Daisy sighed. Her stays were digging into her and the ballroom was too hot.

She rose and curtsied to the countess and made her way to the long windows which overlooked Green Park, slid behind the curtains, opened the window and let herself out onto the terrace and took a deep breath of sooty air. She wondered if she and Rose would ever have any adventures again.

Rose was making her way to the cloakroom. One of her partners had trodden on her train and ripped the edge of it. The maid on duty in the cloakroom set to work to repair the train. The door opened and Dolly Tremaine came in, tears pouring from her eyes.

“My dear,” exclaimed Rose. “May I help you? What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” sobbed Dolly, sitting down on a chair next to Rose. “I’m tired, that’s all. So many balls and parties. I never seem to get any rest. The Season begins next week and things will be worse.”

“If I can be of any help . . .”

“I need a friend,” said Dolly, scrubbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Rose noticed with surprise that her beautiful face now bore no mark of tears.

“Perhaps I may be your friend. I am Rose Summer.”

“I’m Dolly Tremaine. You see, I’m a country girl and everything in London is so big and noisy and frightening.”

“I get away from it in the mornings,” said Rose. “I go out early and cycle in Hyde Park.”

“I would love to do that,” said Dolly, “but I don’t think my parents—”

She broke off as the door opened and a squat woman entered. She was wearing a purple silk gown trimmed with purple fringe. Rose thought she looked like a sofa.

“Dolly, what are you doing here?” she demanded.

“My train was torn and this lady came with me to see if she could help,” said Rose quickly.

“Why? That’s what maids are for. Who are you?”

“I am Lady Rose Summer,” said Rose haughtily.

The change in the woman was almost ridiculous. “How kind of you to look after my little Dolly,” she gushed. “I am Dolly’s mother.”

“I was just inviting your daughter to go cycling with me in Hyde Park tomorrow morning,” said Rose.

“Oh, I’m sure she would love that but, alas, she does not have a bicycle.”

“I will supply one,” said Rose grandly. “Furnish me with your direction and I will send a carriage for your daughter—at nine o’clock, say?”

“You are so very kind. Here is my card. Come, Dolly. Lord Berrow is waiting for you.”

She turned away. Dolly meekly followed.

“But that’s my bicycle!” protested Daisy when she and Rose were being made ready for bed. “The captain gave it to me!”

“It’s only one morning, Daisy,” said Rose. “I would like to do something for that poor girl. I think she is being bullied by her mother.”

“You’re bleedin’ jealous cos she’s prettier than you,” said Daisy, “and you’re trying to cover it up by being nice to her.”

“Go to bed, now!” commanded Rose. “Let me hear no more about it.”

Ever since Rose had fallen from grace by attending a suffragette movement rally and had been banned from going anywhere near that organization, she had longed to do something for somebody, and so she set out for Hyde Park the following morning on her bicycle followed by two footmen, one of them wheeling Daisy’s bicycle. She was determined to find out what had made the beautiful Dolly so sad. Deep down inside her she was motivated by the petty thought that she’d better show society she was above jealousy, but that thought did not even reach as far as her brain.

Nine o’clock was considered an early hour of the day to members of society. Rose would have gone to the park earlier, say six o’clock, had she been allowed to do so. There was something exciting about being up at dawn in a great city and feeling it coming alive with the restless clatter of traffic, the whinnying of horses, and the air briefly fresher before the thousands of London’s coal fires put a thin haze over the sun, even on a fine spring day, and streaked the buildings with soot.

As she approached the Serpentine, one of the earl’s carriages drove up. A footman jumped down from the backstrap and let down the steps. Dolly tripped prettily down them. She was wearing a white lace gown with a high-boned collar and a round straw hat covered in white flowers. Worn open over her gown was a fur-trimmed coat. On her feet were little white patent leather boots.

“Oh, my dear Miss Tremaine,” exclaimed Rose. “You should have worn a divided skirt. You cannot cycle in such clothes.”

Dolly burst into tears. “I—I’m always doing something wrong,” she sobbed.

“There, there,” said Rose, patting her awkwardly on the back. “Do dry your eyes. We shall walk instead.” She surrendered her bicycle to one of the footmen. “Now, do try to be cheery. It is too fine a morning to be sad.”

Dolly complied and took Rose’s arm, a gesture Rose felt was a trifle over-familiar. She drew her arm away. Dolly began to cry again. “I’ve offended you!”

“No, no. Please sit down on this bench. Do compose yourself. Why are you so distressed?”

“I don’t know the rules,” sniffed Dolly. “So many rules. We were taking tea yesterday at Mrs. Barrington-Bruce’s place in Kensington. Such a splendid tea and I have a healthy appetite. I ate an awful lot and then I found the other ladies were looking at me in horror. Worse than that, I’d taken off my gloves. I did not know one was supposed to eat with gloves on.”