Sick of Shadows (8 page)

Phil was given a small room in the basement and told to rest as much as possible.

He lay on the bed after Becket had gone, tears of gratitude pouring down his cheeks. He swore that from that day on, he would die for the captain if necessary.

Harry called on Rose later that day. She listened in alarm as he described the body fished out of the Thames and how they feared that Reg had been a hired assassin.

“But I think you will be safe now,” he assured her. “A story has gone into all the newspapers that you held nothing back from the police.”

“So I suppose you will feel free to go back to ignoring me.”

“On the contrary,” said Harry. “I have been remiss and I do apologize. But you cannot have any social engagements in August. Everyone is away.”

Rose bit her lip and then said in a small voice. “I’m bored.”

“Then next week, I will take you for a drive if the weather is fine.”

“I wish I were a man,” raged Rose later to Daisy. “He can call at Scotland Yard any time he likes and be part of the investigation, but all I can do is sit here and rot and get letters from that dreary Mrs. Tremaine, oiling all over me in print. I am not interested in the fact that she and her dear husband have gone to Cromer on holiday.”

Daisy brightened. “I am.”

“Why, pray?”

“It would be interesting to go down to that village while the Tremaines have gone and ask around about them and about Dolly. See what we could find out.”

“That is a splendid idea. I must find out how to get there.”

“We could take one of the carriages.”

“They’ve all got Pa’s coat of arms on the panels. That would occasion comment. Better to travel by rail to the nearest town and take a carriage from there. We need not trouble to tell Aunt Phyllis where we are going. She is only concerned with ordering the servants around and eating vast quantities of food.”

They took the train to Oxford and changed onto a local line and took another train to Moreton-in-Marsh, where they hired a waiting carriage to take them to Apton Magna.

“It is pleasant to be back in the country again,” sighed Rose. “When all this is over, I shall go back north to see Bert and Sally.”

“And how will you do that?” asked Daisy. “If your parents are at home, they are certainly not going to let you go all that way to see a mere village policeman.”

“Perhaps the captain can arrange something,” said Rose. “Oh, do look at that sweet cottage.”

“All I see is the pump at the front for the water and no doubt the you-know-what will be out in the back garden. I can smell the cesspool from here.”

“You have no romance in your soul,” admonished Rose.

“I have memories of poverty in me soul,” said Daisy.

“Don’t say ‘me.’ ”

They told the cabbie to wait for them at the entrance to the village. They had both decided to wear their plainest clothes.

A woman was sitting outside a cottage, holding a baby on her lap. “Excuse me,” said Rose, “we were wondering if you could give us some information about the Tremaines.”

The woman got to her feet and, disappearing inside the cottage, slammed the door behind her.

They met with the same lack of success at other cottages.

“Perhaps one of the more well-to-do residents would be more forthcoming,” suggested Rose.

“There don’t seen to be any,” replied Daisy. “We’ve forgotten our village ways. We’re too direct. We need someone friendly. Ask them something like where we can get a cup of tea, enter into conversation about the weather and so on, and then slide in some remark about the murder.”

“That sounds a very good idea,” said Rose. “That is, if we can find anyone amiable.”

“I remember there was a cottage up by the rector’s place. It looked in better shape than the others,” said Daisy. “Why is the rector called ‘doctor’?”

“Because he’s a doctor of divinity. Remember that Gilbert and Sullivan opera? ‘A doctor of divinity/Who resides in this vicinity.’ ”

The cottage they approached was small and thatched and made of Cotswold stone, unlike the red brick cottages of the other villagers.

It had a front garden crowded with flowers. They opened the gate and walked up the path. Rose knocked on the door.

A woman answered it. She looked washed-out and faded, as if some grim laundress had boiled her, mangled her and hung her out in strong sunlight to dry without ironing her first. Her simple muslin gown was creased, and the dry flaky skin of her long face, lined with wrinkles. Her eyes were of such a pale grey that they looked almost white and she wore her sparse grey hair under a crumpled linen cap.

“We are visiting the countryside and wondered whether there was anywhere in Apton Magna where we could get some refreshment,” said Rose.

“Oh, there’s nothing nearer than Moreton-in-Marsh. They do ever such a nice tea at the White Hart Royal. I remember being taken there by a gentleman friend when I was just a girl.”

“Perhaps you would like to join us?” suggested Rose. “We have a carriage waiting at the end of the village. I am Lady Rose Summer and this is Miss Daisy Levine.”

“That’s is so kind of you. May I present myself? I am Miss Friendly.” She plucked nervously at her gown. “I am not perhaps quite properly dressed.”

“Nonsense,” said Rose bracingly. “You will do very well.”

“I don’t know. Dear me. Afternoon tea! Such a luxury.” She looked at them wistfully out of her pale eyes.

“I’ll go and bring the carriage,” said Daisy quickly, and ran off.

“Please step inside,” said Miss Friendly. “The sun is very strong.”

Rose followed her into a front parlour. There was very little furniture. There were light squares on the dingy wallpaper showing where pictures had once hung. Fallen on hard times, thought Rose, with a feeling of compassion.

“Do you live here alone, Miss Friendly?”

“Yes. Papa died ten years ago. He was rector of Saint Paul’s before Dr. Tremaine. The church kindly allowed me to have this cottage.”

Rose heard a rumble of carriage wheels outside.

“Ah, there is our carriage and Miss Levine. If you are ready, Miss Friendly?”

Seated in the pleasant gloom of the White Hart Royal over an enormous afternoon tea, Rose again felt a sharp pang of compassion as she watched Miss Friendly try not to gobble the food. The woman was obviously starving. Rose talked about the weather and about the beauties of the countryside until she saw that Miss Friendly’s appetite was at last beginning to be satisfied.

“You must have been very upset over the news of Miss Tremaine’s murder,” she said.

“Oh, shocking. Very shocking. Poor Dolly. She often came to my little cottage. Such a beautiful girl. But very much a country girl. I always thought she would have been happy marrying a farmer, or someone like that, but her parents had such ambitions for her.”

“I knew her in London,” said Rose. “She was very unhappy.”

“Of course. Lady Rose Summer! I saw your name in the newspapers. You found her. How awful. Yes, it was awful. But she must have been missing . . . Oh, I shouldn’t gossip. Poor Dolly.”

“My fiancé is a private detective,” said Rose. “He is helping Scotland Yard to find the killer. Anything you can tell me would be of great help. Who was Dolly missing?”

“Roger Dallow.”

“And who is this Roger Dallow?”

“He’s the blacksmith’s son. I think he and Dolly were very much in love.”

“And is he in the village? May I speak to him?”

“Oh, he left, right after Dolly went up to London.”

“And where did he go?”

“Nobody knows. You see, his father is a brutal man. I think that was the bond between Roger and Dolly. They were both bullied by their parents. I am sorry I cannot tell you any more. I assume that is why you invited me for tea.”

“I could just as well have asked you these questions at your cottage,” said Rose. “Do you find it difficult to make ends meet?”

For the first time colour appeared on Miss Friendly’s pale cheeks. She hung her head. “Papa was fond of hunting and hunting is an expensive sport. When he died I had to sell his horses, my jewellery and pictures and furniture to pay his debts. The church charges me a low rent but I have nearly reached the point where I do not think I can go on paying it. Forgive me. Ladies should not talk of such things.”

“Oh, we talk about anything,” said Daisy. “Don’t you worry about it.”

“Can you sew?” asked Rose.

“Yes, I am a very good seamstress. Do not judge me by my clothes. It is a long time since I have been able to afford any material and . . . well . . . I gave up troubling about my appearance.”

“Our lady’s maid, Turner, is not very expert with a needle but is an amiable creature and I would not like to lose her.” The main reason Rose liked Turner was because Turner never reported any of her doings to Lady Polly. “Perhaps you might consider working for me? You would have a comfortable room and board and you would not need to worry about the rent.”

Miss Friendly burst into tears. Rose handed her a handkerchief and waited.

“It seems like a miracle,” she gasped when she could.

“Then we will return to your cottage and you may pack a trunk and we will send a fourgon for the rest of your things later. My parents’ secretary will advise the church of your leaving.”

Lady Rose should really have put Miss Friendly in a second-class compartment, which is where servants normally travelled. But the woman looked so frail, she decided to buy her a first-class ticket. Full of food, Miss Friendly fell asleep as soon as the train moved off.

“That was right decent of you,” said Daisy.

“I think when this murder is solved that I should get involved in charity work. My parents cannot object. It is quite fashionable to do so.”

“Do we have enough work for her?” asked Daisy. “We’re always getting new clothes.”

“There is plenty of work. Servants’ clothes often need to be altered. Hats need to be trimmed. I will make sure she is kept busy.”

Aunt Phyllis started to complain about the employment of Miss Friendly, but Rose silenced her with a haughty glare, and saying, “You have no right to question who I engage.”

To Rose’s relief the housekeeper, Mrs. Holt, actually welcomed the newcomer, privately planning to have several of her own gowns made over. Miss Friendly was given a small bedchamber off the second landing and shown the sewing-room in one of the attics.

Matthew Jarvis called on her to get the details of whom to notify in the church and where to send the fourgon. To Miss Friendly’s amazed delight, she found she was to get a salary as well.

Then the housekeeper, under Rose’s instructions, presented Miss Friendly with two bolts of cloth.

“Lady Rose says you might want to begin by making some frocks for yourself.”

The next day, Miss Friendly began to work, the sewing-machine humming under her clever fingers, stopping occasionally to caress the rich cloth. As she worked, she began to search her mind for everything she knew about the Tremaines.

Perhaps she had forgotten something that might help Lady Rose’s fiancé with the investigation.

Harry called on Rose that evening. He listened carefully while she told him about the blacksmith’s son. “I’ll tell Kerridge. He might have followed the Tremaines to London. I would like to speak to this woman myself. I will go to Apton Magna tomorrow.”

“That will not be necessary. I have engaged her as a seamstress. She is here.”

“How did that come about?”

“She was so poor and so hungry. Besides, she will be of use.”

Harry thought of his rescue of Phil. How like he and Rose really were. He wanted suddenly to tell her that they should start again, that perhaps they could deal very well together, but Rose had risen to ring the bell and ask a footman to fetch Miss Friendly.

She came in and sat down timidly on the very edge of a chair. “I am Captain Cathcart,” Harry began, “and I believe you have supplied Lady Rose with some very interesting information about the blacksmith’s son.”

“Only that he and Dolly were very much in love. I believe they used to meet in secret. You can’t keep much quiet in a village. The rector complained to the blacksmith and the blacksmith gave Roger a terrible beating. That was just before they took Dolly to London.”

“Miss Tremaine gave Lady Rose a note saying she was running away. It is possible that she knew where this Roger was and was going to join him. On the other hand, he could have killed her. What sort of fellow was he?”

“Very strong. Curly black hair and quite tall. He told someone in the village that he was running off to London.”

“Would it be possible to find a photograph of him?”

“I shouldn’t think so, sir. I cannot remember anyone in the village having a camera.”

“I’ll get Kerridge on to this,” said Harry. “Thank you, Miss Friendly.”

She curtsied and left.

“You should not have risked going to Apton Magna without telling me,” said Harry.

“How could I tell you? You are never here.”

“I do have a telephone, as you well know.”

“I do not like not having the freedom of a man,” said Rose. “You are able to visit Scotland Yard any time you like and find out the latest developments.”

“I could wish you were more conventional for your own safety.”

“One could hardly call
you
conventional.”

“True, but it is different for a man.”

“I sometimes feel like cancelling our engagement and marrying Sir Peter.”

He glared at her in outrage. “That would be a marriage in name only.”

“As this is an engagement in name only,” retorted Rose.

The much-goaded Harry seized her in his arms and kissed her hard on the lips. When she reeled back after he had released her, he said, “I am sorry. I should not have done that. But you are
infuriating!
”

And with that, he turned and left the room.

FIVE

The accepted man is in duty bound to spend most of his leisure with his intended bride. He must not go off for a sojourn abroad while she is spending some weeks by the sea in England, unless she has expressed a wish to that effect. It would be a considerable “snub” to her to do so. . . . This almost always means that the man has been entrapped into a proposal, and would willingly retreat if he possibly could.

—MRS. HUMPHREY

Rose almost telephoned Harry to cancel the outing. That kiss had left her feeling weak and shaken. Somehow, she could not even bring herself to tell Daisy about it. Also, Daisy was volubly looking forward so much to the outing.

Rose knew the rigid rules of society were relaxing. A gentleman was no longer expected to ask the parents’ permission first if he wanted to pay his addresses to their daughter. Only sticklers for the old ways such as her own parents and no doubt the mercenary Tremaines expected the old ways to be followed.

She looked down at the small engagement ring on her finger. She had bought it herself out of her pin money, Harry having seemingly forgotten that he was expected to supply one.

The weather held fine for the day of the outing. Rose was torn between “armouring” herself in a new white lace gown with a high-boned collar and settling for comfort. Comfort won. Her maid dressed her in a divided tweed skirt and a striped blouse. Although the day showed every sign of becoming hot, Rose put on a tweed jacket and wore a straw boater on her glossy hair.

Daisy had been up very early, trying on outfit after outfit to impress Becket. When she finally appeared to join Rose in a purple silk gown embellished with purple lace, Rose exclaimed in horror.

“We are not making calls, Daisy. You will need to find something informal.” Rose rang for the maid and soon a rather sulky Daisy was attired in a simple skirt and white blouse. She protested volubly against wearing a straw boater like Rose, and only because she was told the captain was waiting for her did Rose allow Daisy to get away with wearing a cart-wheel of a straw hat covered in so many flowers that from above she looked like a neatly tended garden bed.

Rose was nervous at seeing Harry again. He should not have taken such liberties with her.

But Harry looked as cool and distant as he usually did. He helped Rose into the passenger seat of his Rolls and Daisy and Becket got into the back.

“I thought we might find somewhere pleasant on the upper reaches of the river,” said Harry. He meant the Thames. To a Londoner, there was only one river.

Rose gave a curt nod and settled back against the red leather seat. The car purred off. Daisy began to chatter to Becket, and Rose envied her free and easy manner.

I know nothing of men, she thought bleakly. I do not understand them. I wish I had brothers.

At last Harry spoke. “You haven’t seen anyone suspicious hanging about, I hope?”

“No one at all,” said Rose, “although we have hardly been out of doors except for our journey to Apton Magna.”

“Do not go anywhere like that without letting me know about it first.”

“It is rather hard, since you are always busy.”

“As I told you, I am not going to take on any more work until this case is finished. Has your Miss Friendly come up with any more gems of information?”

“No, but she says she is trying to remember every little thing. Any news of Mr. Cyril Banks?”

“He is in Scotland at the moment. Shooting party.”

“Do you think he might be the murderer?”

“I do not know. He is incredibly vain. There are some unsavoury stories about him.”

“Such as?”

“When he was staying with Lord Berrow in the country, he was accused of molesting a servant girl. He denied the whole thing. Despite the fact that Berrow’s servants claimed that he had indeed forced his way into the girl’s bedchamber, Berrow backed Cyril, saying the girl was a slut. He dismissed her. Her parents complained to the church and to the lord lieutenant, but nothing came of it.”

“Why?”

“Because there is one law for the rich and one for the poor. Just be grateful for your privileged position, Lady Rose. The unconventional risks you take might end in disaster if you were of a lower class.”

“So Berrow and Cyril Banks are friends? And both wished to marry Dolly. Don’t you find that odd?”

“Yes, I do rather, and quite sinister.”

“What is sinister about it?”

Harry bit his lip. He knew Berrow, like Cyril, had a foul reputation. It had crossed his mind that perhaps Berrow, had he managed to woo and marry Dolly, might have allowed his friend access to her.

“Just that they are both unsavoury characters.”

They drove on down leafy roads, the trees heavy with the weight of summer, the leaves a dark and dusty green.

“You should have worn a veil,” said Harry as a cloud of dust rose up about the car from an unmetalled country road.

“I’ll hold a handkerchief over my face.”

As they cruised along beside the river, the usual picnic argument started up. Every time Harry looked like stopping, either Rose or Daisy would cry out, “No, not there! Try a little farther on.”

At last Harry rebelled and came to a stop by an area of green grass surrounded by willow trees. “Here and no argument,” he said, “or it will be midnight before we eat.”

Becket lifted a large hamper out of the boot and then began to pump up a small spirit stove.

Harry spread rugs on the grass and Rose and Daisy helped Becket lift out dishes, glasses and food from the hamper.

They drank champagne and ate delicacies from Fortnum and Mason such as grouse in aspic while the river chuckled past over the willow trees and the moving leaves of the other trees around their green oasis on the river bank sent flickering shadows over their faces.

When the meal was finished, Harry said to Rose, “Walk a little with me. I have something for you.”

He helped her to her feet and they strolled away through the trees watched by the ever-hopeful Becket and Daisy.

He finally stopped and pulled a little jeweller’s box out of his pocket. “I should have bought you a ring before this. Most remiss of me.”

Rose opened the box. A large and beautiful diamond set in white gold glittered up at her, throwing rainbow prisms of light across her astonished face.

“This is too much,” she said. “I cannot accept it. It is not as if we are really engaged.”

“I wish you would keep it as a memento of all our adventures. The diamond was a present to me from someone in South Africa.”

He took her hand in his and slid off the little engagement ring she had bought herself. Rose stood frozen as he slid his ring onto her finger. “Please take it . . . Rose.”

She suddenly smiled up at him. “Yes, I will. Thank you. I think we could be friends after all.”

He tucked her arm in his and they walked on. “You must admit we are a very unusual pair. The misfits of society. Just like Kerridge.”

“Is Mr. Kerridge a misfit?”

“Indeed he is. He would like to see all the aristocracy strung up from lamp-posts with himself manning the barricades at some people’s revolution.”

“Why? We have always been kind to him.”

“I can see his point. Any time he has to interview one of us, he is threatened with losing his job. ‘My friend the Prime Minister will hear of this.’ That sort of thing.”

“Mostly I accept my position in life,” said Rose slowly. “One is immured from the sufferings of humanity. But when I rescued Miss Friendly, I was almost ashamed of myself for having chosen one easily grateful genteel lady who will not cause me any trouble when there are others, hundreds and thousands, even more deserving.”

“I felt the same way when I rescued Phil. Did I tell you about Phil?”

Rose listened while he described his visit to Bermondsey. Then she said, “When I reach my majority I will have my own money. I wish to set up a charity.”

“Let me know,” said Harry, “and I will contribute.”

They walked back to join Becket and Daisy. Becket was making tea. Rose showed Daisy her ring and Daisy glanced at Becket, who sent her a covert wink.

They were all happy and at ease with each other when they finally drove back to London.

But then, just as they were travelling along the Great West Road, Harry asked, “How do you find my Aunt Phyllis?”

“She has very taking ways. Most of our servants are still at the town house and yet she moved in a staff of her own. She orders things like gowns and books and charges them to my parents’ account.”

“You must be mistaken,” said Harry. “You are talking about my mother’s sister. She was so eager to be of help.”

“Of course she was,” said Rose. “I am sure she would eagerly go anywhere for free lodging.”

“Take that back!”

“No!”

In the back, Becket and Daisy exchanged alarmed glances. “I have always found her charming and amiable,” said Harry.

“Indeed?” Rose’s voice dripped sarcasm. “And when did you last see her?”

“Not for some years.”

“So there you are! You do not know her at all.”

“I do not believe you.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Just misinformed.”

By the time they drove up to the town house, Rose and Harry were not on speaking terms. Rose wanted to give Harry back his ring but did not wish to make a scene on the street.

“I would invite you in,” she said coldly, “but I am sure you are anxious to get to your own home. Come, Daisy.”

Daisy threw an anguished glance over her shoulder at Becket and trailed inside after Rose.

Mrs. Holt, the housekeeper, was waiting for them. Aunt Phyllis had brought her own housekeeper, but Mrs. Holt had told the intruder not to interfere at all in the running of the house.

“May I have a word with you, my lady?”

“By all means.” Rose unpinned her hat. “What is the matter?”

Mrs. Holt lowered her voice. “It’s Lady Phyllis. My lady has given Miss Friendly so many gowns and hats to alter that I swear poor Miss Friendly has been working all night.”

“I’ll see to it.” Rose marched all the way up to the sewing-room.

Miss Friendly was bent over the sewing-machine. She stopped when she saw Rose, got to her feet and stumbled, holding on to the table for support. There were purple shadows under her eyes.

“Stop everything,” commanded Rose. “You are not to do any work for Lady Phyllis.” She rang the bell and when a footman answered it, she told him to fetch Lady Phyllis’s lady’s maid. When the maid arrived, Rose told her to take away all Lady Phyllis’s hats and garments and then said, “Lady Phyllis will be leaving immediately. Miss Friendly, you are not to do any more work for the next two days. Go to your room and relax, or go out for a walk.”

Rose marched back downstairs and into the study, where Matthew Jarvis was working.

“Ah, Lady Rose,” he said, “I have just received a wire. My lord and lady will be returning at the end of the week. They wish you to go to Stacey Court as soon as possible.”

“Very well,” said Rose. Let rotten Harry Cathcart do the investigation himself. “Mr. Jarvis, I should be grateful if you would inform Lady Phyllis’s butler that she and her staff are leaving as soon as possible. By as soon as possible, I mean tomorrow morning at the latest.”

The outraged Lady Phyllis shouted and protested when she received the news, but all she got was a blistering lecture from Rose on her abuse of the household and its staff.

Lady Phyllis telephoned Harry, who replied that he could not contradict Lady Rose’s decision as it was her home. But he was furious with Rose and thought her action was that of petty spite.

By the end of the week, Becket could not bear it any longer. “You know, sir, that you paid me to find out gossip from the Running Footman?”

“Yes, Becket, and did you find out anything relating to the murders?”

“No, sir, it’s just that I could not help overhearing your argument with Lady Rose over Lady Phyllis.”

Harry’s face hardened. “And what has that to do with anything?”

“It’s just that some of your aunt’s staff also drink in the Running Footman.”

“I repeat: What has that to do with anything?”

“Lady Phyllis’s nickname is Lady Sponge.”

“What!”

“It seems that Lady Phyllis likes to be invited into other people’s homes and once there, she costs them a lot of money. Furthermore, she usually takes with her as many servants as she can so that she is spared the expense of feeding them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Some other servants joined our gossip. They, too, remember visits from Lady Phyllis. One said she had only been invited for tea and yet she turned up with all her baggage and servants and claimed that she had been invited to stay. It took a couple of months to get rid of her.”

Harry ran a hand through his thick hair. “Oh dear. I had better visit Lady Rose.”

But when they arrived at the town house, it was to find only a caretaker and his wife in residence. Harry was told that the whole family was now at Stacey Court. He telephoned the earl, confidently expecting to be invited down, but it was Matthew who answered his call and told him that Lady Rose had given instructions that Captain Harry Cathcart was to be told she was “not at home.”