Snobbery with Violence

∨ Snobbery with Violence ∧

Six

We are at the cross-ways. If we stand on in the old happy-go-lucky way, the richer classes ever growing in wealth and in number, and ever declining in responsibility, the very poor remaining plunged or plunging even deeper into helpless, hopeless misery, then I think there is nothing before us but savage strife between class and class.

– WINSTON CHURCHILL, SPEECH AT LEICESTER, 1909

“Daisy! What are you doing?”

Rose had just come down to the main hall on her way to breakfast the following morning to find Daisy standing with her ear pressed against the door of the earl’s study.

“Sorry,” said Daisy, darting guiltily away from the door and joining her mistress. “But it’s ever so interesting.”

“Don’t say ‘ever so’,” Rose corrected automatically. “You should not listen at doors. It’s vulgar.”

“Lord Hedley is in a right rage. Seems it’s not the usual doctor but a new one, the old one having popped his clogs last week.”

“Daisy!”

“And he won’t sign the death certificate!”

Now Daisy had Rose’s full attention. “Why not?”

“Seems like this new doctor, a Dr. Perriman, well, he says it’s arsenic poisoning, of that he’s sure. Lord Hedley, he says, “So what?” He says a lot of ladies take arsenic to clear the skin and she’s overdone it. Dr. Perriman says he’s already phoned the police and Lord Hedley is raging and saying he’ll have him drummed out of the medical profession.”

There was a thunderous knocking at the door and both women jumped nervously.

The hall-boy, who had been slumbering in a chair near the door, awoke with a start and rushed to open it.

A police sergeant stood there, with a constable at his side. The butler, Curzon, appeared in the hall.

The police sergeant said something in a low voice and then both policemen were led off to the study.

♦

The castle was hushed and sombre. The wind had died down but great black clouds still tore across the sky.

Rose was once more on her way downstairs for afternoon tea when she heard Curzon announcing in tones of doom, “Detective Superintendent Kerridge.”

The superintendent and another detective vanished into the marquess’s study. Rose joined Margaret and the others in the drawing-room where a lavish afternoon tea was being served.

The American twins, Harriet and Deborah Peterson, were whispering together. The rest were moodily silent until Mrs. Trumpington raised her voice. “Who just arrived? I heard a carriage. Curzon?”

The butler, who had entered the room after Rose, said, “Persons from Scotland Yard have arrived, madam.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Mrs. Trumpington selected a large slice of Madeira cake, scoffed it down, brushed off the crumbs which decorated her jet-embroidered gown, and declared, “I mean, the silly girl obviously took arsenic for her skin. Took too much, that’s all. And anyway, that doctor had no right to jump to the conclusion that it was poisoning. And how does he even know it was arsenic?”

“He says she smelled of garlic,” said Sir Gerald-Burke.

“So?”

“Evidently a sign of arsenic poisoning. Then she’d vomited all over the place and –”

“Ladies present. I say.” Harry Trenton.

“You did ask,” remarked Gerald languidly. “It’s all such a bore. I suppose we will all have to be interviewed by the police.”

Lady Sarah Trenton gasped and fell back in her chair with her eyes closed.

“Has she fainted?” asked Neddie Freemantle.

“Acting as usual,” said Frederica Sutherland roundly. “She’s always acting and posing.”

Sarah opened her eyes and glared at them all. “I have delicate sensibilities which the rest of you seem to lack.”

“Did they find arsenic in her room among her cosmetics?” asked Margaret.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Trumpington. “Ask the maids. There’s been an army of them in there cleaning up and laying her out.”

“That’s destroying evidence,” gasped Rose.

They all stared at her and she flushed at being suddenly the centre of so much attention. “It’s just that Scotland Yard has recently opened a fingerprint bureau. If the room had not been cleaned, they could have taken all our fingerprints and discovered if there was anyone who had been in her room.”

“Trust our walking encyclopaedia to know that,” said Gerald waspishly, and Rose, who had begun to regard him as a friend, gave him a hurt look.

The door opened and Lord Hedley came in. “The police want to interview you one at a time. Sorry about this. It’s all the fault of that doctor, Perriman. First it’s the working classes getting uppity, now it’s the middle classes. They make trouble to get their revenge on us.”

“Why would they want to do that?” asked Rose.

“Envy. Pure envy,” said the marquess. “Your parents phoned, young lady. I told them there was no need to travel here. Once this trivial matter has been resolved, we can all relax and enjoy ourselves. Now, the police will begin with the ladies. Lady Rose? Perhaps you should go first.”

“Why?” Rose wanted to ask. But she got up and followed the marquess through a door in the hall and along a corridor. “I’ve put him in the estate office,” said the marquess. He ushered Rose in and closed the door.

Rose and Kerridge took stock of each other. Kerridge saw a very beautiful girl in high-boned white lace blouse and tailored skirt. Rose saw a thickset grey-haired man, with calm grey eyes and a thick grey moustache, standing behind a desk.

“Please be seated, my lady,” said Kerridge. Another detective sat a little away from Kerridge and a policeman with a large notebook was perched on a hard chair in a corner of the room. A stuffed fox glared down from the wall behind the desk, its mouth open in a snarl.

“Now, Lady Rose,” said Kerridge, “where were you on the night Miss Gore-Desmond died?”

“I was in my room and I heard someone shouting – I think shouting, “Get a doctor.” My maid and I put on our dressing-gowns and followed the sound of the voices. Lady Hedley came out of what I now know to have been Miss Gore-Desmond’s room. She said Miss Gore-Desmond had been taken ill. I had a glimpse inside the room of Lord Hedley, the butler and housekeeper, and, I think, Mr. Trumpington. I am afraid that is all I can tell you.”

“What kind of lady was Miss Gore-Desmond?”

“I didn’t really get to know her. She seemed – well, prickly, as if she despised us all.”

“Did she favour any gentleman in particular?”

“Not that I noticed. She sewed a lot. Petit point. She did not converse much, or if she did, I did not notice. Will that be all?”

“Just one other thing. Do you know a certain Captain Harry Cathcart?”

High colour stained Rose’s cheeks. “I believe he is an acquaintance of my father.”

“The bridge and the station at Stacey Magna were blown up.”

“Yes, but what has that to do with the death of Miss Gore-Desmond?”

“Just curious. Have you any idea who was responsible?”

“The Bolsheviks, of course. Everyone knows that.”

Rose thought she heard him mutter, “Except me,” but could not be sure.

“That will be all for now. Shall I ring for a footman?”

“I can find my own way back, thank you.”

He consulted a list. “Would you be so kind as to ask the Misses Harriet and Deborah Peterson to step along?”

“Certainly.”

“Why did you ask her about that business at Stacey Magna?” asked Inspector Judd.

“Because I have a nagging feeling that it had more to do with stopping the king visiting than any plot by Bolsheviks. But we’d better stick to this business here. What’s worrying you, Judd? You’ve a face like a fiddle.”

“You say this Lord Hedley is rich.”

“Yes, very.”

“And yet you say those suits of armour are fake? Why didn’t he have real ones?”

“No feel for history. I was reading up on this place. There used to be a beautiful house here and Lord Hedley’s father tore it down and took out all the Adam furniture and burnt it all. He built this about thirty years ago, when everyone wanted everything to look like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.”

The American sisters entered the room and Kerridge began to question them. After they had left he worked his way through all the guests, ending up with the Marchioness of Hedley.

“Are you going to be long?” she asked.

“No, my lady,” said Kerridge soothingly. “Just a few questions.”

“No. Meant are you going to be long here Tiresome. Can’t abide policemen.”

“This may be a case of murder,” said Kerridge severely.

“Tish, tosh! Silly girl used the stuff as a cosmetic. That’s all.”

“Did she have any enemies?” pursued Kerridge doggedly.

“Well, nobody liked her. I didn’t.”

“Why, my lady?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you not like her?”

“No grace. No manners. Ferrety little thing.”

“Why did you invite her?”

“Hedley’s idea. “We’ll have a season’s-failures party.” That’s what he said.”

“But the Misses Peterson, the Americans, have not yet had a season?”

“Them? They’re foreigners. Need all the help they can get.”

“Was Miss Gore-Desmond romantically involved with any of the gentleman?”

“Not that I noticed. My husband will speak to your superiors. And the –”

“Prime Minister,” Kerridge finished for her.

“Him, too. Now bustle along. Silly doctor. Not one of us.”

♦

After she had left, Kerridge heaved a sigh. “Better start on the servants. I hear someone arriving.” He walked to the window and looked down into the courtyard. A smart new motor car had just pulled up. Getting out of it was a tall man accompanied by a servant.

Kerridge rang the bell and waited until a footman appeared. “Who is the new arrival?” he asked.

“I believe a Captain Harry Cathcart has arrived, sir.”

“Indeed,” said the superintendent thoughtfully. “Now I wonder what he’s doing here.”

“Where are you to be lodged?” the captain asked his manservant.

“With all the valets and lady’s maids, accommodation is limited. I am to share a room with Freddy Pomfret’s valet.”

“Find out what the servants are saying about this mysterious death.”

“Of course.”

“I’m uneasy about this one,” said Harry. “Hedley wants me to fix things so that it will appear as an accidental death. But I don’t see myself covering up for a murder.”

“I will find out what I can, sir. The dressing bell has just gone. We have our new tailored suit.”

“We, Becket?”

“I understand that is the way menservants talk, sir.”

“Don’t do it. It reminds me of the nursery.”

“Very good, sir.”

♦

At the dinner table, Harry covertly studied the other guests. Rose was looking beautiful in a creamy-white evening dress trimmed with spotted net frills and baby ribbon. She caught him looking at her and gave him a hard stare before turning to Freddy Pomfret on her right.

Harry gave a mental shrug and addressed Mrs. Jerry Trum-pington, seated on his left.

“Bad business,” he began.

“Oh, it’ll be over soon,” said Mrs. Trumpington indistinctly through a mouthful of quail. “Fuss about nothing.”

“So you think it was an accident?”

“Of course. Parents are abroad but heading back fast. Pity for them. Still, it couldn’t be anything else. Unless you can be murdered for being a dismal failure at your first season. Which is exactly what all these girls were – except the Americans. Great dowries. They’ll go fast. And Hedley will have made a bit of money out of it.”

“Money? How?”

“Yes, but more, more.” Mrs. Trumpington broke off to address a footman serving fish.

“Ah, where was I? Ah, yes, the men are paying for a chance at the Americans and the gels’ parents are paying in the hope that their daughters will make a match.”

“I would not have thought our host needed the money.”

“Greedy. That’s what he is.” Mrs. Trumpington filled her mouth with fish.

Harry turned to Miss Maisie Chatterton on his other side. “Are you bearing up,” he asked her.

“Yeth,” whispered Maisie. “I telephoned Mama and told her to come and get me and she wouldn’t ‘cos she thaid that a drama like this would bring out the knight errant in the gentlemen and get me a proposal.”

“And has it?”

“No, they’re all after the Americans. ‘Snot fair. They’re not Bwitish.”

“Did you know Miss Gore-Desmond well?”

“No.”

“Was she hoping for a husband?”

“Odd. She said she didn’t need to look. Was already spoken for.”

“By whom?”

“Don’t know. You’re as bad as the police. All these questions.” Maisie giggled and rapped him on the arm with her fan.

Dinner was a shorter affair than usual. The men spent very little time over their port and cigars before joining the ladies in the drawing-room.

Harry found himself drawn to Rose’s side. “Captain Cath-cart,” she said coldly, “why are you here?”

“Late guest.”

“I do not believe it. I believe Hedley wants you to use your grubby skills to get rid of the police. What are you going to do? Blow up the castle?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think it murder?”

“I don’t know. When did you arrive?”

“This afternoon. I have a splendid new motor car, a Ian-chester.”

“Nasty, smelly things. It’s a fad. It’ll never catch on.”

“Lady Rose. The horse is a thing of the past. Some of the cabs in London are already motorized.”

“Of almost twenty-five thousand vehicles which passed along Piccadilly in one day of this year,” said Rose, “less than four hundred were motor cars. Now what does that tell you?”

“It tells me that you have a fantastic memory for facts, and that memory of yours has led you to believe your intelligence superior. I think you are showing off. I think that desire to show off has blinded you to the obvious fact that the motor vehicle is here to stay.”

Rose walked away from him, her face flaming. Margaret came to join her. “The handsome captain appears to have insulted you.”

“He’s insufferable,” hissed Rose.

“What did he say?”

“He insists the motor car is here to stay.”

“He’s quite right. Was that all?”

Rose suddenly felt she had made a fool of herself. “Oh, he said other things. How are you?”

“Worried. I cannot find Colette. I had to dress myself for dinner. Do you think your maid might know where she is?”

“I’ll find out,” said Rose. She summoned a footman and told him to fetch Daisy.

She waited until Daisy entered the drawing-room and she and Margaret went up to her.

“Colette is missing,” said Margaret. “Do you know where she is?”

“Colette didn’t appear for dinner in the housekeeper’s room,” said Daisy. “So the housekeeper sent one of the maids to her room but she wasn’t there.”

“Does she have a room off yours?” Rose asked Margaret.

“No, you were favoured.”

“I know where it is,” said Daisy.

“Would you please go there and find out if her belongings are still there?”

Daisy bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

“Has she ever disappeared before?” Rose asked Margaret.

“Never.”

They waited impatiently until Daisy reappeared. “Her clothes are gone and her suitcase,” she said. “Why would she go like that?”

Margaret sighed. “I’ll need to engage another. May I share Daisy with you?”

Daisy and Rose exchanged startled looks. Daisy had learned a great deal quickly but was far from being a perfect lady’s maid, but Rose did not know how she could possibly refuse her new friend.

“Of course,” she said. “You may go, Daisy.”

Daisy had just left the room when she heard a voice behind her, calling her name. She turned round and saw the tall figure of Harry Cathcart, who had just emerged from the drawing-room.

She bobbed a curtsy. “Sir?”

“I overheard something about a missing lady’s maid.”

“That’s Colette, Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone’s maid.”

“When did she disappear?”

“Today, sometime or another, sir.”

“Would you please take me to her room?”

“Follow me, sir.”

Daisy, who knew that the captain had been brought to Stacey Court to deter the king’s visit, having been part of the plot herself, shrewdly guessed he had been summoned by the marquess to help to subdue any scandal. Servants’ gossip had also informed her that it was Captain Cathcart who had found out what a cad Blandon was.

They reached the servants’ quarters at the top of the castle, stopping on a landing to pick up and light candles, gaslight not extending to the servants’ rooms. Daisy led the way along an uncarpeted corridor and pushed open a door.

“Why did she have a room of her own?” asked Harry. “There are so many visiting servants.”

“This is one of the smallest and her mistress was one of the first arrivals.”

Harry looked around. A cupboard with a curtain over it to serve as a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a narrow bed, a table and chair, and a hooked rug beside the bed on bare floorboards.

Daisy held back the curtain over the cupboard. “See! All her clothes have gone.”

Harry set his candle in its flat stick on the table. He opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers and then the lower ones.

He turned again and surveyed the room. Then he went over to the bed, stripped off the covers and threw them on the floor, and then pulled up the thin mattress. “Bring the candle over here,” he ordered.

Daisy held her candle high as she joined him. Lying under the mattress was a silver locket, a cigarette case, and a piece of fine lace.

“Do you think she stole those items?”

“I think she put them there for safekeeping,” said Daisy. “Lady Rose gave me a bracelet and I keep it under my mattress here in case anyone tries to steal it.”

“Odd,” said Harry. “Did you ever talk to her?”

“Only a little when our ladies were out for a walk. She was talking about morals and saying about the cards on the bedroom doors being there so that the gentlemen would know which room to visit during the night. But she said young ladies were strictly protected. I said that since the party was mostly young ladies, there’d be no goings-on. Something like that. And she said, “But some of them can fall. I know…” And then Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone called for her shawl, so I never did find out what she was talking about.”

Harry stood still for a moment. Then he replaced the mattress and the bedclothes. “You’d best keep quiet about this for the moment,” he said.

“If Miss Gore-Desmond was murdered and Colette knew something and was maybe paid to go away,” said Daisy, “you wouldn’t cover up something like that, sir?”

“No, I couldn’t. Is the superintendent resident in the castle?”

“No, sir, he’s at the Telby Arms.”

“I’d better see him sometime early tomorrow morning,” said Harry, half to himself. “That will be all, Daisy. Let’s go.”

They left the room and began to walk back along the corridor and downstairs.

“Why did you decide to become a lady’s maid?” asked Harry.

“Lady Rose offered me the job.”

“And do you like it?”

“Yes. Ever so.”

“Is anyone courting Lady Rose?”

“Not yet. But they will.”

“Yes, I suppose she will not stay single for long. Society has short memories.”

♦

Although Daisy had promised not to say anything, she thought that promise only concerned the other servants and so told Rose what had happened.

“This is fascinating,” said Rose when she had finished. “Do you know what time Captain Cathcart plans to leave in the morning?”

“I could find out from Becket, his manservant.”

“Would you do that, Daisy?”

“I’ll try. But if he’s retired for the night, I can’t go to the men’s quarters.”

“See if you can find him.”

Daisy went downstairs to the kitchens where the staff were preparing dishes of sandwiches. “Has anyone seen Becket? Captain Cathcart’s man?”

“His master has just rung for him,” said the butler.

Daisy went back upstairs from tower to tower, studying the names on the doors until she found the right one. She retreated a little way and hid in an alcove. At last, she heard the door opening and Becket’s voice saying, “Seven in the morning. Certainly, sir.”

Daisy moved out of the alcove. “Mr. Becket,” she whispered. “I need to talk to you.”

♦

Harry stood in the courtyard in the morning, waiting for Becket to bring the motor car round.

“Good morning, Captain Cathcart.”

He started and turned round. Rose was standing there, heavily veiled, accompanied by Daisy.

“Why are you about so early, Lady Rose?” he asked.

“To accompany you to see the superintendent.”

Harry glared at Daisy, who blushed and muttered, “I only told my lady.”

“And why should you want to see the superintendent?”

“Because I can be of help,” said Rose. Although outwardly calm, Rose was inwardly frightened he would refuse. She was sure he had been invited to try to hush things up and she was determined to see that he did not do so.

He stood looking at her thoughtfully. Then he said, “You may be of use. But do not interrupt when I am talking to the superintendent.”

Superintendent Kerridge was just sitting down to a breakfast of black pudding, kidneys, and bacon and eggs when the landlord informed him that there was a party from the castle to see him.

“Send them in,” ordered Kerridge.

He stood up as Harry and Rose entered the room. “May I offer you something?” asked Kerridge.

“No, we will breakfast later,” said Harry.

Kerridge waited until they had seated themselves at the table. He studied the captain. Where was the silly ass he had interviewed in Chelsea? This version of Harry Cathcart looked hard and intelligent. He was determined to go on eating. I mean, he thought bitterly, that was the upper classes for you. Drop in and interrupt a good breakfast when it suited them. Well, come the revolution, they’d be singing a different tune. Did they ever stop to think that the food that was no doubt being laid out in the breakfast room of the castle would be enough to feed the poor of this village for months? No, not them.

“You are sneering, Mr. Kerridge,” commented Rose.

Kerridge flushed a guilty red. “Bad tooth, my lady. Now, what is the reason for your visit?”

Harry told him about the disappearing lady’s maid and of Daisy’s brief conversation with her.

“Servants disappear the whole time,” said Kerridge.

Harry then told him about the items hidden under the mattress.

“The thing is,” said Kerridge after he had defiantly munched a kidney, “I do not understand your interest in this. It is not your lady’s maid, Lady Rose.”

“I think she has been murdered because of what she knew,” said Rose. “I think you should get men from the new fingerprint bureau down here to dust Colette’s room. Then you can fingerprint everyone in the castle. The captain’s fingerprints will be there, of course, as will those of my maid, but you can eliminate them.”

“My lady, I am charmed by your interest in modern police methods,” said Kerridge, pointing a sausage impaled on a fork at her, “but what will happen is this. Lord Hedley, I am sure, has phoned several people in high places. Later today, I will be told to close the case.”

“But the doctor will not sign the death certificate!” exclaimed Rose.

“No doubt, given the right pressure, the police pathologist will. Deaths from cosmetic arsenic are quite common.”

“But Colette…?”

“A lady’s maid? A foreign lady’s maid? A French lady’s maid?”

“I will be open with you, Superintendent,” said Harry.

“About time, if I may say so, sir. You played the fool very well when I saw you before about the bombs at Stacey Magna.”

“Oh, that,” said Harry with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Forget that. This is important. I have been summoned here by Hedley to hush this up.”

“Why you?”

“I am considered diplomatic.”

“So why didn’t you keep the maid’s disappearance to yourself?”

“I cannot condone murder, Mr. Kerridge.”

Kerridge sighed. “I will do my best in the short time I am sure I have got left. But you can forget about fingerprinting the guests, Lady Rose. Can you imagine the outcry? I wish to keep my job.”

“I would have thought a desire to right a wrong and bring a criminal to justice would be more important than your job,” snapped Rose.

“Oh, really? And then what? You lot don’t live in the real world. While you’re up there stuffing your faces, people in this village are starving.”

“You forget yourself,” admonished Harry.

“He is quite right,” said Rose. “The superintendent shall have our help. I shall find out what I can from the female guests, and you, Captain, can concentrate on the men. Daisy and Becket can find out what they can from the servants.”

“We will do what we can,” said Harry with a note of irritation in his voice, for he felt Rose was being downright unwomanly. “I would advise you to keep your radical views to yourself in future, Superintendent, particularly in the presence of ladies.”

“Oh, tish,” said Rose with a dismissive wave of her hand.

♦

“They’re up there a long time,” said Daisy to Becket as they sat in the empty taproom.

“How do you like being a lady’s maid?” asked Becket.

“It’s all right. But so much to learn. I’ve got to wash my lady’s silk stockings and I’m frightened I’ll damage them.”

“You wash them with soap and water and simmer them gently. For a blue shade, put a drop of liquid blue in a pan of cold spring water and run the stockings through this for a minute or two, and dry them. For a pink dye, same process but with one or two drops of pink dye. For a flesh colour, add a little rose-pink in a thin soap liquor, rub them with a clean flannel and mangle them.”

“‘Ere!” cried Daisy, her Cockney accent to the fore. “I didn’t think I needed to colour them. And how do you know all this?”

“I had never been a gentleman’s gentleman before, so I read a great deal on the subject. I often found myself reading advice to lady’s maids as well.”

“What about corsets?”

“You take out the steels in front and sides, lay them on a flat surface and use a small brush and a lather of white Castile soap to scrub the corsets. Run under cold water and leave to dry. Don’t iron.”

“You’re a mine of information. Do you think Colette was murdered?”

“If she knew something, someone might have paid her to go away,” said Becket.

♦

After Harry had driven them back to the castle, he helped Rose to alight and asked curiously, “Do you think you will like detective work?”

“Perhaps.”

He smiled down at her, a smile which illuminated his normally harsh face. “Why are you so interested in helping me?”

“I would like to give you a worthy motive,” said Rose. “It is simply because I am bored.”

The light went out from his face and his eyes had the old shuttered look.

Daisy followed Rose up the stairs to their room. “My lady,” said Daisy, “It may not be my place to say so, but you must learn to flirt.”

“Why?”

“Because one day a handsome man’s going to come along and someone else is going to snap him up.”

Rose looked amused. “Why are you so suddenly interested in my lack of flirting?”

“It was when the captain asked you why you were helping him and he had ever such a nice smile, my lady, and you said it was because you was bored.”

“What should I have said?”

“You could have said it in a jokey sort of voice and dropped your eyelashes like this and then given a little smile.”

“I am not romantically interested in Captain Cathcart.”

“Would do to practice on.”

Rose sat down in front of the dressing-table mirror and stared moodily at her reflection while Daisy took the pins out of her hat and removed it.

“You know, Daisy, it is this pressure of marriage which annoys and depresses me. There are women in London earning their living.”

“Not ladies.”

“There are respectable middle-class ladies working in offices. There is nothing up the middle classes. They have sound moral values,” said Rose as if commenting on some obscure tribe of Amazonian Indians.

“If you say so, my lady.”

“I will now go down to breakfast and see what I can find out. I will start with my new friend, Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone.”

“Don’t get too friendly, my lady. She could have murdered that Gore-Desmond woman herself.”

“Nonsense.”

“Poisoning’s a woman’s game.”