Snobbery with Violence

∨ Snobbery with Violence ∧

Seven

It would be impossible to read poetry properly in these upper-class accents; they have such a wretched poverty of vowel sounds:Aw waw taw gaw, they seem to be saying. Much of this yaw haw comes down to us from the drawl of the fashionable Mid-Victorian ‘swells’, who were suggesting to their listeners that they were doing them a favour by talking to them at all.

– J.B. PRIESTLEY, THE EDWARDIANS

In the breakfast room, Rose helped herself to kidneys and bacon and took a seat next to Margaret.

“Have you heard any news of Colette?” she asked.

“Not a word.”

“You should tell the police.”

“They will not be interested.”

Rose hesitated and then said, “I told them myself.”

Margaret stared at her. “When?”

“This morning.”

“Why?”

“A girl is missing. Under the mattress in her room was found a silver locket, a piece of lace and a cigarette case.”

“Those are items I gave to her.”

“Why would she leave them behind? Someone could have packed up her belongings to make it look as if she had left. Besides, she told my maid, Daisy, that she knew something about one of the young ladies here, implying that one was having an affair.”

Margaret’s face was stiff with outrage. “I find your poking around in things that do not concern you distasteful, to say the least. Now, if you will excuse me…”

Rose watched her go with dismay. What had she done wrong? Surely it was only natural to want to know what had become of the girl. She suddenly felt very alone again.

She saw Harry, who had just entered the room. She waited until he had helped himself to a frugal breakfast of toast and coffee and called to him, “Captain Cathcart!”

Harry joined her and said, “You are looking distressed.”

Rose told him about her conversation with Margaret.

“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” he said. “You will find all the guests want to forget about the death of Miss Gore-Desmond. They are certainly not going to trouble their heads about one missing lady’s maid. Perhaps Miss Margaret Bryce-Cuddlestone fell from grace herself with one of the men here.”

“Surely not. Surely it is only married ladies who…” Rose blushed. Then she recovered and said, “I am sharing Daisy with her. Daisy might find out something.”

“It’s worth asking her if she can find out anything. It would explain Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone’s attitude to her maid’s disappearance.”

“Morning, Lady Rose…Cathcart,” said Harry Trenton, sitting down opposite them, a plate laden high with food. “Jolly fine weather. Nip in the air, what.”

“Haven’t been awake long enough to notice,” drawled Harry.

Other guests began to come into the dining-room. Rose noticed the change in Harry. He seemed to have an endless fund of vacuous remarks. Perhaps that was how he found out things, she thought. People would slip their guard if they thought they had nothing to fear.

♦

Daisy helped Margaret change into a new outfit for lunch. She was feeling more confident because Becket had told her that any fine items which needed to be cleaned by the lady’s maid rather than given to laundresses were to be brought to him and he would help her.

“Have you been with Lady Rose for long?” asked Margaret.

“Not long,” said Daisy. She had been primed by Rose to find out about Margaret but had not expected Margaret to want to find out about her.

“And before that?”

“I am the daughter of one of the tenant farmers on the Sta-cey Court estates,” lied Daisy. “I am well-educated and it was Lady Hadshire’s kind way of giving me a start in life.”

To her relief that seemed to satisfy Margaret. “Do any of the gentlemen here please you, madam?” asked Daisy.

“Know your place, my good girl, and do not ask impertinent questions. The lace on my oyster satin dinner gown is soiled. Please have it cleaned by this evening.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Hand me my gloves. You may go to your mistress now.”

Daisy held the door open for her, collected the dinner gown and took it downstairs. Rose had said she had no intention of changing for lunch and that she thought the ritual of changing at least six times a day exhausting and silly.

She went in search of Becket, who looked up his books and told her to make a lather of Castile soap, clean the lace with a fine brush after it had been unpicked from the gown, put a little alum in clean water to clear off the suds, iron it with a cool iron and then stitch it back onto the gown again.

As she worked, Daisy told him that she had been instructed to find out all about Margaret.

“If you want to find out who is sleeping with whom,” said Becket, “you have to watch the corridors at night.”

“What if I’m caught?”

“Just say your mistress can’t sleep and wants some warm milk and you lost your way. This place is a rabbit warren. They’ll believe you.”

“A murderer wouldn’t,” said Daisy with a shiver.

♦

During afternoon tea when the men had returned from shooting and the ladies were fluttering around them, the marquess entered.

“Good news,” he said. “It has been confirmed that Miss Gore-Desmond’s death was suicide. The coroner’s inquest is tomorrow. There is no need for any of you to attend. We can put the whole matter behind us.”

Harry followed him out of the room. “So my services are not required?”

“Glad to say they’re not. But stay on. Be a guest.”

“Thank you. Perhaps I will stay for a few days.”

Harry rang for Becket and told him to bring the car round. Then, taking over the wheel himself, he drove to the Telby Arms.

He found Kerridge in his room.

“Been called off?” he asked.

“The marquess must have powerful connections. But it happened just as I thought it would. I’ve got a friend in the pathology lab. Miss Gore-Desmond had taken a massive dose of arsenic. Couldn’t possibly have been a mistake with cosmetics. So a murder is being hushed up. You must be pleased.”

“On the contrary. I am staying on for a few days. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

“The coroner will bring a verdict of accidental death. I will be constrained to say I found no evidence of foul play. Then I will leave directly afterwards and return to booking and charging the lower classes who cannot pull strings.”

“Makes you a bit bitter, does it?”

“You have no idea. But if you could find anything to pin this murder on any of them, I’d be very grateful. Here is my card.”

“A word of warning,” said Harry. “Do not spout off your radical views to all and sundry. You are lucky that Lady Rose is an intelligent woman. What if word of your views got back to your superiors?”

“I’ll be careful,” said Kerridge. “To tell the truth, I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the poverty of this village. The inn’s all right, but have you seen the houses? Little more than hovels.”

“He’s a bad landlord,” said Harry with a sigh. “Maybe something can be done about it.”

♦

Daisy prepared Margaret for bed. Rose had said she could put herself to bed. She brushed down her hair and reached for the cotton-wool pads and wash to clean the make-up from Margaret’s face, thinking it odd that a debutante should wear makeup at all, even though it had been skilfully applied.

“That will be all, Daisy,” ordered Margaret. “You may leave. I will not be requiring your services again. Lady Trumpington has kindly offered me the services of her lady’s maid, who is more experienced than you.”

Daisy went out into the corridor and began to look for hiding places. She found a chest for storing linen in one of the embrasures in the corridor and managed to squeeze down behind it.

♦

She heard the stable clock chime midnight. She heard the last of the guests going up to bed. By one o’clock her eyes were beginning to droop and she fought to keep awake.

She struggled with sleep until the clock chimed two, and was about to give up when she heard a furtive footstep at the end of the corridor.

Daisy was frightened to raise her head above the chest, but looking up, she saw a large shadow racing ahead of someone carrying a candle. Then there came a soft knock on Margaret’s door.

Daisy slowly raised her head above the chest, just in time to see the Marquess of Hedley disappearing into Margaret’s room. She waited until the door had closed behind her. Feeling stiff and cramped, she eased herself out from behind the chest.

She crept over to the door and listened. She could hear the murmur of voices and then Margaret’s laugh, but could not make out any words.

Afraid of being caught, Daisy decided to beat a retreat.

She was bursting with news and felt she could not bear to wait until the morning. Daisy shook Rose awake, hissing, “You’ll never believe it.”

Rose struggled up against the pillows. “What has happened? Another death?”

Daisy perched on the bed, her eyes alight with excitement. “Lord Hedley went in to Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone’s bedchamber at two in the morning!”

“Perhaps she was ill?”

“Garn!”

“Daisy! You must remember to behave like a proper lady’s maid!”

Daisy was tired. “Look, my lady, a proper lady’s maid don’t have to spend the night listening at doors. Like being a proper detective means finding out things for yourself.”

Rose’s eyes blazed with anger. And then she sank back against the pillows with a sigh. Daisy had made her feel guilty. Daisy had made her feel that she was merely playing at being a detective while delegating the hard work to someone else.

And why should she expect Daisy to behave like a conventional servant when the very reason she liked the girl was because of the fact that she was not conventional at all.

“You are right, Daisy. But I am shocked. How on earth can Margaret hope to find a husband when she is…”

“Damaged goods?”

“Quite.”

“I believe some ladies say it got broke when they were out riding.”

“Broke what?”

“You know. The thing that keeps you a virgin. Sounds like hymn books.”

Rose shifted awkwardly. “Never mind that. If Margaret has fallen from grace, then it stands to reason that Mary Gore-Desmond might also have been having an affair.”

“There’s another thing,” said Daisy eagerly, “what I heard in the servants’ hall.”

Rose was about to correct Daisy’s grammar but decided against it. The idea of escaping to London and working for a living was growing in her mind. Like herself, Daisy was now an excellent typist. They could go together. And if that happened, they would be equals. On the other hand, Daisy would need to speak properly if she were to become a businesswoman.

“Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?” asked Daisy.

“Go on.”

“Lord Hedley’s pa blew the family money building this monster of a casde. Lady Hedley’s the one with all the money. Her lawyers tied it up in the marriage settlements so he can’t get his hands on it until she’s dead. What if Lord Hedley was playing fast and loose with Miss Gore-Desmond and she threatened to tell Lady Hedley? There’s a reason for murder.”

“It’s a reason for Lord Hedley to murder his wife. Of course, had it been Lady Hedley who had been found dead, perhaps he would be suspected right away. I think we should communicate your findings to Captain Cathcart.”

“Thought you didn’t like him.”

“Whether I like him or not is beside the point. He has the experience we need. Good night, Daisy. You did well.”

“I’m sorry I forgot my place, my lady.”

“You may behave as an equal when you are with me, but not in public. I have plans for us.”

“What plans?”

“I’ll tell you when I have worked it all out.”

♦

Harry was handed a note by Becket the following morning. It said:

Please meet us in the library at nine. We have news for you. Rose Summer.

Harry showed it to Becket. “We? I wonder who the other person is?”

“I should think it would turn out to be her lady’s maid, Daisy.”

“But one does not say we when talking about a servant. I mean, a lady’s maid is a fashionable shadow.”

“I think Lady Rose and Daisy are more in the way of being friends.”

“What an odd girl she is, to be sure. You’d better come along as well.”

When they entered the library, it was to find both Rose and Daisy waiting for them.

“I suggested we meet here,” began Rose, “because I doubt if anyone ever uses this room.”

“Let’s sit down and you can tell me about it,” said Harry.

He sat in one chair and Rose sat in the other. Daisy stood behind Rose and Becket behind Harry.

“I think we should all sit together,” said Rose. “The detective work is all Daisy’s.”

They all grouped around the library table.

Daisy told her story while Harry listened intently. “Well done,” exclaimed Harry when Daisy had finished, and Rose felt a pang of jealousy. Not that she was romantically interested in Harry, of course. Simply that she felt she should have been the one to find out about Margaret and about the marquess’s financial position. “Colette’s disappearance may have had nothing to do with Miss Gore-Desmond’s death. Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone may have decided her maid knew too much and dismissed her. And yet it was she who started the search for her. Anyway, I’ve found out some more things.

“I was talking to Maisie Chatterton. She babbles on about everything in that silly lisp of hers. She tells me that Mary Gore-Desmond said something one evening in the drawing-room to Sir Gerald Burke. Sir Gerald glared at Mary and then muttered something vicious to her, according to Maisie. Freddy Pomfret was flirting with Mary on one occasion but Maisie said that was because Mary had a large dowry. Neddie Freemantle was heard braying with laughter at everything Mary said. Maisie asked him afterwards what he had found so funny and he said Mary had mimicked the accents and behaviour of the guests brilliantly. I’ve forgotten the most important thing. Is Miss Gore-Desmond’s lady’s maid still in the castle?”

“No, sir,” said Daisy.

“But surely she was kept behind for questioning by the police?”

“She left the morning after Miss Gore-Desmond was found dead. She said she would travel to the parents’ home.”

“What was her name?”

“Quinn, sir.”

“Becket, we’d better get over to that inquest. The Gore-Desmonds will be there and with luck the lady’s maid. But the fact that Colette disappeared and not Quinn is most odd. Quinn would know her mistress’s secrets. What an amateur I am. I should have thought of the lady’s maid right away.”

“Perhaps it is because you are more used to covering things up than exposing them,” said Rose.

“That was a rather nasty thing to say.”

“It was not meant to be nasty. It was a statement of fact.”

“Well, here’s a statement of fact. You are the most unfemi-nine woman I have ever come across.”

Becket cleared his throat. “I will bring the car round, sir. The ladies will wish to accompany us.”

Becket left the room quickly before Harry could protest.

“Where is the inquest to be held?” asked Rose.

“At the coroner’s court in Creinton, a market town near here.”

“Very well,” said Rose. “We will meet you outside in the courtyard in half an hour.”

“Make it fifteen minutes,” said Harry.

♦

Mrs. Gore-Desmond’s anguished cry in court that her daughter had never touched arsenic did not sway the verdict of accidental death.

Outside the courtroom the marquess was in high good humour which he tried to hide. Daisy nudged Rose’s arm and whispered, “That’s Quinn, the lady’s maid, over there.”

Rose hurried towards a tall, severe-looking woman, the very opposite of Daisy.

“I am sorry for your loss,” began Rose.

Quinn curtsied and nodded. “I am surprised you did not wait to be interrogated by the police,” said Rose.

“Our local police called on me to take a statement. I told them that Miss Gore-Desmond had never used arsenic for cosmetic purposes. I left to be with Mr. and Mrs. Gore-Desmond. Mrs. Gore-Desmond’s lady’s maid had recently left and she was advertising for another. I knew I could get the job if I moved quickly.”

“Was Miss Gore-Desmond romantically interested in any of the gentlemen at the castle?”

Quinn stared at Rose from under the shadow of an enormous black hat. “I think she found them all rather silly, to tell the truth. But she was not the sort of lady to chatter to servants.” The stare hardened even more, implying that Rose was one of the ones that did. “Now, if you will excuse me, my lady.”

Harry went up to the marquess. “It turns out you did not need my services after all,” he said.

“Good of you to come, all the same,” said the marquess, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t rush off. As I said before, stay and enjoy the house party.”

“You are too kind.”

“There’s Lady Rose looking for you, you lucky dog.” The marquess grinned and strolled off towards his carriage.

Rose came up to Harry and told him about what Quinn had said. “At least we know she’s all right,” said Harry when Rose had finished. “But no wonder Kerridge gets so furious. What a shameful business. Quinn was not even called as a witness.”

“So your job is over. You don’t need to help to hide anything,” said Rose. “All the facts have been buried as deep as poor Miss Gore-Desmond is shortly going to be.”

“I have been asked to stay on as a guest and I am determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.”

“I will help you,” said Rose eagerly. “We are the only ones here, apart from Lord Hedley. I can start to talk about the inquest at luncheon and see what they all say during conversation.”

“If there is any conversation about this death, it will be all about how it is not really necessary to wear mourning.”

“If only the body could be exhumed.”

“But the beauty of arsenic,” said Harry, “is that it clears out of the organs very quickly.”

“It stays in the nails and hair,” said Rose.

It always irritated Harry when Rose proved again that she knew more about a subject than he did.

“You look very attractive in black,” he said, smiling down at her.

“I beg your pardon! Oh, you feel obliged to flirt like the other men in the party. You do not have to waste time on such frivolities with me.”

“Are you being deliberately infuriating, or are you just gauche?”

Rose bridled. “I think you should keep your mind on essentials. Miss Gore-Desmond may have been murdered.”

“You would make a good nanny. Stop giving me orders. It is time we went back.”

♦

Luncheon was a jolly affair for all but Rose and Harry. Everyone seemed brightened up by the fact that accidental death had been confirmed. What goes on in their heads, wondered Rose. Look at Margaret, elegant and serene. How could she? Perhaps it was time to unsettle them all. She turned to Sir Gerald Burke on her right and said, “I met Miss Gore-Desmond’s maid, Quinn, at the inquest. She told me her mistress had never used arsenic cosmetically to clear her skin.”

“It’s not very fashionable these days,” he said. “She probably kept it a secret.”

“I didn’t think one could have secrets from one’s lady’s maid.”

“Oh, one can, I gather, with professional, well-trained lady’s maids. If you will forgive me for saying so, I notice that you are a trifle over-familiar with yours.”

“I do not believe servants should be treated as pieces of machinery. They have hearts and souls and feelings, just like us.”

“Nonsense. They do not have the sensitive finer feelings of their betters. They are made of coarser fibre.”

“Surely that is nonsense.”

Sir Gerald stared at her a moment and then turned away to speak to Deborah Peterson.

Rose decided to try her luck with Clive Fraser on her right. “I went to the inquest this morning,” she began.

“How horrid for you,” he said, his handsome face creased in sympathy. “No place for a lady. Still, good verdict.”

“I met Quinn, Miss Gore-Desmond’s lady’s maid. She said her mistress had never used arsenic.”

“Jolly good. Loyal servant, what.”

“But I think she was telling the truth.”

His eyes stared at her as if trying to solve a complex problem. Then he shook his head and said, “The weather’s turned a bit sharp. Jolly castle, this. Like the ones in Young England. Only thing I ever read were the stories in those magazines. Knights and ladies. You must think me sentimental, but I’m a softhearted chap.”

“Then you must have noticed the distressing state of the Telby villagers – being soft-hearted, I mean.”

He goggled at her. “What about them? Tidy little pub.”

“I believe the pub, like the village, is owned by Lord Hedley. He obviously favours it, but not the housing or condition of the villagers.”

“Wait a bit…wait a bit.” He banged his head. “You’re one of the Shrieking Sisterhood. That’s why you’ve these odd ideas. Pity. YOU being so pretty and all.”

He turned away to speak to Lady Trumpington on his other side. By order of precedence, Rose should have been at the head of the table next to the marquess, but Hedley seemed to delight in the unconventionality of ignoring strict rules of protocol.

♦

Harry covertly watched Rose repulse first the one and then the other. He felt impatient. If she would only try to flirt a bit, be a bit more feminine, she would get more out of them.

So after the male guests had set out for an afternoon’s shooting, he asked Rose if she would care to go for a walk.

Soon they were walking out over the drawbridge under a steel-grey sky. Daisy and Becket were walking behind.

“I could not help noticing your behaviour at luncheon,” began Harry.

“And what was wrong with it, may I ask? I was simply trying to elicit information.”

“You won’t get any information out of any of them if you hint at murder and go on like the grand inquisitor. If Hedley gets to hear of your suspicions, he’ll send you home.”

“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” said Rose. “I am weary of this fake castle, its guests, and you.”

“See what I mean? If you wish me to treat you like an equal – then go and boil your head, you rude…thing.”

“How dare you speak to me like this.” Rose stopped and glared at him, her fists clenched.

“You deserve it. I bet you I can get more information over the tea-table than you can.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“By being my charming self.”

“I wonder what that charming self is like. You see, I have never met it.” Rose swung round. “Come along, Daisy. It is too cold. I wish to go indoors.”

“What’s upset you?” asked Daisy, trotting along to keep up with Rose’s fast pace.

“Insufferable cad!”

“The captain. What did he say?”

“He criticized my behaviour at luncheon. He said I would never get any information if I kept hinting at murder and going on like the grand inquisitor. He even bet me he could get more information at afternoon tea than I could.”

“Now, there’s a challenge,” said Daisy. “And I know just what you should do.”

“What?”

“That pretty chiffon-and-lace tea-gown, the rose-coloured one. Then a softer hairstyle – a few tendrils escaping and lying on your neck. Your pearls.”

“I don’t understand this, Daisy.”

“You’ve got to look ever so vulnerable. You twitter that you’re afraid. Why? they’ll ask. And you bend your neck and say in a whisper that Miss Gore-Desmond’s death frightened you. You say you’ve always been considered psychic and are a great follower of Madame Blavatsky, raising the dead and all that. Hint that her spirit has been in touch with you.”

“They will think me extremely silly.”

“Oh, no, start with the ladies and you’ll be amazed. Had a friend down in Whitechapel who claimed to be a medium and she charged a lot for getting in touch with the dead. She worked hard. Read all the obituaries. Had the rich coming down from the West End to consult her. “A few more,” she says to me, “and I’m off to America.”.”

“And did she go?”

“No, the police raided her and found out all the secrets of wires under the table, gauze on wires to make it look as if a spirit was flying across the room, and they got her boy-friend as well for doing all the male voices. He was good, too. Worked in the halls as a ventriloquist.”

♦

Rose started that afternoon with the American sisters, Harriet and Deborah, who were usually shunned by the rest, who were jealous of their wealth.

Both girls had collected plates of cake and were sitting at a lace-draped table by the window. The window was of stained glass, depicting a knight slaying a dragon. Because it allowed very little light in, all the gaslights had been turned up full.

“May I join you?” asked Rose.

“By all means,” said Harriet. “If I may say so, Lady Rose, you are a trifle pale.”

Daisy had liberally dusted Rose’s face with powder. Rose had refused white lead make-up despite Daisy’s protests that Lillie Langtry used it. She did not want to die of lead poisoning.

“I know I am being silly,” said Rose, bowing her head. “But I am frightened.”

“Oh, the death of that poor girl,” said Harriet. “Well, she did it to herself.”

“May I tell you something in confidence?” asked Rose.

They both leaned towards her. “Go on.”

“Have you read the teachings of Madame Blavatsky?”

“The spiritualist. We tried to, but Ma caught us with it and threw the book out of the window saying the woman was a dangerous charlatan.”

Damn all Americans and their rotten common sense, thought Rose.

“You must think me such a silly-billy,” she whispered, “but, you see, I have always been considered psychic, and at night I can feel Mary Gore-Desmond’s presence.”

Harriet exchanged glances with her sister. “Look, don’t tell anyone, Lady Rose, but we’ve got a ouija board with us. Would you like to try? I mean, it’s not as if we miss her or anything, and it will make us upset.”

“You don’t miss her?”

Harriet said, “She was nasty. Downright nasty. Do you know what she said to us? She said, ‘Unlike me, you pair will never know whether the men just married you for your money.’ I said I’d marry for love and she tittered and said, ‘I can’t imagine a man marrying you for anything else.’

“So I rounded on her. Didn’t I, Deborah? I told her straight. No one’s going to look at a skinny mean-faced person like you.”

“Was she angry with you?” asked Rose.

“Not a bit. She got this smug smile on her face and said, ‘I’m spoken for’.”

“Maybe someone in Derbyshire. I think that’s where her home was,” suggested Rose.

“That’s what we thought,” said Deborah eagerly. “But she said it was one of the fellows here. I say, when do we start with the ouija board?”

“Give me an hour and I’ll meet you in the library,” said Rose.

Upstairs, Rose rang for Daisy and told her about the ouija board. “You’re lucky,” said Daisy. “My friend, the psychic, had one.”

“What’s it like?”

“Well, the board is about eighteen by twenty inches. It’s got the letters of the alphabet across the middle and numbers one to nine – oh, and a zero – in a line underneath. At the top left-hand corner there’s a Yes and in the top right, a No. Down the bottom left it says Good Eve and bottom right Good Night.”

“A polite board.” said Rose.

“Oh, my friend told me the spirits like a bit of courtesy. Now, a little table about three or four inches high with four legs is placed on top of the board. Someone sits down next to you and you each grasp the planchette – they calls it that – with thumb and forefinger. Then the question is asked: ‘Are there any communications?’ The table will move around to Yes or No. Then you go on asking questions and the answers are spelled out by the legs of the table.”

“But what if nothing happens?” asked Rose.

“You make it happen. It only takes a little nudge.”

Daisy was sprawled in an armchair in Rose’s room while Rose sat at her dressing-table. She eyed her maid in the mirror and felt a sharp rebuke trembling on the edge of her lips.

Almost as if Daisy sensed the change in atmosphere, she leapt to her feet. “I am going down to the stillroom, my lady. Mrs. Trumpington’s lady’s maid has made some rose-water and she promised me a phial of it for you.”

“Be back in time to come with me to the library.”

Daisy bobbed a curtsy. “Certainly, my lady.”

♦

The American sisters were in high excitement. “Never thought to have such fun in this stuffy hole,” said Deborah. “I wrote home to my friend and said we were staying in this fake castle and she wrote back saying, weren’t we good enough to be invited to a real castle? So shaming.”

“You and Deborah start first,” said Harriet.

Daisy gave a discreet cough. “May I suggest, ladies, that we turn down the gas and light a candle? The spirits can be very shy.”

“Oh, do that now,” said Deborah. “I can’t wait.”

“Aren’t you frightened?” asked Rose.

“We’ve played with it before and never had anything to be frightened about,” said Harriet. “Last time I asked the board for the name of the man I would marry and it spelled out Xaz-urt. What sort of name is that?”

Daisy placed a lighted candle on the table which held the ouija board with its little table.

“You’re supposed to take the board on your lap,” said Deborah, “but it’s so awkward. You sit next to me, Lady Rose, and take the corner of the little table nearest you between your thumb and forefinger. As you’re the psychic, you start.”

“Are there any communications?” asked Rose.

To her amazement, she felt the table move. “It’s resting on Yes,” screeched Deborah. “Go on. Ask it something.”

Rose longed to ask if Miss Gore-Desmond had been murdered but decided to ask something silly and simple. “Will Miss Deborah Peterson marry?”

The little table lurch and the leg rested again on Yes.

“My turn,” said Deborah. “What is the name of the man I will marry?”

“It’s moving,” said Rose.

Slowly the letters were spelled out. H-A-R-R-Y.

“There’s that divine captain, sis,” squeaked Harriet.

“There is also Harry Trenton,” Rose pointed out.

“Oh, he’s so dull. Ask it for his second name.” So Rose put the question but this time for some reason the little table did not budge an inch.

“It does that sometimes,” said Deborah, disappointed. “Maybe we should pack it up and try another time.”

“Wait,” said Rose, throwing back her head and closing her eyes. “I feel a presence.”

The table jerked over the alphabet and came to rest on M. Then jerkily it went on to spell out the full word – MURDER.

Deborah screamed. Harriet shouted, “Light the gas.”

Daisy darted around the room with a taper until every gaslight was lit.

“That was sure a fright,” said Harriet, fanning herself. “I mean, what murder? Mary’s death was an accident.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t,” said Rose, whose thumb and fingers were aching with the effort of guiding the legs of the table over the right letters. “I mean, Miss Bryce-Cuddles tone’s maid knew something and she has disappeared.”

“You mean Mary might have been murdered and Hedley’s used his influence to get the whole thing kept quiet?” asked Deborah.

“Perhaps.”

“But that’s awful,” exclaimed Harriet. “I say, I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes books. Have you read the latest, The Hound of the Baskervilles?”

“No, not yet.”

“I’ll lend you a copy. You know something,” said Harriet, “I don’t think you’re a psychic at all. I saw the way you moved the table. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to spoil Deborah’s fan.”

“Fun!” exclaimed Deborah. “I got the fright of my life.”

“I think you suspect a murder and are trying to find out if we know anything. Come on, fess up.”

Rose gave a reluctant smile. “I’m sorry. But I am sure there was something suspicious about Mary’s death. Her lady’s maid said she never used arsenic as a cosmetic to clear the skin. But if Hedley knew of my suspicions, he would send me home. I would like to find out how she really died.”

“But how do you go about it?”

“You ask questions. I confess I have been very bad at it so far. I have been too direct with the gentlemen. I do not really know how to flirt.”

“How too horribly sad,” said Harriet. “But we do, don’t we, sis? We’re the best flirts in America. And if this lot here think we’re going to waste our dowries on them, they’re mistaken. I want a duke. It would be fun.”

“I think she might have been having an affair,” said Rose.

“What? That mousy little thing? You mean, one of the men did her in?”

“Perhaps. Or a jealous woman. Your lady’s maids might have heard something.”

The sisters’ faces were immediately marked by the same looks of hauteur. “We do not converse with our servants,” said Harriet. “Too vulgar. Anyway, we’ll flirt with the men and see what we can find out. You haven’t seen us in action because we didn’t figure there was anyone worth bothering about. But just you wait until this evening.”

♦

Rose thought the sisters were in splendid form after the gentlemen joined them in the drawing-room after dinner. They flirted, they chatted, they flattered, until they were surrounded by a group of adoring men.

When she had all their attention, Deborah said, “We had such a fun time today. Lady Rose is a psychic.”

Rose was aware of Harry’s amused eyes on her. “She’s in contact with the spirit world,” Deborah went on. “So we got out the ouija board.”

Rose stiffened. She did not want them to talk about murder.

“And what did the spirits tell you?” asked Freddy Pomfret.

“I’m going to marry someone called Harry,” said Deborah.

“That’s either Harry Cathcart or Harry Trenton,” said Freddy.

“Or a Harry I haven’t yet met,” said Deborah.

Freddy addressed Rose, his eyes bright with malice, because he obscurely blamed her for having caused his recent disgrace. “In touch with the spirits, are you, Lady Rose?”

“It’s not good to talk about it,” said Rose repressively.

Harry Cathcart led her aside. “What have you been playing at?”

“I’m just trying to stir things up. Mary Gore-Desmond told the American sisters that she was spoken for.”

“I wonder who she was referring to.”

“Anyway, they are going to help; the Petersons, I mean.”

“If Hedley knows what you’re about, you’ll be sent home.”

“I don’t think they’ll tell anyone. What did you find out?”

“That Quinn was less than honest with us. She confided to Miss Maisie Chatteron’s lady’s maid that she was thinking of applying for a new position. When asked, she said that a mistress’s behaviour reflected on the lady’s maid and she had no intention of having her career damaged.”

“So she knew Mary Gore-Desmond was having an affair,” exclaimed Rose. “You must motor over to Derbyshire tomorrow and ask her for the identity of the lover.”

“I already planned to do that.”

“I shall come with you.”

“I would prefer to go alone.”

“Nonsense. You would be better to have me along with you to provide an air of respectability.”

“You are not regarded as the epitome of respectability – or had you forgotten?”

“You cannot leave me out.”

“Oh, very well. We’ll set off at seven in the morning before the others are awake to ask questions. Becket has found out the Gore-Desmonds’ address.”

♦

Daisy sat in a shadowy corner of the hall. Freddy Pomfret and Tristram Baker-Willis came out of the drawing-room and moved over to the fireplace to light cigarettes.

“So our Lady Rose is psychic,” sneered Freddy. “Never heard such a load of rubbish.”

“Wouldn’t it be fun to haunt her,” said Tristram.

“I say. Sheets and clanking chains and wailing?”

“No, you don’t want to rouse the others. Just white face, white-powdered hair and point accusingly. No, think again. I’ve got it. Our bed sheets with holes cut in them for eyes.”

“She’ll scream and everyone will come running.”

“Tell you what, old boy, I’ll do the ghost bit, glare accusingly, and then we flee down the backstairs and hide until the fuss is over.”

“What larks! When’ll we do it?”

“About one o’clock.”

Rose, on entering her room that evening, found her maid in a high state of excitement. “Mr. Pomfret and Mr. Baker-Willis are coming to haunt you!”

She told Rose what she had overheard.

“Thank goodness you found out what they were planning to do,” said Rose. “I’ll lock my door and they can haunt all they like out in the corridor.”

“It would be great to give them a fright,” said Daisy. “I could haunt them.”

“No,” said Rose slowly. “I could do it. I wish there was some way of making me up to look like Mary Gore-Desmond.”

“There’s a big hamper of theatrical stuff downstairs that they use for charades. But all you really need is a sort of sandy wig. They’ve got a box of grease-paint as well. I could make up your face. I was in the theatre, remember. Here’s what we’ll do…”

♦

Freddy and Tristram, staggering a little with all they had drunk, emerged from their rooms. Each was wearing a sheet over his head with eyeholes cuts in it.

They started to mount the steps to the tower where Rose’s room was located.

They had nearly reached the first landing when a figure, lit dramatically by a shaft of moonlight shining through an arrow slit, confronted them.

They stopped and clutched each other. All they could see was sandy hair over a thin chalk-white face contorted into an awful sneer. Then one white hand materialized and pointed at them.

“Murderers,” wailed an unearthly voice. “You murdered me.”

And then it disappeared.

It did not dawn on the frightened pair that the unearthly apparition had simply stepped back into the unlit blackness of the landing.

“Help!” called Freddy, his voice weak and thin as in a nightmare. “Help!” shouted Tristram, finding his voice.

Their terror had made them forget that they were still draped in sheets. Frederica Sutherland, the first to come running, saw the sheeted figures and fell down in a faint.

Others came crowding the bottom of the staircase. “Take off those sheets,” roared Lord Hedley. “Blithering idiots.”

They pulled off the sheets. “It was just a joke,” said Freddy. “But we saw this ghost of Mary Gore-Desmond.”

“She called us murderers,” said Tristram.

“Someone’s playing a joke on you. You are both drunk.”

“But we saw her,” wailed Tristram. He suddenly vomited all over the stairs.

“Get to bed, all of you,” ordered the marquess. “I’ll deal with you two in the morning.”

♦

Rose rolled around her bed with a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth to muffle her laughter. “Oh, Daisy,” she finally gasped. “How wonderful it was. And when the fuss has died down, they may start to wonder whether there really might be a ghost after all.”

Daisy laughed as well. She was relieved the haunting had gone well, and also relieved that her mistress was behaving more like a young girl and less like some sort of chilly mannequin with a head stuffed with facts.

Rose fell happily asleep that night, looking forward to telling Harry about the success of their exploit.

♦

He was furious. “Don’t you know what danger you have put yourself in?” he shouted as he drove away from the castle. Rose clutched her hat and demanded, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that they will get it out of Freddy and Tristram that they planned to haunt you. Who else would decide to give them a scare but you? And why are you screeching murder? If it was murder, then someone may want to silence you.”

“Piffle,” said Rose. “You are only angry because you did not think of it yourself.”

It took them three hours to reach the Gore-Desmonds’ country mansion. None of them had breakfasted, and all were feeling cold and angry.

“I am famished,” complained Rose as the car moved up the drive.

“Then you should have said so and we could have stopped somewhere,” snapped Harry. “Let’s get this over with.”

The house was still and quiet, with all the blinds drawn down and the curtains closed.

“How are we going to get a chance to talk to Quinn?” hissed Rose.

“I’ll think of something,” said Harry.

A butler opened the door before he had a chance to ring the bell. Harry handed him his card and asked if Mr. and Mrs. Gore-Desmond could spare them a little time.

“I am afraid the master and mistress have gone into town to supervise the last of the funeral arrangements.”

“And when will they be back?”

“I do not know, sir. Perhaps later today.”

“We have come quite a distance. Perhaps we might have a word with Quinn? – unless she has accompanied her mistress?”

The butler turned away and they followed him into one of those side rooms in country houses which are used for receiving farm tenants and the other hoi polloi.

Daisy and Becket found their way to the servants’ quarters in the hope of food.

The room was lit by a single oil lamp. It was full of overstuffed furniture, a large battered oak desk, and paraphernalia of fishing tackle, game bags, walking-sticks and rubber boots.

Quinn entered, dressed from head to toe in black.

“You did not accompany your mistress today?” asked Rose.

“No, my lady. My mistress has seen fit to engage another lady’s maid instead of employing me as she promised. I hope to shortly have employ with a respectable family who might have a better idea of how family servants should be treated.”

“Please sit down,” said Harry, helping her into an armchair. “We have heard that you were not pleased with Miss Gore-Desmond’s behaviour.”

Quinn suddenly rose to her feet, went to the door and jerked it open. The butler was standing there. “Go away and stop listening at doors,” shouted Quinn. She returned and sat down.

“I was not pleased with Miss Gore-Desmond’s behaviour, no. A lady’s maid is judged by the behaviour and dress of her mistress.”

“What precisely did you consider wrong in Miss Gore-Desmond’s behaviour?”

“It is not my place to say, sir.”

“But you haven’t got a place now,” Rose pointed out. “Surely this family is not deserving of your loyalty.”

“That’s as may be, my lady. But there are some things that should not be spoken of.”

Rose felt like shaking her. But Harry, who was sitting close to her, took Quinn’s hand and said gently, “I trust you not to repeat this, but we fear Miss Gore-Desmond’s death was murder.”

Quinn sat there, unmoving, her harsh face registering neither shock nor surprise.

“We have reason to believe she was romantically involved with someone.”

Harry released her hand, drew out his wallet and opened it. He took out one five-pound note and then another.

Quinn still sat unmoving.

When Harry was holding twenty pounds in his hand, Quinn said, “I’ll tell you what I know.”

Her hand snaked out and took the twenty pounds.

At last, thought Rose, an end to this mystery. She would not admit to herself that Harry’s earlier words, that she had put herself in danger, had frightened her.

“Miss Gore-Desmond was having an affair,” said Quinn.

“With whom?”

“I don’t know and that’s the truth.”

“Then how do you know she was having an affair?”

“Marks on the sheets. You know.”

Harry did, but Rose did not, and looked bewildered.

“Then there would be a smell of cigar smoke in the room in the morning.”

“Was she by any chance pregnant?” asked Harry.

“How could Quinn know…” began Rose, then blushed furiously. Of course a lady’s maid would know whether her mistress had had her monthly menstruation. The soiled towels would need to be collected for the laundry.

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“Had this ever happened here? Did any man visit and did you then find the same evidence?”

“No, my lord. Miss Gore-Desmond had her first season this year in London and had the opportunity to meet plenty of gentlemen. I do not know if she favoured anyone in particular, and certainly no one favoured her enough to propose.”

“At the castle, did you ever challenge her about the state of the bed linen?”

“Certainly not, sir. It was not my place to do so.”

“Well, that’s that,” said Harry as they drove off.

“Don’t you think it was Quinn’s duty to inform Mary’s parents about her affair?”

“All Mary had to do was deny it and Quinn would have been fired. Back to square one.”