Hasty Death

∨ Hasty Death ∧

Eight

Here we are! here we are!! here we are again!!!

There’s Pat and Mac and Tommy and Jack and Joe.

When there’s trouble brewing,

When there’s something doing,

Are we downhearted?

No! let ‘em all come!

Charles Knight

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s the dressing gong,” said Daisy.

“The arrivals are going to have to look sharp. Ring the bell for Turner.”

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

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

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

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

“Glad you could come, Lady Rose, and this is…?”

“My companion, Miss Levine.”

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

“Charmed,” he said in a voice heavy with boredom.

“And Mr Baker-Willis.”

“We’ve met,” said Rose curtly.

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

“That awful bruise has nearly gone, I see,” he remarked.

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

“Maybe the murderer took the stuff away with him.”

Daisy whispered, “A motor car followed us all the way here.”

Rose laughed. “Daisy is worried that the horrible doctor is coming after me.”

But Harry did not laugh. “I’ll keep a look-out.”

“Oh dear,” said Rose, looking towards the new arrivals. “I’d forgotten about them.”

Mrs Angela Stockton and her son came into the room. “My dear, what are you wearing?” demanded Lady Glensheil in ringing tones.

Angela’s high-waisted gown looked as if it had been made out of William Morris wallpaper. A huge silver crucifix hung round her neck. Her hennaed hair was topped with what looked like a small green witch’s cap.

“I am an aesthete,” said Angela.

“Oh, pooh, greenery-yallery,” said Lady Glensheil. “At least young Peregrine is properly attired.”

“Tell her we’re no longer vegetarians,” hissed Daisy, “or we’ll need to eat nothing but vegetables while we’re here.”

“I outrank her,” said Rose, “so I won’t be sitting near her when we dine.”

“But I will,” said Daisy. “Oh, well, I’ll think of something.”

Lord Alfred took Rose in to dinner. Tristram Baker-Willis was seated on her other side.

Rose turned to Tristram first. “What a terrible business about poor Mr Pomfret.”

“Eh, what? Oh, yes, frightfully sad.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Blessed if I know.”

“Probably a burglar,” said Lord Alfred languidly.

“But nothing was taken. I mean, nothing of value.”

“You seem remarkably well informed, Lady Rose.”

“It was in the newspapers. The only thing they did not mention was a servant or servants,” said Rose eagerly. “Mr Baker Willis, did not Mr Pomfret have a manservant?”

“Yes, he did. Chap called Murphy. But he’d got the night off.”

“And where is he now?”

“How should I know?” demanded Tristram rudely.

“If Lady Rose goes on interrogating us during the meal,” drawled Lord Alfred, “we won’t be able to eat a darned thing.”

Rose noticed Angela Stockton was drinking a great deal of wine. Still, she supposed, wine was vegetarian.

Daisy was tucking into roast beef with pleasure when Angela, defying custom, said right across the table, “My dear Miss Levine, I thought you were one of us.”

“Lord Hadshire insisted we eat meat. Lady Rose could hardly defy her father.”

“How very sad. Don’t you think Lady Rose and my son have a great deal in common?”

“No,” said Daisy bluntly.

Rose watched the three suspects closely after dinner, but there was nothing to show that they had a common problem or, indeed, knew one another very well.

She had pinned her hopes on those three. But what if there had been others? Others who might have paid cash?

Card tables were being set up. “I think some music would be pleasant as well,” said Lady Glensheil. “Whom do we have? Why, Miss Levine, I have never heard you sing.”

Rose closed her eyes. She knew Daisy loved to sing.

“Do you want someone to play for you?” asked Lady Glensheil.

“Yes, I would like Becket.”

So Becket was summoned and told to bring his concertina.

Daisy whispered to Becket and then threw back her head and began to sing.

If you saw my little backyard, “Wot a pretty spot!” you’d cry

It’s a picture on a sunny summer day;

Wiv the turnip tops and cabbages wot people’s doesn’t buy

I makes it on a Sunday look all gay.

The neighbours finks I grow ‘em and you’d fancy you’re in Kent,

Or at Epsom if you gaze into the mews.

It’s a wonder as the landlord doesn’t want to raise the rent,

Because we’ve got such nobby distant views.

Rose suppressed a groan. The card players sat as if frozen. Daisy was getting into her stride, marching up and down and swinging her skirts as she roared into the chorus.

Oh it really is a wery pretty garden

And Chingford to the eastward could be seen;

Wiv a ladder and some glasses

You could see to ’Ackney marshes,

If it wasn’t for the houses in between.

Rose and Harry applauded loudly and the others followed suit. “You do that Cockney bit very well, my dear,” said Lady Glensheil. “But something more soothing now, I think. Miss Chatterton, perhaps you would oblige?”

Maisie sat down at the piano and began to murder Chopin.

Daisy came and sat next to Rose, her face flushed and her eyes shining. Rose was going to give her a lecture on her behaviour, but then thought that in her music-hall days Daisy had known a freedom denied to society women.

Harry had joined the card players. Rose thought he might at least have joined her. They were, after all, supposed to be investigating this murder. She felt tired and sulky.

“I think I’ll retire now,” she said to Daisy.

“Good idea,” agreed Daisy, but only because she had agreed to meet Becket in the gardens later.

Harry covertly watched Rose and Daisy leave the room. What a bore these cards were, he thought. He played another hand and then got up from the table and excused himself.

♦

An hour later, Daisy, with a shawl over her head, waited in the garden at the back of the house. The air was full of the scent of lilac. She jumped nervously as Becket appeared in the darkness beside her.

“I never heard you coming,” she whispered. “Have you found out anything from the servants?”

“Only that Lord Alfred plays backgammon.”

“So do I!”

“I mean, how shall I put this – he prefers gentlemen to ladies.”

“Ah, now there’s something someone could have been blackmailing him about.”

“Exactly. But what sort of proof would they have?”

“There are brothels, you know, for that sort of thing.”

“You’ve led a rough life.”

Daisy shrugged. “Comes in handy sometimes.”

“But I still can’t see how it would work. Someone goes to Lord Alfred and says, ‘I saw you go in the door of such-and-such a place.’ He’d deny it. Can’t ask the people who run the place, if it’s a high-class one. They keep their trade by shutting up about their clients.”

“Photographs. What about photographs? Someone with one of those Kodak cameras.”

“Could be. If that’s the case, I wonder if they were destroyed.”

Daisy sighed. “I’m beginning to think the murderer did destroy them and that’s the end of it. Then the three have alibis. But how do they know what time he was actually killed? Rose told me after dinner that Freddy had given his manservant the night off and yet it was the manservant who found the body.”

“The manservant would sleep there, so he’d come back later – anyway, that’s what it said in the newspapers – find Freddy dead and call the police. The manservant left at six in the evening and returned at eleven, so they’ve been collecting alibis for that time.”

“Where is the manservant? Do we know?”

“I asked the captain. He says the manservant made a statement and then disappeared.”

“Wait a bit, flats like his would have a porter on duty.”

“Porter didn’t see anyone apart from the residents. The door to Mr Pomfret’s flat wasn’t locked. He must have let his murderer in.”

“People must have heard the shot.”

“St James’s is a noisy place. The residents above and below were abroad. A Mr George Bruce at the top of the building heard something, which, in retrospect, he believes might have been a shot, but he says at the time he thought it was one of those nasty new-fangled motor cars.

“Mr Kerridge says that the murderer must have shot Freddy as he opened the door and searched frantically through his papers and then ran out.”

“But the porter must have seen someone running out.”

“He says he didn’t, but it turns out he often nips round to the pub in St James’s Lane. The landlord seems to be a friend of the porter and both are sticking to their stories that the porter wasn’t in the pub that evening. Frightened of losing his job.”

“I’d best be getting back,” said Daisy.

Becket was just plucking up courage to kiss her on the cheek when they heard a stifled sneeze in the shrubbery behind them.

“Who’s there?” demanded Becket sharply.

He ran towards the shrubbery and parted the branches but could see no one.

“Could have been a cat,” said Daisy uneasily. “Cats don’t sneeze like that.” Becket looked uneasily about. “Let’s go inside.”

♦

The country house party developed into a sedate and often boring affair: croquet and cards and long heavy meals.

Harry covertly watched the three suspects. The only thing suspicious about their behaviour could be that they avoided one another. And yet what did they have in common? Lord Alfred could not be expected to enjoy the company of a gross glutton like Mrs Jerry any more than Mrs Stockton would. Nor would he approve of Mrs Stockton with her faddishness and ridiculous clothes.

Her son, Peregrine, was always trying to engage Rose in conversation but she seemed to be successful at snubbing him.

Rose had at first toyed with the idea of flirting with Peregrine to see if she could find out anything about his mother but found the young man too repulsive.

Harry had only the meeting with Kerridge to look forward to.

He had held back from presenting the bicycles to Rose and Daisy, feeling that, after all, the presents were a bit too expensive for a gentleman to present to two unmarried young ladies.

But Rose was being singularly pleasant to him – because she wanted to break his heart although he did not know that. So on the morning of the fourth day of the visit, he said a trifle awkwardly, “Lady Rose, I may be doing the wrong thing but I did bring you and Daisy a present.”

“What is it?” asked Rose.

“I bought you a bicycle each.”

“Oh, how simply marvellous. Daisy, the captain has bought us bicycles. May we start to learn to ride them right away?”

“You will need to change,” said Harry, looking at Rose’s white muslin gown with its flounces and frills.

“Come, Daisy,” said Rose, “I cannot wait to begin.”

So Becket’s dream of holding Daisy’s waist while he taught her to ride came true. Both girls were wearing divided skirts, white blouses and straw boaters.

There was a wood on the estate with a bridle path running through it. To the disappointment of both men, the girls proved to be quick learners.

“Daisy and I will go for a run on our own,” said Rose. Only after the pair had gone flying off did Harry regret not having brought bicycles for himself and Becket.

Lady Glensheil came up to them as they were walking back to the house. “I saw you gentlemen wheeling bicycles. Where are the young ladies?”

“Gone off cycling. They learned very quickly.”

“Oh, this cycling craze,” sighed Lady Glensheil. “I keep a few for guests.”

“Where?” demanded Harry eagerly.

Lady Glensheil turned to her ever-present maid and footman. She said to the footman, “Paul, fetch a couple of gentleman’s bikes.”

♦

Rose felt dizzy with happiness as she and Daisy flew down the bridle path. It was such a delicious sense of freedom. At last they stopped. “I think we should go back,” said Daisy, anxious to see Becket again. “We didn’t even thank the captain properly.”

“Oh, very well.” They turned their bikes around when a man stepped out from the shelter of the trees and held a pistol on them.

“Dr McWhirter,” gasped Rose.

His eyes glowed in the green gloom of the forest with a mad light.

“It was all your fault,” he said. “You ruined me. Me. I was once the most courted doctor in Mayfair. My business is ruined. I am ruined. But I’ll take you with me, you nasty, scheming little bitch.”

Daisy felt she should stand in front of Rose, but that would mean he would shoot both of them. She was terrified and her bladder gave.

He smiled and cocked the pistol.

Harry, speeding along the bridle path with Becket behind him, saw Rose and Daisy, white and petrified, and the figure in front of them. Kerridge had shown him a photograph of McWhirter, and looking at that thick white hair, Harry was sure it was the doctor. With one hand he fished out his own pistol from his pocket. A brief memory of riding a horse in the veldt during the Boer War and leaning forward over the pommel to take aim came back to him.

Praying he hadn’t lost his skill as a marksman, he fired directly at the doctor’s back.

McWhirter dropped to the ground.

Daisy burst into tears and Becket dismounted and ran to her. Rose stood where she was, very still, staring straight ahead.

Harry dismounted. He knelt down beside McWhirter’s body and turned it over.

“Dead,” he pronounced.

He got to his feet. “Lady Rose,” he said. “Go back to the house. Do not tell anyone of this.”

Rose said through white lips, “Why? The police will have to be informed.”

“Well, that’s the problem. Why did he attack you of all people?”

“He blamed me for everything. So what are we to do?”

Harry turned his head. “Becket, go back to the house and find two spades.”

“But this is criminal!” protested Rose as Becket left Daisy, mounted and pedalled off.

“I am trying to avert a scandal. If this became known, your parents would summon you home. One of their servants who had not been in their employ very long might decide to earn some money by talking to the newspapers about your visit to the asylum. It’s better this way. Take Daisy and go back to the house.”

“No, I want to see it through to the end,” said Rose.

“But I’ve wet meself,” wailed Daisy.

A hysterical giggle escaped from Rose’s lips. “Then you go back, Daisy.”

“Not without you.”

They waited uneasily for Becket. “I hope one of the guests doesn’t decide to go for a ride,” said Harry.

At last they saw Becket speeding down the path towards them with two spades balanced on the handlebars.

“Right,” said Harry, taking the spades from Becket. “Let’s drag this body into the woods.”

Daisy and Rose, clutching each other, followed them.

Rose suddenly released Daisy and turned away and vomited.

“That’s it,” said Harry. “Back to the house with both of you. Daisy…”

“Miss Levine to you,” said Daisy shakily.

“Miss Levine, take her back and tell anyone who asks that you both have a touch of the sun.”

Daisy and Rose shakily made their way back to their bicycles. They mounted and began to pedal slowly at first and then furiously towards the house.

They handed their bicycles to a footman and went up to the sanctuary of their rooms.

Daisy stripped off and hid her underwear at the bottom of a drawer. She did not want Turner to know she had soiled herself.

After she had bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, she went into Rose’s room. Rose was lying on the bed, her eyes half closed.

“I am not very brave,” she said weakly.

“I’m feeling better,” said Daisy in bracing tones. “That’s one fright dealt with.”

♦

“This won’t do,” said Harry. “We can’t leave the body here.”

“Why not?” asked Becket.

“No matter how deeply we put it, some animal might start digging and a keeper might find it. Kerridge would immediately connect me with the shooting. All he has to do is check the gun licences for people in Britain with a Webley and my name would come up.”

“How would he know it was a Webley?”

“From the bullet.”

“We could dig the bullet out of him. And why didn’t they trace the owner of the gun that shot Pomfret?”

“It was one of the hundreds of unlicensed old Boer War weapons in Britain. Whoever murdered Freddy simply left it lying on the floor beside his body. Whoever killed Freddy knew that weapon could never be traced.”

“So what’ll we do?”

“Cover him up with leaves and we’ll come back after dark with the car, take it miles from here, and sink it somewhere in the upper reaches of the Thames. Daisy said something about a car following them. We’d better look for McWhirter’s car, if it was him, and get rid of it as well.”

♦

Rose and Daisy picked nervously at breakfast the next day. There was no sign of Harry. Both wanted to talk to him about McWhirter – to talk away some of the nightmare.

“You are looking very pale, Lady Rose,” said Maisie Chatterton, who had just helped herself to a large selection from the buffet. She sat down next to Rose.

Rose noticed that Maisie no longer lisped as she had done a year ago. “This is not a very exciting house party,” mourned Maisie. “The gentlemen are either boring or quite too simply dreadful. Mr Stockton is a rotter, but at least he shows some interest in the ladies, which is more than can be said for the rest of them. Sir Gerald is as sarcastic as ever. Neddie Freemantle brays as ever. Mr Baker-Willis glooms about the place. Your captain is – ”

“He is not my captain,” said Rose.

“Indeed! You seem to be the only lady he talks to. I thought our hostess might have arranged something, but she spends her day reading newspapers and magazines and shows no interest in anyone. I asked her what we were doing today and she said, ‘Whatever you want.’ What sort of answer is that from a hostess?”

Rose felt she must escape into the fresh air. “Excuse me,” she said. “I am just going outside, Daisy. There is no need for you to join me.”

Outside, Rose stood and breathed deeply. The day was glorious. Not a cloud in the sky and the trees were still bright spring-green. She heard a step behind her and swung round nervously.

Tristram Baker-Willis came up to her. “Jolly day, what. Care for a walk?”

“Why not?” said Rose.

They walked round to the back of the house, where formal gardens ran down to an ornamental lake.

“Oh, look, swans,” said Tristram.

Two swans were standing on the grass beside the lake. “How ugly they look out of the water,” said Rose.

“I say, I never noticed that before. You’re a jolly observant girl.”

What is he after? wondered Rose.

“Sad business about Freddy,” said Tristram, snapping off the head of a rose. He looked at it in amazement, as if wondering how it had got on his hand, and then shrugged and tossed it to the ground.

“Yes, very sad,” agreed Rose.

“What’s Cathcart doing here? He still poking his nose into business that should be dealt with by Scotland Yard?”

“I do not know. I think he is simply here as a guest. Lady Glensheil is very fond of him.”

“Something deuced creepy about a fellow sinking to such a trade. I’m surprised that Lady Glensheil should encourage him. All of society should shun him.”

Where is Harry? fretted Rose.

Then she suddenly stopped short. Today was the day when Kerridge would be at The Feathers. Harry had probably gone to see him alone.

“Must go,” said Rose, and picking up her skirts, she ran back towards the house.

Daisy was not in the breakfast room. Rose ran up the stairs and found Daisy in their private sitting-room, looking out of the window.

“We’d better change and get those bicycles,” panted Rose. “I had forgotten. Kerridge is at that inn called The Feathers today. Ah, Turner, there you are. We are going cycling. We will need our divided skirts, blouses and hats.”

Soon they were speeding down the drive after a wobbly start. “Where is The Feathers?” shouted Daisy.

“I saw it when we came through that little village. It’s only about a mile from the gates.”

When they reached the inn, the landlord informed them that Mr Kerridge was in the pub garden at the back.

And there they found Kerridge eating a large breakfast, with Harry and Becket beside him.

“You might have told me you were going to meet Mr Kerridge,” accused Rose.

“I thought you were asleep,” said Harry wearily. He had not been to sleep, having driven all night to get rid of the body and the car and then having come straight to the inn.

“So is there any news?” demanded Rose.

“Sir Andrew Fairchild, the king’s equerry, volunteered the information that Mr Pomfret had approached him with a view to buying a title.”

“And what did Sir Andrew say to that?” asked Rose.

“Of course he pretended to be shocked and said titles were never bought, which was silly of him, as everyone knows they are these days. So that confirms Mr Pomfret’s father’s story that Pomfret was desperate for a title. We studied the bank accounts further. He did not have much money, or rather, he did not keep much money. Very extravagant spender.”

Harry put his hand over his mouth to hide a cavernous yawn.

“Didn’t you get any sleep?” asked Kerridge.

“Not much. Went for a drive.”

“Near a river?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Your car has mud on the sides and yet the weather is still fine and dry.”

“Oh, we came through a water splash. Where was it, Becket?”

“I cannot recall, sir. One village at night is very like another village. Have you learned anything, Lady Rose?”

“Not really. On the face of it, it is an exceptionally boring house party. Everyone just glooms around. Lady Glensheil has obviously considered that having supplied a theatre for your suspects, she does not need to do anything more about it. Oh, Mr Baker-Willis invited me for a walk this morning. He was anxious to find out why Captain Cathcart was included in the guest list. I said it was because you were a friend of Lady Glensheil. He seemed highly nervous and ill at ease.”

Kerridge looked disappointed. “I was hoping something more dramatic would have happened by now.” Rose and Harry exchanged glances.

“What’s that?” demanded Kerridge. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing at all,” said Harry quickly.

“There’s no sign of McWhirter,” said Kerridge, fixing Rose with a hard stare.

Rose felt herself beginning to blush.

“You haven’t seen him?”

“If we had seen him, we would of course have contacted the nearest police station,” said Harry smoothly.

Kerridge leaned back in his chair. He wagged a finger at Harry. “You’ve been up to something. You haven’t shaved. You’ve got bags under your eyes. And you’ve got mud on your car.”

Harry thought quickly. “I went for a drive all night because I could not sleep. I was in the Boer War, you know. It’s the reports in the papers of Kitchener’s concentration camps in South Africa packed with starving women and children. For us British to behave like that is sickening. It is tantamount to treason to criticize our glorious victory, but I would see those donkeys of leaders, Buller, Kitchener and Lord Roberts, in the dock for having caused so much death and misery. Thanks to the new photograph reporting showing pictures of the misery of the Boer women and children, we are the shame of the world.”

There was a long silence. A wasp settled on the remains of Kerridge’s breakfast. At last, the superintendent said gruffly, “I’ll still be here tomorrow in case you can find out more. If one of them took whatever evidence of their misdeeds when they shot Mr Pomfret, they might have that evidence with them.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” said Harry.

♦

Outside the inn, before she mounted her bicycle, Rose said, “We could search their rooms. There is a game of croquet scheduled for this afternoon. Everyone usually plays. I could get into Mrs Jerry’s and Mrs Stockton’s rooms and you could try Lord Alfred.”

“Leave it,” said Harry curtly. “You’ve already been in too much danger.”

♦

But Rose was determined. Despite Daisy’s pleas to be careful, Rose waited until everyone was assembled on the lawn for the game of croquet and then excused herself, saying the sun had given her a headache.

She went straight to Mrs Jerry’s rooms. They were easy to find because, in the usual way, cards were on each door with the names of the occupants. It was an apartment like the one she shared with Daisy: two bedrooms off a sitting-room.

There was a desk by the window in the sitting-room. She went to it and began to search through the small amount of papers. They were mostly unpaid bills and letters.

And then she heard someone in the corridor outside. She hid behind a curtain and waited, her heart beating hard. The door opened and she heard Mrs Jerry’s voice, obviously speaking to her husband.

“It’s a stupid game, the sun’s hot and I’m tired.”

“Then go and lie down,” came her husband’s voice.

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you care?”

“Don’t be so grumpy, popsy-wopsy. Come here.”

Perspiration began to form on Rose’s brow.

“No, I won’t,” said Mr Jerry. “It’s too buggering hot.”

“Language!”

“Coming from someone who swears like a fishwife, that’s rich!”

There was the sound of a slap, and then Mr Jerry said evenly, “Do that again and I’ll kill you, you fat, disgusting toad.”

“You! Don’t make me laugh. I’m off to bed.”

Rose heard the bedroom door slam. She waited and waited. She could hear Mr Jerry moving about and then the creak of a chair as he sat down.

After fifteen minutes of agony, there came a rumbling snore from the bedroom.

Then to her horror, she heard Mr Jerry say, “You can come out now. She’s asleep.”

Blushing furiously, Rose emerged from behind the curtain.

“I came in to borrow a book,” she said in a low voice.

“I saw your feet under the curtain. Let’s go for a walk,” he said amiably.

Rose followed him out of the room and down the stairs. “We’ll go out onto the terrace at the back,” said Mr Jerry. “You know, I didn’t want to come. I told my wife I had business in the City to attend to. But she did screech so. She doesn’t like me, so why she wanted me along is beyond me. Ah, here we are. Nice and cool. Let’s sit down instead while you explain why you were spying. You were thick as thieves last year with Captain Cathcart during that business at Telby Castle, so I suppose the pair of you are up to something.”

Rose decided it would be better to tell the truth. “Your wife paid Mr Pomfret the sum of ten thousand pounds. I think Pomfret might have been blackmailing her.”

“I challenged my wife over that. She said it was a loan.”

“Mrs Stockton and Lord Alfred also paid Pomfret ten thousand pounds each,” said Rose.

“Blackmail! Oh, my dear, if only that were true,” he exclaimed.

“Why?”

“Don’t you see, if it were indeed something so awful that she paid out that great sum of money and if I got my hands on it, I could divorce her. Captain Cathcart is investigating the murder, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall offer to pay him anything he wants to find me proof.”

“Can you think what it might be?”

“A man, perhaps. But what man? I mean, look at my wife. I will go back and search for you. And I will talk to Captain Cathcart later.”

“I am so sorry I hid in your room.”

“Don’t worry about it. You have given me hope.”