Our Lady of Pain

∨ Our Lady of Pain ∧

Two

A little sincerity is a dangerous thing,

and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.

– Oscar Wilde

Superintendent Kerridge knew Rose. She had been involved in several of his previous cases. He had her escorted to his office and served with hot sweet tea, anxious to interrogate her quickly, as he was sure the earl was about to descend on him with a battalion of lawyers.

Kerridge was a grey man: grey hair, grey bushy eyebrows, grey face, and all set off with a grey suit. He had a soft spot for Lady Rose, probably because he sensed a misfit like himself. Inside Kerridge burned a dreamer who would like to see the aristocracy hanging from the lamp posts. But he kept his views to himself. He had a wife and children to look after.

“Now, my lady,” he began, “tell me exactly what happened and why you were there.”

“I saw Harry – Captain Cathcart – at the opera with Miss Duval. He had told me he was investigating something for her, but I felt he was disgracing me by association. He had no right to appear to be escorting her. I went to have it out with her. The door was open. When I walked in, I saw a foot protruding from behind the sofa. I walked round. She was dead. Shot. I screamed. There was a revolver lying next to her. I was dazed with shock. I picked it up and then the cleaning woman rushed in and began crying murder.”

There came the sounds of a loud altercation outside and Kerridge damned the advent of the motor car, which got people from point A to point B so quickly.

A police officer put his head around the door. “Sir, Lord Hadshire is here – ” he had begun when he was rudely thrust aside. The earl bustled in, followed by his wife, Lady Polly, Captain Harry and Sir Crispin Briggs, Q.C.

“Don’t say another word,” the earl barked at his daughter.

“Has she been charged?” asked Briggs.

“Not yet,” said Kerridge heavily. “I had just begun to interrogate her.”

“Then if you wish to ask her any more questions, you can do it at our house with Sir Harry Briggs present.”

Kerridge sighed. “Then I shall visit you this afternoon. I have witnesses to interview. Captain Cathcart. A word with you.”

He waited until Rose was bundled out by her parents and barrister.

Harry sat down and looked at Kerridge bleakly. “What on earth was Rose up to?”

“It seems the final straw came when you squired Miss Duval to the opera. Lady Rose went to confront Miss Duval. She says she found her dead and, in a moment of shock, picked up the revolver. She was found like that by the cleaning woman and several other witnesses. It looks bad.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Sent over to the Bureau already. So what was Miss Duval’s business with you?”

“Miss Duval had received various threatening letters. She wanted me to find out who had written them and to protect her until such time as I found out the culprit.”

“Why did she not go to the police?”

“She begged me not to. She had a fear of the police. Miss Duval had been in some trouble in Paris. A certain aristocratic lady claimed that Miss Duval had stolen a pearl necklace. Miss Duval said that the necklace had been given to her by the lady’s husband. It was a great scandal and she said she received rough treatment from the police and the newspapers.”

“Do you have the letters?”

“Miss Duval kept them at her flat.”

“What were the threats like?”

“Things like, ‘I am coming to kill you. Your sort of woman shouldn’t be alive.’ Written on cheap paper.”

Kerridge stood up. “We’d better get to Kensington as soon as possible. I must see these letters.”

“Becket will drive us. He’s waiting downstairs.”

♦

Becket was silent and miserable during the drive. Rose in trouble meant Daisy would be drawn into possible danger. He wished he had told Daisy the whole truth of his fear of marriage. Marriage would mean leaving the captain’s employ, where he had been so secure, and venturing into the world of business because the captain had promised to set him up in some trade. Becket had been poor when the captain had rescued him and he dreaded failing in business and returning to a life of poverty. Then Phil Marshall, also rescued by the captain and working for him, had been excited at the idea of taking over Becket’s job, and was plainly upset and disappointed when Becket showed no signs of leaving. Daisy had initially suggested that they set up a dress salon using costumes designed by Lady Polly’s seamstress, Miss Friendly. But Becket felt it was somehow not a manly job. He preferred setting up a pub, but Daisy had balked at the idea of pulling pints.

“Look out!” shouted Harry. “Pay attention, Becket. You nearly ran over that man.”

♦

At Cromwell Gardens, Kerridge nodded to the policemen, who were still taking statements from the cleaning woman and the neighbours, and went into the flat. The pathologist, who had been kneeling beside the body, rose up at their arrival.

“Clean shot right through the heart,” he said. “No signs of a struggle.”

Detective Inspector Judd entered. “Doesn’t seem to be any break-in or tampering with the locks. It was someone she knew.”

“We’re looking for threatening letters that the captain here said were sent to her. Let’s start.”

They all searched diligently, but there was no sign of the letters. They were just about to give up when a sharp voice cried out, “What is going on? What are you doing here?”

They all swung round. A tall, severe-looking woman stood in the doorway to the front parlour.

Harry recognized her. “The lady’s maid,” he said quickly to Kerridge. “Miss Thomson, I am afraid I have bad news for you. Your mistress has been murdered.”

Miss Thomson sank down onto the nearest chair, her hand at her throat. “Those letters,” she said. “I told her to go to the police.” Her voice had a Scottish burr.

“Why were you absent from the house?” asked Kerridge. “And what about the other servants?”

“Miss Duval insisted we all take the day off.”

“Who works here apart from yourself?”

“There’s the parlourmaid, Ralston; the cook-housekeeper, Mrs Jackson; the kitchen maid, Betty; and Mrs Anderson, who comes in three times a week to do the rough. Mrs Anderson is here. She says she came back for something. The rest will all be back by early evening. How was my mistress murdered?”

“Miss Duval was shot. Did she say anything about expecting a visitor?”

“Miss Duval did not. But I had the feeling she was going to entertain someone she did not want us to see.”

“Have you any idea who that person might be?”

“I thought it might be a certain royal personage.”

“Keep that thought to yourself,” snapped Kerridge. Dear God! Was he going to have to interview the king?

“How long have you been in the employ of Miss Duval?”

“Ever since madam came to London. She got rid of her French staff. She did not trust them and suspected one of them of sending snippets about her to the newspapers.”

“So when did she come to London?”

“Only a month ago,” said Harry.

“And how did she hire the staff?”

“Madam hired the others through an agency. She had advertised for a lady’s maid in The Times before leaving Paris. I applied for the post.”

“Your previous employer?”

“Lady Burridge.”

“And why did you leave?”

“Lady Burridge died.”

“Now, we are looking for threatening letters sent to Miss Duval. Do you know where she kept them?”

“Certainly. She kept them in a little bureau in the boudoir upstairs.”

“Show us.”

Harry and Kerridge followed the lady’s maid’s erect figure up the stairs. “Why did you choose to work for a member of the demi-monde?” asked Kerridge.

She turned on the landing. “Miss Duval paid good wages and was kind. I shall miss her.”

She led the way into a pretty boudoir and went straight to the bureau. “Oh, that one,” said Kerridge gloomily. “That’s already been searched.”

“There are no signs of a frantic search,” said Harry. “There were no drawers pulled out and left open. Neither was the outer door forced. It looks as if Miss Duval knew her visitor, may even have confided in this visitor and shown him the letters. What about her jewels? And why was she clad only in her nightgown and dressing gown? It looks as if she was expecting a lover.”

“Madam fretted at the restriction of stays. She went around clad only in her undress most mornings. I tried to persuade her to wear something more seemly, but she laughed at me and called me a fuddy-duddy.” Thomson sat down as if her legs had suddenly given way. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“Jewels!” said Harry sharply. “Has anything been taken?”

Thomson went to a large jewel box. “The key is in the lock,” she said. “That’s odd. It is always kept locked. I have one key and madam had the other.”

She threw open the lid. Inside were a series of trays with rings and earrings. She lifted them out. In the well of the box were piles of necklaces. “Madam kept her diamonds at the bank,” said Thomson. “But there is a sapphire necklace, a ruby necklace and a necklace of black pearls missing.”

“You are sure?” asked Kerridge.

“I check the inventory every evening. Also I made a daily inventory of the lace box.” Lace was in vogue for trimmings and some of it was priceless.

“Why is there dust over everything?” asked Thomson.

“Men from the Fingerprint Bureau dusted everything for prints before we began our search.”

Kerridge hated to ask the next question, but he knew where his duty lay. “Why did you assume this visitor might be a royal personage?”

“It was something madam said. We had been shopping at Fortnum’s. There was a particular tea they sell that madam liked. His Majesty visited the store while we were there. He seemed much taken with my mistress. He drew her aside and whispered something to her. Madam blushed and laughed and for the rest of that day was very elated.”

“But she didn’t say anything specific?”

Thomson shook her head.

“Friends? Did she have a particular friend she may have confided in?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Gentlemen friends?”

“Only Captain Cathcart.”

“Very well, Miss Thomson. You may retire. We will wait for the rest of the staff to arrive.”

When she had gone, Kerridge eyed Harry suspiciously. “Were your relations with Miss Duval strictly business?”

“Yes. I was protecting her and trying to find out who had sent the letters.”

“I tell you what’s odd,” said Kerridge heavily. “Here’s a famous French tart whose business it is to find herself a wealthy protector. But the only person around is you.”

“Miss Duval told me she did not wish to… er… return to business until whoever had written those letters had been found.”

“What was she like?”

“I would estimate she was at the top of her profession. You see, it’s not just what they do in bed, it is how they can charm and entertain out of it. She was warm-hearted, witty and funny.I liked her immensely.”

“Liked? That was all?”

“Yes.”

Kerridge took out a large pocket watch. “We had better go and interview Lady Rose.”

Harry felt low during the drive to the earl’s. He had not been quite honest with Kerridge. He had been charmed and fascinated by Dolores. Apart from her charm and her undoubted sexual attraction, she had exuded an almost maternal warmth. He felt guilty when he thought about Rose. Yes, he had kissed Rose passionately and she had responded, but when he had seen her again, she had seemed cold and remote. It had not dawned on Harry that the normally courageous Rose was shy. The newspapers tomorrow were going to crucify her. He was sure the neighbours who had found her with the revolver had already talked, not to mention the cleaning woman.

No one had thought to tell Daisy of the day’s events. She had interviewed a gentleman who wanted proof of his wife’s adultery and two ladies who were distressed over their missing pets.

Feeling very much in charge, Daisy decided to tackle the cases herself, setting out in pursuit of the missing pets and resolving to start a watch on the gentleman’s wife the next day.

♦

Accompanied by the barrister, Briggs, Rose was taken through her story again. She was white and shaken. Harry longed to comfort her, but she did not look at him once. Instead, he said to the earl, “Someone was sending Miss Duval threatening letters. They have disappeared. I am sure that person is the one who murdered her.”

Lady Polly said, “Oh, Rose, if only you hadn’t threatened to kill the woman yourself.”

“What’s this?” asked Kerridge sharply.

“You need not answer any more questions,” said Briggs quickly.

“I may as well tell him,” said Rose sadly. “There were so many witnesses. My fiancé escorted Miss Duval to the opera. I was incensed. I felt he was tarnishing our relationship by consorting publicly with a doxy. I went up to her in the crush bar at the interval and I said something like, ‘Leave my fiancé alone, you bitch, or I’ll kill you’.’

“Oh, why on earth did you say such a thing?” mourned Harry.

She looked at him for the first time. “I should not have said it. Neither you nor she were worth the effort.”

“I think we’re finished here,” said Briggs.

“Yes, go to your room,” said Lady Polly.

Harry watched her go. He would never have dreamed that anything he did could rouse Rose to a jealous fury. Perhaps she loved him after all. But she would never forgive him for having taken Dolores to the opera. He should never have let Dolores talk him into it.

♦

“Looks right bad for Lady Rose,” said Kerridge as Becket drove them to Scotland Yard. “The earl was a fool to stop us searching her rooms. If she hasn’t got that jewellery, then it’s a good step towards getting her in the clear.”

“You can get a search warrant.”

“For an earl’s town house? I’ll be blocked at every turn.”

“I’ll need to persuade them to send Lady Rose away somewhere. Once the newspapers come out tomorrow, she will be damned as a murderess and there’ll be a mob at her door.”

“She will certainly be featured largely in the papers but not damned. I don’t think so in this case.”

“Why?”

“If Lady Rose had killed a respectable lady, it would be another matter. But her fiancé has been seen squiring around a French tart. It will be regarded as a crime of passion. You may find yourself, and not Lady Rose, the villain on the piece.”

♦

Daisy returned home. She sensed something was up as soon as Brum, the butler, answered the door to her. Daisy had the front door key but was not expected to use it except in an emergency. She had been reprimanded for using the key on one occasion by Lady Polly, who had said, “Why open doors when servants are paid to do so?”

“Hullo, Brum,” said Daisy. “Why the long face?”

He shook his head and said portentously, “Bad times.”

Daisy threw him an alarmed look and darted up the stairs to Rose’s private sitting room.

Rose was sitting in an armchair in front of a smouldering fire, a book lying open on her lap. Daisy saw immediately that Rose had been crying. She knelt down beside her. “What’s the matter? Tell Daisy.”

In a tired flat voice, Rose told her about the murder and about her involvement in finding the body.

She finished by saying, “I am really ruined now. It will be in all the newspapers tomorrow. My engagement to the captain is over. If I don’t find someone quickly to marry me, we will be sent off to India. That is, if I don’t end up in prison.”

“We could run away,” said Daisy. “You’ve got loads of jewels. We could sell them and go to Scotland or Ireland or somewhere like that. I know, we could go back to the Shufflebottoms in Yorkshire.” Rose and Daisy had been sent to stay with Bert Shufflebottom, a village policeman, the year before, when Rose’s life had been in danger.

Rose shook her head. “Mr Shufflebottom is a policeman. If it was found out he was harbouring us, he would lose his job.”

“We could ask Miss Friendly for suggestions. She told me that before her father ran through all the money, they used to travel.”

“We cannot involve her.” Rose had rescued Miss Friendly from a life of genteel poverty and had employed her as a seamstress almost around the same time as Harry had rescued Phil Marshall from destitution. She remembered thinking their similar actions had formed a bond between them, and felt like crying again.

“I cannot face tomorrow,” said Rose, “but where can we go?”

“Perhaps some seaside town. We could stay in a quiet hotel. It’s out of season. There won’t be many folks around.”

“I do have a certain amount of money at the bank,” said Rose slowly. “I could draw it out tomorrow. It would occasion too much comment if I tried to sell my jewels. The jeweller might feel obliged to contact my father. A reputable jeweller would be sure to ask how I had come by them and a disreputable one would not give us value. If you remember, my Aunt Matilda died a few months ago and left me a tidy sum. But how will we get out of the house tomorrow with all the press on the doorstep and the servants watching my every move?”

Daisy frowned in thought. Then she said, “They’ll assume I have gone to work. I’ll get into your bed and pretend to be you and say I’m not feeling well and wish to he left alone.”

“But if I go to the bank with stories about me all over the newspapers and draw out money, the manager may well phone my father.”

Daisy sat back on her heels. “I’ve got it,” she said. “There’s quite a bit of money in the safe in the office.”

“Pa’s money! No, we couldn’t.”

“Yes, we could. I’ll rob it and leave a note saying we’ll pay back everything when the fuss has died down. That way, it wouldn’t really be stealing.”

“But luggage! How do we get it out of the house?”

“We’ll pack up tonight and when everyone’s asleep, I’ll leave it behind the shed in the garden and put a ladder against the garden wall.”

“How will you get into the safe?”

“Easy. Matthew Jarvis has the key in a desk in his office. It isn’t one of the newfangled ones with a dial.”

“And where will we go?”

“We’ll go to Paddington and take a train somewhere. You’ll need to be heavily veiled so that no one recognizes you.”

“I’m such a coward,” said Rose. “But I cannot face the captain. I cannot face seeing the press outside the door.”

“So we’ll do it,” said Daisy, hoping privately that Becket would be so alarmed at her disappearance that he might come to his senses.

♦

As dawn was breaking, Rose and Daisy sat in a first-class carriage as the train to a small seaside resort called Thurby-on-Sea pulled out of Paddington station. Rose could only be glad that they had the compartment to themselves because the heavy veil she was wearing was stifling her. Daisy lowered the blinds on the corridor windows. “I brought a packed lunch,” she said. “We daren’t go into the dining room because you’d need to raise your veil to eat.”

The train roared south, Rose lowering her veil every time it stopped at a station in case someone joined them in the compartment, but they were left alone until they reached Thurby-on-Sea.

“Why Thurby-on-Sea?” asked Rose wearily as they finally stood on a small windswept platform.

“I’ve never heard of it,” said Daisy cheerfully, “so I suppose most people haven’t either. Porter!”

♦

Once settled in a cab, they asked the driver to take them to a good hotel. He drove to the Thurby Palace, which was smaller than its grand name suggested. It was situated on a promenade along which a gale whipped with increasing ferocity.

Daisy checked them in under the names of the Misses Callendar. “Why Callendar?” whispered Rose.

“It just came to me,” Daisy whispered back. “I used to dance with a Scotch girl who came from there.” Daisy had once been a chorus girl.

They were ushered into two bedchambers with a sitting room in between.

Rose walked to the window of the sitting room and looked out at the plunging waves, which were now sending spray up over the promenade.

“It’s cold in here,” complained Daisy. She pulled the bell rope beside the fireplace, and when the porter answered the summons asked him to light the fires.

He looked curiously at the heavily veiled figure of Rose standing by the window.

“Get on with it,” snapped Daisy.

They waited until he had left. Rose unpinned her hat and veil and sat down by the sitting room fire, stretching her hands out to the blaze.

“I brought some stuff from the masquerade box,” said Daisy. “I’ll disguise you so that we can go down to the dining room and get something to eat. It’s just noon.”

Rose stifled a yawn. The train had taken four hours, stopping at innumerable tiny stations before creaking into Thurby-on-Sea on the Essex coast.

Daisy was unlocking their luggage. “Here!” she said triumphantly. She held up a grey wig and a pair of spectacles. “Put these on. No one will recognize you from your photo in the newspapers.”

“Is my photo in the newspapers?”

“Bound to be, but I thought it would be best if you didn’t know what they were writing about you. I’ve got a wig for meself,” said Daisy. “The minute we’re found missing, the police’ll be looking for me as well.”

What have I done? thought Rose, suddenly appalled. We have robbed my father and run away. I am a coward. What will Captain Cathcart think of me?

She suddenly remembered Dolores Duval’s dead body and burst into overwrought tears.

“There, there, I’m here,” cooed Daisy.

“I-I am s-such a weakling,” sobbed Rose.

“Now, then, it’s only for a few days, until those dreadful press people have given up.”

Rose dried her eyes and turned a white face up to Daisy. “But I have just realized that in running away, I will now make Mr Kerridge sure that I am guilty.”

Daisy looked at her uneasily. Then she said bracingly, “Food is what we need. We didn’t have any breakfast. Let’s put on our disguises and go downstairs. Have you ever seen such an old-fashioned set of rooms? I don’t think they’ve been changed for half a century.”

The sitting room was overfurnished. The mantel was draped with cloth and the chairs were also draped with long cloth covers to hide their embarrassing legs. The Victorians of the last century had even found the sight of naked chair legs slightly disreputable. A badly executed oil painting of Queen Victoria glared down at them accusingly.

Rose went through to one of the bedrooms and sat down at the dressing table. She arranged the grey wig over her hair and put on the glasses, which had unmagnified lenses. Daisy came in carrying two hats. “I packed us two of the most dowdy ones. Don’t want to occasion comment by looking too smart.”

They waited until they heard the luncheon gong sound and then went down the stairs and into the dining room. Rose heaved a sigh of relief. The only other diners were an elderly couple.

Daisy shook out her napkin. “I hope the food’s not too bad,” she said. “I really don’t think a dump in a backwater like this can afford a good cook.”

The meal came as a pleasant surprise. They started with a good vegetable broth followed by poached haddock and then tucked into a large dish of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. The dessert was spotted dick with custard.

“Goodness,” said Daisy when they had finished. “Can’t wait to get upstairs and take me stays off.”

The elderly lady and her husband exchanged shocked glances.

“Do be quiet, Daisy,” hissed Rose. “You’re drawing attention to us.”

But it was a relief to be back in their rooms again and to be able to undress and climb into their respective beds.

Rose’s last thought before she fell asleep was of Harry. He would be so angry with her.