Our Lady of Pain

∨ Our Lady of Pain ∧

Three

So, naturalists observe, a flea

Hath smaller fleas that on him prey;

And these have smaller fleas to bite ‘em,

And so proceed ad infinitum.

– Jonathan Swift

“You what?”

Kerridge shifted uneasily but stared defiantly at the head of Scotland Yard, Sir Ian Wetherby.

“The lady’s maid, Thomson, thought that Miss Duval might have been expecting a visit from a royal personage.”

“Drop that line of investigation immediately, do you hear?”

“Yes, sir. But this is murder.”

“Leave it alone. Why are you fiddling about with this? Lady Rose Summer is found standing over a body with a gun in her hand. Arrest her.”

“Her lawyer is Sir Crispin Briggs. He would point out we hadn’t a case. Jewellery was stolen. The fingerprints on the gun are those of Lady Rose, but also there are other fingerprints as well.”

“I am surprised Hadshire let you fingerprint his precious daughter.”

“We lifted her fingerprints from her office desk and typewriter.”

“I still think she’s done it. Probably had an accomplice. Go and interview her again. I still think we have a good case against her but I will leave it to your discretion.”

Meaning, thought Kerridge, that if I make a mistake, it’s all my fault.

So on the morning of Rose’s flight, Kerridge fought his way through the questioning press to the earl’s front door and knocked loudly. He had taken the precaution of telephoning to say he was coming. The door opened a crack and then wider as Brum recognized the visitor. A babble of questions shouted by the press followed Kerridge indoors.

“Pray inform his lordship that I wish to speak to Lady Rose again.”

Brum went off up the stairs. Kerridge waited a long time. Brum finally came back down and said, “His lordship is now prepared to see you.”

The earl was seated in the morning room with Lady Polly. “I think it necessary to interview Lady Rose again.”

“You’ll need to wait till Briggs gets here.”

The door opened and Brum reappeared. “My lord, Hunter informs me that neither Lady Rose nor Miss Levine are in their rooms and they have taken luggage.” Hunter was Rose’s lady’s maid.

He was followed by an agitated Matthew Jarvis. “The money’s gone from the safe, my lord. This note was lying in it.”

The earl took the note and scrutinized it. It was from Daisy. It said bluntly, “We have run away. The money will be replaced when we return. Yr. Humble and Obedient Servant, Daisy Levine.”

“Get Cathcart!” howled the earl.

“This is very bad, my lord,” said Kerridge. “Sir Ian Wetherby already considers Lady Rose to be guilty. Her running away will only confirm it.”

“Captain Cathcart,” announced Brum in tones of doom.

“That was quick,” said the earl. “I’ve only just told Matthew to get you.”

“I was already on my way.” Harry looked round at the strained faces. “What’s up?”

“Lady Rose has run away,” said Kerridge.

“How could she be so stupid?” raged Harry. “If the press gets to hear of this, she’ll be as good as hanged in tomorrow’s papers. Kerridge, we must get her back before this gets out.”

Kerridge said, “Do you remember last year when we had to smuggle them out of the house? They went out over the garden wall at the back.”

“Come on,” said Harry, “let’s look. My lord, make sure none of your servants breathes a word of this to the press.”

♦

In the garden they found the ladder propped against the wall. “We’ll go to the nearest cab rank,” said Kerridge. “They must have taken a hack somewhere. I’ll put out an alert that all ports and stations are to be watched.”

“If you do that, when she returns you will be obliged to arrest her. Let me find her and bring her back,” pleaded Harry.

“I could lose my job.”

“If Wetherby asks, tell him she’s had a nervous breakdown and you need to wait to see her again.”

Kerridge sighed. “I’ll give you a couple of days. I can’t hold out longer than that.”

♦

By diligent questioning, working all day and long into the evening, Harry traced them as far as Paddington station. A porter remembered two ladies, one heavily veiled and one cheeky one. He had put their luggage on the train and he’d heard the cheeky one saying they were going to Thurby-on-Sea. Harry checked the timetable. There were no trains to Thurby-on-Sea until early morning the next day. He returned to his car parked outside the station and said to Becket, “I’ve found out where they’ve gone. Thurby-on-Sea. We’ll set out first thing in the morning. I’m bone-weary. I need some sleep. It’ll be better if we drive instead of taking the train.”

“They may have journeyed on from Thurby,” said Becket anxiously.

“I know the place. It’s a dead-alive hole. They won’t be going any further. I need to let my anger calm down or I’ll strangle Lady Rose.”

“Perhaps I could go myself,” suggested Becket. “I don’t mind driving through the night.”

“No, Becket.”

♦

Rose and Daisy went back up to their rooms after breakfast the next morning. It had been raining during the night and the wind still howled with dreadful ferocity. They locked the doors and took off their disguises.

“I’m bored,” said Rose. “It’s like being under some sort of genteel house arrest. I know, I put some books in the bottom of my trunk.”

Rose had not completely unpacked. She searched through clothes and underwear, and then sat back on her heels with a cry of alarm.

Daisy came to join her. Lying in the bottom of the trunk beside three books was a bundle of letters. Rose selected one. It read, “Trollops like you shouldn’t be allowed to live. I’m coming to get you.” Rose picked up one after the other, reading feverishly.

“These are the threatening letters,” she said, turning a white face to Daisy. “Someone put them in my luggage.”

“What threatening letters?”

“Captain Cathcart said something about someone sending threatening letters to Miss Duval. He then said the letters were now missing. What are they doing in my luggage?”

“Someone’s trying to get you accused of the murder,” said Daisy.

“Whoever it is must have been watching and followed us,” said Rose. “There are very few guests. Did you notice anyone in particular?”

Daisy furrowed her brow. “Let me see. Last night was busier. There was that elderly couple; a travelling salesman, or said he was, talked loudly to the couple; a spinster-looking lady and a sort of youngish man.”

“What was he like? The young man?”

“I didn’t notice him much. Only a quick glance. He was seated at the table behind us. How would anyone recognize us with our disguises?”

“Someone who was watching the house and followed us from London. We’ll need to find somewhere else,” said Rose frantically. “And what do we do with these letters? If he can find us, the police can find us.”

“Burn them,” said Daisy, looking at the fire.

“They’re evidence!”

“They’re evidence against you!”

The door burst open and Rose let out a scream of terror. Harry Cathcart, tired and furious, having set out before dawn after a restless night, strode into the room. “What the blazes are you doing? Don’t you know you made yourself look even guiltier by fleeing? What’s that you’re holding?” He snatched the letters from Rose. “Where did you get those?”

“I found them this morning,” said Rose. “I was going to unpack and there they were in the bottom of my trunk.”

“So someone followed you. Wait here.”

Harry rushed out again.

Rose was beginning to feel irrationally angry. He should have said something like, “Thank God, you are safe.” Not berated her as if she were a guilty schoolgirl.

“Listen,” said Daisy. “The wind has dropped suddenly.”

“I’m nervous waiting here. Don’t you see, Daisy, that whoever tried to make me look guilty did the murder himself? So there is a murderer in this hotel.”

“If he’d wanted to kill us, he would have done so already,” said Daisy. “All he wanted to do was make you look guilty.”

Harry came back. “I’ve checked the hotel register. One man called Mr Terence Cramley left this morning. The others all seem respectable. I’ll go out and search the town for him. I’ve got a description. I’ll call at the station and see if he’s taken a train. Kerridge gave me only two days to find you. Pack up your things. We’ve got to get out of here.”

♦

Kerridge was summoned that morning by Sir Ian Wetherby. “I have just sustained a visit from His Majesty’s equerry, Lord Herring,” began Wetherby. “His Majesty wishes all inquiries into the death of Dolores Duval to continue quietly. I believe the editors of the newspapers have all been informed. His Majesty is distressed that Lady Rose should even be considered guilty.” The earl’s been busy, thought Kerridge cynically. “I also received a telephone call from the prime minister,” Wetherby went on. “He suggests that as Miss Duval was no better than she should be, to quote his words, then it stands to reason that some low life got rid of her.”

“What about the so-called freedom of the press?” asked Kerridge.

“These editors have probably all been told that a knighthood may be in the offing if they behave themselves. A statement is to be issued tomorrow in all the newspapers to say the police have found Lady Rose to be innocent of any crime.”

“It is lucky that I believe that to be true. What if it turns out that our royal personage was involved in some way?”

“Piffle. Absolute piffle. I prefer to forget you even said that, Kerridge. Now go about your business.”

♦

Harry found no trace of the mysterious Mr Cramley in Thurby-on-Sea. He returned to the hotel and told Rose and Daisy to be ready to leave.

Rose hesitated on the steps of the hotel. A watery sunlight was shining on the choppy sea and the wind had died down. She wished in that moment that Harry had not found her so quickly. Oh, for just a few days away from the press and the gossip of society!

“Come along,” barked Harry.

“Yes, sir,” said Rose and gave him a mock salute. Harry glared at her. She should be ashamed, contrite, over all the trouble she had caused him.

♦

Rose, wrapped up in a bearskin rug and with her veil tied down over her hat, sat in the passenger seat of Harry’s Rolls-Royce as they cruised along the streets of London. Harry was driving and Becket and Daisy were in the back.

A thin mist was swirling among the narrow sooty streets. Women, wearing the enormous hats which were so fashionable, hurried along like so many animated mushrooms. Moisture from the mist made the sooty buildings on either side glisten like jet. The air smelt of horse manure, bad drains, patchouli and baking bread.

Harry, who had maintained an angry silence during the journey, broke it to ask, “What were your parents about, to come to London during such an unfashionable period?”

“My mother gets bored in the country. They would not let me work for you unless they were in London as well. Where are you going? This is not the way home.”

“We are going straight to Scotland Yard. Kerridge will want to see you. Once you are home, he will not have a chance. You will no doubt have to begin preparations to go to India.”

“But I am engaged to you!”

“Your father was just terminating the engagement when the news came that you had been found standing over a dead body with a gun in your hand.”

“I can’t go!”

“It might be best for all of us. You can no longer work for me. The press will follow your every move.”

Rose realized for the first time that before, she had always had a certain hold on him, and she sensed miserably that that hold had gone.

♦

Kerridge greeted them with relief. “I had better telephone your parents to say you are safe and well.”

“Before you do that,” said Harry, “let’s discuss this.” He took out the bundle of threatening letters and explained to Kerridge how they had been found.

“So we can put a face to this man. What did he look like?”

“Unfortunately, the staff at the hotel could only give a scrappy description. Possibly in his mid-thirties, slight Cockney accent, white face, pinched features, thin brown hair, and wearing a dark blue coat and trousers. I searched Thurby and checked the station. There was no sign of him. He had checked into the hotel for only one night.”

“Why didn’t you telephone so that I could have alerted the local police?”

“There had been gales and the telephone lines had come down.”

“Wait here. I’ll get on to it right away.”

Rose sat wrapped in miserable thoughts. She remembered talking to a certain Mrs Dursley at an afternoon tea party. Mrs Dursley had been an unsuccessful debutante who had been packed off to India. She had married Colonel Dursley, a man old enough to be her father. “The colonel was due to return to England,” she had said, “and it was the only way I could think of to get home again.”

“Was India so bad?” Rose had asked.

“We were in Delhi. It was so hot and dusty. It was a suffocating world of malicious gossip and long hot days of boredom.” She had lowered her voice to a whisper. “My dear, I would have married anyone just to get home again.”

“Are the Indians so bad?” Rose had asked curiously.

“Oh, they’re all right. It’s the English community that I could not stand. If there’s ever another mutiny, it will be because of the memsahibs treating them like dirt.”

Harry was thinking about India as well. Why should I not let this infuriating girl get sent to India? he thought. Rose has been nothing but trouble. She could find herself some army officer, have lots of children and settle down.

Kerridge came back. “I’ve alerted the Essex police. I have also telephoned Lord Hadshire to say his daughter is safe. His lordship wishes you to return immediately.”

“I will escort Lady Rose,” said Harry.

“Come back here when you’ve finished,” said Kerridge. “I want a word with you in private.”

Although he had not believed Rose guilty, Kerridge was shaken by the discovery of those letters. What if Rose really had the letters all along and, when Harry burst in on her, she had made up a story about just finding them?

♦

As they approached the earl’s town house, Harry said to Rose, “Ignore the press. Just walk past them with your head down.”

But there was not even one reporter outside. “That’s odd,” said Harry. “Let’s go in and face your parents.”

Rose suddenly clutched his arm and looked pleadingly up into his face. He patted her hand. “It will be all right,” he said.

♦

But it was worse than Rose could have imagined. Her father did not shout or bluster. His voice was quiet and decisive. “I have instructed my secretary to send a notice of the termination of your engagement to the newspapers. As for you, miss–”

“I am not going to India.”

“No, India will be spared a visit from you. You and Miss Levine are to leave tomorrow for Saint Mary’s Convent in Oxford. It is an Anglican convent and the mother superior, Lady Janus, has kindly agreed to take you both for a year and school you in humility and obedience.”

Rose looked desperately at Harry. He looked away. He thought that Rose would at least be safe until he solved this murder.

“What if I don’t go?” demanded Rose.

“You will obey me, your father, for once in your life.”

♦

Daisy slipped out of the room and ran downstairs and out to where Becket was sitting in the motor car. “The earl is sending me and Rose into a convent for a year,” said Daisy. “You’ve got to help me!”

“I didn’t know they were Catholics.”

“It’s an Anglican convent. Look, let’s just get married.”

“On what? I’m not ready yet, Daisy.”

Daisy turned on her heel and said over her shoulder, “I’ll never forgive you for this.”

♦

Rose pleaded throughout the rest of the day in vain. “We could run away again,” said Daisy that evening.

“Where to? Harry, Captain Cathcart, would find us and drag us back. I hate that man. He sat there and did nothing. Not one word of protest.”

♦

Along the corridor, the earl walked into his wife’s bedroom. “Thank God, that’s settled,” he said, rubbing his chubby little hands. “We won’t need to worry about her for a year. We’ve been too soft on her.”

Lady Polly was seated at her dressing table creaming her face. “I was thinking, my dear, that’s it’s very cold in London, and with Rose gone and in safe hands, we really do not want to stay here. What about Monte Carlo?”

“Great idea. I’ll get Jarvis to make the arrangements.”

♦

Rose, being undressed for bed by her maid, stiffened as she heard her father’s voice raised in song echoing along the corridor outside.

As I walk along the Bois Bon-long,

With an independent air,

You can hear the girls declare,

“He must be a millionaire”

You can hear them sigh and wish to die,

You can see them wink the other eye

At the man who broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.

She had never felt so alone in all her life.

♦

Daisy read a great number of cheap romances. Unlike Rose, she had comforted herself with the thought that the captain would ride to the rescue. Even when their luggage was loaded into the carriage, even when the carriage moved off, she was sure they would be saved at the last minute.

It was only when the great iron gates of the convent were shut behind them and she saw the stern figure of the Mother Superior standing on the steps did she realize there was no hope at all and began to cry with noisy abandon.

“Pull yourself together,” hissed Rose.

“Welcome,” said the Mother Superior, Lady Janus. “What a great deal of luggage!”

Daisy scrubbed her eyes defiantly with a handkerchief and asked, “Will I have to dress like a bleedin’ penguin?”

“I will have to talk to you later, young lady, about your very bad manners. Follow me.”

The Mother Superior led the way along several dark corridors. It was evident to Rose, from what she could see of the architecture, that the convent had been built in the Gothic style in the middle of the last century. She remembered reading that there had been some opposition to Oxford Anglicanism, claiming it was too ‘high’ and drifting back to the Catholic Church.

“You will share a room,” said the Mother Superior, opening a heavy oak door. “As laywomen, you will not wear the habit, but you will select from your luggage your plainest clothes. I will leave you to unpack. Sister Agnes will be your mentor. She will be with you shortly to take you on a tour of the convent and explain your duties to you.”

She retreated. Rose and Daisy looked at each other and then around the narrow room. It was furnished with two hard narrow beds. Between the beds was a table on which lay a large Bible. The latticed window let in very little light. Against one wall was a tall narrow wardrobe. “No fireplace,” muttered Daisy miserably. “And it’s freezing.”

“We may as well sort out our clothes and pick out the warmest things we have,” said Rose. She looked gloomily at the trunks piled one on top of the other and the hatboxes lying on the floor.

The door opened and a nun stood surveying them. She was dressed in traditional robes. She had a long white face, pale eyes under heavy lids and her thin-lipped mouth was shadowed by a moustache.

“You have far too many clothes. I am Sister Agnes. I will fetch Sister Martha to help you.”

When she had closed the door behind her, Rose said urgently, “We must hurry. They may frown on furs, so we must take out two fur coats and hide them under our bedding. We will need them at night or we will freeze.”

Rose pulled out a sable coat and hid it under the thin blankets on one of the beds and Daisy put her precious squirrel coat under the blankets on the other one.

They had just finished when Sister Martha came in. She was small, plump and cheerful. She shook hands with both of them and then helped them pack away the fine dresses, blouses and hats that she considered unsuitable.

When they were finished at last, Sister Martha said, “We’ll drag the trunks outside and the oddman will take them down to the storage room in the cellar. We must hurry. We are to go along to dinner. You have missed Vespers but allowances must be made on your first day.” She looked uneasily at them. “Do you wish me to retire so that you may change into something more suitable?”

“We will wear what we have on,” said Rose firmly. “We are not yet accustomed to the cold of this place.”

Sister Agnes looked uneasily at Rose. Rose was wearing a coat trimmed with black Persian lamb and a black Persian lamb hat. Daisy had a frogged military-style coat also trimmed with fur and a sort of shako on her head.

“Very well. Follow me.”

♦

The dining room was blessed with a roaring fire. Rose and Daisy were told to take seats at the end of a long refectory table. Grace was said. The food was plain but with generous helpings. The nuns and novices ate in silence. Rose wondered whether they were usually silent or whether the presence of two strangers in their midst had made them shy.

After dinner, Sister Agnes came up to them and bent her head as a signal that they were to follow her. She led them to an austere office and sat down behind a huge desk, indicating two hard chairs in front of it.

“You have been sent here for correction,” she began. “You will attend all prayers. The convent owns six homes for fallen women. You will come with me tomorrow. Part of your duty will be to talk to these women and impress on them the folly of their ways.

“The order of your days will be as follows: You will rise at five. Five-twenty to six-fifteen, matins; six-fifteen to six forty-five, private devotions; six forty-five until seven, make beds and clean up rooms; seven to seven-thirty, prime; seven-thirty to eight-thirty, service in church; eight-thirty to eight fifty-five, breakfast; eight fifty-five to nine-ten, terce; nine-ten to twelve-thirty, visiting the poor…”

Rose had heard enough. She sat silently while the description of their daily programme went on and on. When Sister Agnes finished with a long lecture to which neither of them paid any attention, she then led them on a bewildering tour of the convent.

When they were finally left alone in their cell-like room, Daisy blurted out, “We’ll die here. Why didn’t the captain or Becket try to do something to stop this?”

“I don’t know,” said Rose. “Can you remember where the bathroom is?”

“About a mile to the left,” said Daisy and burst into noisy tears.