Edwardian Murder Mystery 01; Snobbery with Violence emm-1 Read online

  Mr. Busy, the rector, had fallen asleep. His mouth was open. He should have been called Mr. Lazy, thought Harry.

  Hedley told several smoking-room anecdotes and laughed immoderately at his own humour. Then he fixed his bloodshot eyes on Harry. “Don’t say much, do you?”

  “Don’t get much chance,” said Harry coldly.

  “You’re a young man. You should try to be more cheery” said Hedley, relishing the sound of the latest slang word. “Wait a bit. You’re that chap who fixes things.”

  The earl looked at Harry and shook his head to convey the message that he had not been indiscreet.

  Harry found he had conceived a strong dislike for Hedley, so he smiled enigmatically and said nothing.

  “I asked you a question,” said Hedley.

  Harry smiled and poured himself another glass of port. “And I didn’t answer,” he said.

  Hedley gave him a baffled stare and then turned his attention to the earl. “Seems a shame you should all be in purdah because of little Rose. I’m giving a house party in a month’s time. Got a few eligibles coming. Young people. Send Rose.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said the earl. “I am sure my wife will be free to chaperone her.”

  “Don’t need a chaperone. Her maid will do. M’wife’ll look after her.”

  “Well, I suppose…”

  “Just the thing she needs.”

  “Oh, all right, then.”

  What’s going on here? wondered Harry. Does this jovial marquess really want to do Rose a favour?

  ♦

  The village of Stacey Magna was one of those places that look so well portrayed on chocolate boxes and were uncomfortable to live in, the thatched cottages being damp and insanitary. The inhabitants lived a quiet rural life, but were saved from the misery of poverty which plagued other agricultural villages in England, for the earl was a generous landlord and made sure everyone had enough food and that there was a school for the children.

  Two evenings later, the inhabitants went to bed soon after the sun had set, to save the expense of candles, and a deep quiet settled over the houses and the surrounding countryside.

  But they were all awakened at midnight by a tremendous explosion. The braver ones rushed out to see what had happened; the others cowered in their beds thinking the Day of Judgement was at hand.

  It transpired that just before the main entrance to the earl’s estate, where a pretty hump-backed bridge spanned a river, the whole bridge had been blown up. Just as several men from the village were exclaiming over the smoking ruin, there was another huge explosion, bigger this time, from the direction of the railway.

  They set off in that direction, keeping together, looking fearfully to left and right. When they reached Stacey Magna Station, the smoke was just clearing. Great holes had been blasted in the platforms on either side and the railway line was a twisted wreck.

  The blasts were too late to feature in the morning newspapers, but they hit the headlines the day after. The press arrived but were kept firmly outside the gates of the earl’s estate. Crowds of sightseers came to see the destruction wrought by the Bolsheviks. And, of course, it must have been the Bolsheviks, for all the papers said so, and all claimed to have received anonymous threatening letters. Police combed through the debris and Detective Superintendent Alfred Kerridge was on his way to supervise the search.

  The visitors brought some prosperity to the village, where lemonade stands and pie stands were set up, and the small pub, the Stacey Arms, did a roaring trade.

  In all the fuss, Harry and his manservant, Becket, travelled in one of the earl’s carriages to a railway station farther up the line and caught a train to London from there.

  “Glad that’s over,” said Harry. “I thought I might blow myself up by mistake. I never want to handle dynamite again.”

  “If I may venture an opinion, sir.”

  “By all means.”

  “I was surprised you went to such lengths.”

  “I had to make sure the palace thought it the work of the Bolsheviks. Anything less, and they might have suspected Lord Hadshire of getting up to tricks. The palace sent a telegram just before we left, cancelling the king’s visit ‘for reasons of national security’. By the way, I was amazed to see Daisy Levine still in residence. Lady Rose appears to have made a pet of her. Does she eat with the servants?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They must make life difficult for her.”

  “On the contrary, sir, Miss Levine is somewhat of a pet in the servants’ hall as well.”

  “How did she manage that?”

  “She sings very prettily and delighted the servants with impersonations of Miss Marie Lloyd.”

  “Indeed! I trust they treated you well, Becket?”

  “At first they were hoity-toity, you not being considered a gentleman.”

  “Good heavens! Why not?”

  “You are employed by the earl, therefore you work, therefore you are not a gentleman. But thanks to Miss Levine, I became popular.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I play the concertina, sir. I accompanied Miss Levine. The butler, Brum, declared we were both so talented, we should be on stage at the Gaiety Theatre.”

  “Amazing. I have never heard you play, Becket.”

  “I did not wish to disturb you.”

  “Disturb me now. Got the instrument with you?”

  “Yes, sir. That round box on the rack.”

  “It’s a wonder you didn’t sell it when you were so poor.”

  “I bought another when you paid me my back wages.”

  “Let’s hear a tune.”

  Becket lifted the box down and took out the concertina. He sat down and began to play ‘Goodbye Dolly’. Harry leaned back, the Boer War song bringing painful memories. “Play something else,” he said harshly.

  Becket began to play ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’ while the train rocked and swayed on its way to London.

  ♦

  At Stacey Court, Brum opened the doors of the drawing-room and intoned in a voice of doom, “Detective Superintendent Kerridge, my lord.”

  “Come in. Sit down,” said the earl. “Something to drink?”

  “No, I thank you, my lord. This gentleman with me is Detective Inspector Judd. He will take notes.”

  Judd, a tall thin man with a black drooping moustache, carefully placed his bowler hat on a side table and took out a large notebook.

  “Apart from yourself and the countess,” began Kerridge, “who else was there?”

  “About twenty-five indoor servants.”

  “Fll get to them later, with your permission. Did you have guests?”

  “Just my wife’s cousin, Miss Durwant-Flint, and Lord and Lady Hedley.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Let me think.” The earl screwed up his face like a baby about to cry. Then his face cleared. There was no harm in mentioning the captain’s name. It would mean nothing to Kerridge.

  “Oh, yes, nearly forgot. Captain Harry Cathcart.”

  “And is the gentleman still in residence?”

  “No, he’s tootled off to London.”

  “May I trouble you for his address?”

  The earl tugged at a bell-rope by the fireplace, and when a footman appeared asked for his secretary to be sent to him. Matthew appeared. “Get Cathcart’s address for the superintendent,” ordered the earl.

  “I may have lost it,” said Matthew cautiously.

  “No, you haven’t,” said the earl, and winked furiously.

  “Quite right, I haven’t,” said Matthew. “I’ll fetch it now.”

  What was that all about? wondered Kerridge. He continued the interrogation but the earl said he had been asleep at the time, and as the bridge and station were miles from the house, he hadn’t heard a thing.

  Later, Kerridge did not get any further with the servants, thanks, he thought, to the perpetual presence of Brum. He got only one thing. A little scull
ery maid said that the king was to come on a visit but couldn’t now and Brum had snapped at her and sent her from the room.

  Kerridge wondered about the king’s proposed visit all the way back to London. Certainly a visit from King Edward, who would arrive with a retinue of servants, guests and hangers-on could mean a crippling amount of money to the unfortunate host, but the earl’s home and his estates showed no signs of penny-pinching. He shook his grey head. To think that the earl would blow up a railway station and a bridge just to put the king off was ridiculous. All Bolshevik sympathizers in London were being rounded up and interrogated. Still, he’d better see this Captain Cathcart and find out what he had to say.

  The first motorized taxi cabs were beginning to appear on the streets of London and were regarded with suspicion by most, who preferred the horse-drawn variety. But as Kerridge was driven in the new Scotland Yard police car to Captain Cathcart’s address, he felt like a king. He wished he could take this splendid vehicle home to show his wife.

  He had decided to interview the captain alone. He knew people were often intimidated by the sight of a policeman or a detective in the background, taking notes.

  At the house in Water Street, Becket announced him and led him into the front room, where the captain was sitting at a desk at the window.

  Kerridge’s first impression of the captain was that he was a dangerous man. His brooding saturnine good looks gave the impression of action and power.

  Harry welcomed the superintendent and then sat staring at him vacantly.

  “I have come about the bombing of Stacey Magna,” began Kerridge.

  “Frightful, what,” commented Harry. He took out a monocle, fixed it in one eye and stared at the detective.

  “Yes, it was indeed frightful. Now –”

  “Caught any of these Bolshevik chappies yet?”

  “No, sir, but we will…provided it turns out to be the work of the Bolsheviks. Have you known the Earl of Hadshire for long?”

  “Don’t know. People come and go.” Harry let the monocle drop and fixed the detective with a vacuous stare.

  “His Majesty was supposed to visit Lord Hadshire, but the visit had to be cancelled.”

  “Pity.”

  “Have you any reason to suppose the earl did not wish this visit?”

  Harry laughed, an insolent braying laugh. Then he said, “I say, you think old Hadshire crept out during the night and blew up things to keep kingie away?”

  “It is a flight of fancy, I admit,” said Kerridge. “Let’s take it further. The earl employed someone to blow up the bridge and the station.”

  Harry grinned. “Go on. I’m enjoying this.”

  “It is not a laughing matter, sir,” said Kerridge severely. “It was just fortunate that there was no one on the bridge at the time or in the station.”

  “True, true,” said Harry. “Ask me some more questions.”

  “During your stay at Stacey Court, did you see any suspicious people lurking around?”

  “Only that cousin of Lady Polly’s. What a bore! I nearly fainted in my soup.”

  “So you can tell me nothing to help me?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What was the reason for your visit?”

  Harry glared at him. “My dear sir, one goes into the country on many visits to many households. It’s what one does.”

  “I forgot, sir. Of course it is what one does when one does not have to work for a living.”

  “Oh, we aren’t all lilies of the field, y’know. Viscount Hinton has been wheeling a piano-organette around the streets these many years.”

  “But he doesn’t have to. He’s eccentric.”

  “What about the House of Lords?”

  “What about it?” jeered Kerridge. “Waste of time, if you ask me. Half the house is absent and the other half’s nearly dead.”

  “Dear me, Super, you’re quite the little Bolshevik yourself.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” Kerridge was shocked at his own behaviour. If his injudicious remarks got back to Scotland Yard, he would lose his job. He plodded on with the questioning, reflecting as he did so that the captain was one of the most empty-headed men he had met.

  But when he got back to his desk at Scotland Yard, he turned over his conversation with the captain. He had an obscure feeling that he had somehow been irritated and manipulated into betraying his radical views. And then, there had been that odd business of the earl winking at his secretary.

  That evening, before going home, he dropped in at the pub in the hope that Posh Cyril might be around, but there was no sign of the footman. He took his leave and bumped into Posh Cyril in the street outside.

  “I want a word with you,” muttered the superintendent.

  “Walk away and into the alley along there. Be with you in a mo’,” whispered the footman. “Got a friend in the pub and don’t want to be seen with you.”

  Kerridge stood impatiently in the alley amongst the dustbins until the footman appeared.

  “I need some information,” said Kerridge. “I want to know about a certain Captain Harry Cathcart. Lives in War Street, Chelsea.”

  “I’ll find out what I can. Cost you.”

  “Always does,” said Kerridge gloomily.

  ♦

  Shortly before Rose was due to visit the Marquess of Hedley, her maid, Yardley, gave notice. Lady’s maids prided themselves on the appearance of their employers. Yardley felt her position in life had diminished through Rose’s disgrace. Rose did dress for dinner, but during the day went around in skirts and shirt blouses, or in riding dress.

  Lady Polly felt her daughter was going too far when Rose calmly announced that Daisy would be her new lady’s maid.

  “That girl is out of the gutter,” raged Lady Polly.

  “Daisy is bright and intelligent and a quick learner,” said Rose. “You never talk to her. I will fetch her and you can see for yourself.”

  Lady Polly was taken aback when Daisy entered the room. The blonde hair was beginning to grow out and Daisy was dressed neatly and becomingly.

  “So you think you can be a lady’s maid?” demanded the countess.

  “Yes, my lady. I have learned a great deal, thanks to Lady Rose’s kindness.”

  Her voice was soft, with only the slightest Cockney edge.

  “I do not like to think of a girl of your background chaperoning my daughter,” said Lady Polly, who had the staccato speech of her class, an icy stare put into words.

  “A girl of my background is wise to the ways of men, my lady. I would have protected Lady Rose better had I been with her in London.”

  “And do you know how to sew?”

  “Yes, my lady. I worked as a seamstress in Whitechapel when I wasn’t on the boards.”

  The countess’s own lady’s maid, Humphrey, stood behind her mistress’s chair, darting jealous looks at Daisy. She gave a little cough. “May I suggest a test, my lady? Your blonde straw hat needs retrimming. I suggest it is given to this person to see how she can work.”

  “Excellent. Fetch it here and give it to the girl.”

  ♦

  Two days later, the refurbished hat was presented to the countess. It was decorated by beautifully made scarlet silk roses. The countess was immensely pleased with it. But Humphrey snorted and said dresses were another thing. What about my lady’s ballgown, which had a torn hem, and that my lady had said was old-fashioned?

  The dress was returned in another two days. The neckline had been slightly lowered and the shoulders decorated with white silk bows. The train had gone and it was now ankle-length.

  “I always have a train,” complained the countess.

  “Trains are going out of fashion, my lady,” said Daisy demurely. “I could not help noticing that you have very fine ankles, and if you adopt the new style, you will not need to throw the train over your arm when you are dancing or risk it being torn when you are walking about.”

  The countess poked her ankles out from ben
eath the gown and studied them complacently. “Very good, Daisy. But you cannot be called Daisy and you cannot be called Levine because it sounds foreign. You will be called Baxter.”

  “That means you can go,” said Rose when Daisy told her. “But I shall not call you Baxter.”

  “I have made an enemy of Humphrey,” said Daisy. “What if she finds out you did all the sewing yourself?”

  “There is no need for her to find out. We have been spending too much time over our books and typing lessons, Daisy. Now you must learn the ways of the lady’s maid. When we get to Hedley’s, you will dine with the housekeeper. Your behaviour must be precise. I allow you too much laxity. While we are at the Hedleys’, you never sit down in my presence or wear a hat in the house. You do not venture an opinion, unless asked for it. And you never even say ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good night.” We have a little time to bring you up to the mark.

  “I prefer to dress and undress myself now that Yardley is leaving. But this you must never tell a soul or I shall be damned as middle-class. The lady’s maid I had before Yardley left a notebook. I shall find it for you. In it she has written all the recipes for cleaning clothes, hats and shoes. The wash for my hair is quite simple. One pennyworth of borax, half a pint of olive oil and a pint of boiling water.”

  She studied Daisy for a moment and then asked, “Do you not find your life here dull?”

  “Oh, no, my lady. I like dull. I can’t get enough of dull. And three good meals a day!”

  “Very well, Daisy. There is one thing more. I have over-prided myself on my intelligence but I lack common sense. I made a bad mistake with Blandon.”

  “I’ll tip you off if there’s another masher,” said Daisy eagerly. “Can tell ‘em a mile off.”

  ∨ Snobbery with Violence ∧

  Five

  O blind your eyes and break your heart and hack your hand away, And lose your love and shave your head; but do not go to stay At the little place in Whafsitsname where folks are rich and clever; The golden and the goodly house, where things grow worse for ever; There are things you need not know of though you live and die in vain, There are souls more sick of pleasure than you are sick of pain