Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [102]
‘It must have been most unpleasant for you, finding her,’ Mrs Quivering said.
I didn’t reply. How could I explain to her that it was doubly bad because it had catapulted me back to the room in Calais, and my father’s body? She came out from behind her desk, her face sharp with tiredness, and carefully refilled my teacup from the pot on the table beside me. A footman had brought it in ten minutes or so ago. His stockings were wrinkled, the shoulders of his jacket white from the powder that had fallen out of his wig, but she’d made no comment. He’d been one of the two footmen who’d carried Mrs Beedle’s body to her bedroom. If you listened carefully, you could hear the muffled voices and clink of plates as kitchen maids cleared up the remains of the dinner. Wafts of left-over fish and stale claret drifted in and mingled with the smell of the dying candle. Mrs Quivering walked over to it, lit a new one and set it upright in the hot wax.
‘It might be best if you didn’t talk about this to any of the servants, Miss Lock. These things are very unsettling for them.’
I promised. It would have been easy to assume, because Mrs Quivering was weaving such a hard-wearing lie, that she was responsible in some way for Mrs Beedle’s death. I didn’t believe that. Mrs Quivering was a very efficient housekeeper, and the centre of a housekeeper’s work is to deal with any unpleasantness before it troubles the life of the family. The death was nothing to do with Mrs Quivering and everything to do with me, and that first great lie about my father.
‘Does Lady Mandeville know?’ I said.
‘She went to her room as soon as the ladies left the table. I’m sure she’ll be sleeping now. It will wait until she wakes up.’
It was clear from the way she said it that Lady Mandeville had retired to bed worse for drink.
‘And Miss Mandeville?’ I asked. ‘She seemed fond of her grandmother.’
I could see from Mrs Quivering’s face that Sir Herbert had given no instructions about that.
‘Yes, it would be wrong for her to hear it from one of the servants. I should go to her, I suppose.’
Mrs Quivering began to stand up, so weary that she could hardly force her body out of the chair.
‘There’s her brother,’ I said.
‘He’s with some of the gentlemen in the billiard room.’
‘Does he know his grandmother’s dead?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’ll go and tell Miss Mandeville, if you’d like me to,’ I said.
She sank back in the chair.
‘Thank you, Miss Lock. You will do it as kindly as you can, won’t you? There is no need for Miss Mandeville to know … all the details.’
I promised to do it kindly. I went up the back stairs to the bedroom corridor and tapped on her door.
‘Come in.’
Celia was sitting in an armchair in a blue cashmere dressing gown, bare feet drawn up on to the chair. Two candles were burning on the dressing table. Her face was white and she’d been crying.
‘Fanny says my grandmother’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry to say it’s true.’
‘What happened?’
I thought that there were enough lies, without my telling more. So I told her how I’d found Mrs Beedle. She made a whimpering sound, like a hurt puppy. I went towards her and her cold and trembling hand came out of the dressing-gown sleeve and clasped mine.
‘You’re saying she was killed?’
‘I think she must have been.’
‘But who by, and why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘My stepfather. He never liked her.’
‘It can’t have been. He was at the table in front of all his guests when it happened.’
‘He paid somebody to do it, then.’
‘Miss Mandeville … Celia, your grandmother spoke to me just as we were going in to dinner. She said something had occurred and I was to leave dinner early and meet her in the schoolroom. Have you any idea what she meant?’
‘No.’ I didn’t know whether she’d even understood my question. She seemed lost in her own thoughts. ‘Does my mother know she’s dead?’
‘Not yet, no.’
Her hand tightened on mine.
‘I think I want to see Grandma. Will you take me to her?’
The same footman was on duty outside Mrs Beedle’s room,