Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [119]
‘All the house guests will be going in to dinner again tonight. It won’t be a grand banquet like last night because of the ball, but Mr Brighton will be there so I suppose Kilkeel will be too.’
‘You seem to know all the back ways of this house. Could it be managed?’
‘I think so, yes. Possibly while they’re all in the hall, before they go in to dinner.’
I thought of Mrs Beedle’s door behind the orange tree. Even dead, she was still helping me.
‘Can you persuade Mrs Martley, do you think?’
‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she’ll be happier if you’re there. But what are we going to do with her in the meantime?’ ‘Can’t she stay in your room?’
‘Suppose Sir Herbert or Kilkeel comes looking for her? They know Mrs Beedle was waiting in the schoolroom, and they might guess she’s not far away.’
‘Would they even know their way round the servants’ quarters?’ Daniel said. ‘Leaving her where she is might be safer than trying to move her.’
‘Perhaps so. Even if we took her out down the back stairs, where could we hide her? I’ll just have to tell her to go up on the roof again if she hears anybody coming.’
‘I suppose I must go back to my musicians now, or somebody will be asking questions. When shall we meet and where?’
‘Six o’clock by the back door. They’re dining early because of the ball.’
Once I had seen Daniel on his way, I brewed tea over the oil lamp in the nursery kitchen and found a piece of stale currant cake and a morsel of cheese that Betty must have missed. It wasn’t much, but Mrs Martley seemed grateful when I took it up to her and squeezed my hand.
‘That’s a good gentleman of yours.’
‘He is a good gentleman, but not of mine.’
It was past nine o’clock by then. Betty was giving the children their breakfast and trying not to be annoyed over my long absence. The two boys were sad and listless, Henrietta weeping into her bowl from combined grief at the death of her grandmother and not being allowed to go to the ball. Betty herself had changed into a black dress and made a broad black band for my sleeve. Mourning for Mrs Beedle, both in heart and in the formalities, was observed more on the nursery floor than in the rest of Mandeville Hall. After breakfast we settled to our studies as best we could in the makeshift schoolroom. Twice I left the children to their books and ran upstairs to see that Mrs Martley was safe. The first time she was sleeping on the bed, snoring gently. The second she was awake, thirsty for the new pot of tea I brought with me, and prepared to listen to the plan for identifying Lord Kilkeel.
‘You’ll make sure he can’t see me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid of being near him. He’ll twist my brains again.’
‘I’ll be there and so will Mr Suter.’
It was the promise of Daniel’s presence that won her over in the end, and it was agreed that I should come to fetch her at half past five.
All through the morning I’d been expecting Celia to visit the nursery corridor, guessing her nerves would be on edge too, but by our dinner time at half past two there was no sign of her. After the meal, Betty decided it would be all right to take the children for some air in the garden, and although I was worried at being so far from Mrs Martley, I couldn’t think of an excuse. Running about and playing hide and seek were ruled out by their state of mourning and we were all promenading sadly between the clipped box hedges of the knot garden when Celia and her brother came towards us. She was wearing a black-and-grey silk dress and looked as if she hadn’t slept, face pale, eyes puffy and even the lustre of her red-gold hair dimmed. Stephen was dressed in black and looked almost as strained as she did. Even in their saddened state, it struck me what a handsome pair they made. He spotted us first and came quickly towards us.
‘Hello, Betty. Good afternoon, Miss Lock. I understand you found my grandmother. It must have been painful for you. I’m truly sorry.’
His dark eyes met mine. I looked away and murmured something about sympathy with the family’s loss.
‘Yes, she’ll be much missed,