Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [56]
“I’ll be Mother,” said Ailsa, just as if she were pouring tea instead of liquor. “Bottoms up!”
Guy soon began to feel his senses reeling. “I shay,” he said, “where d’you work?”
“I work for an orphans’ fund,” said Ailsa. “This is fun. Bottoms up!”
“You mean you don’t work for Captain Cashcart?”
“Never heard of him,” said Ailsa. “Bottoms up!”
Guy lurched to his feet. He had made a dreadful mistake. He had followed her from the office in Buckingham Palace Road. But there were other offices there.
“Gotto go,” he said thickly.
Ailsa watched as he staggered from the pub.
Lady Glensheil was late for a dinner party. She opened the trap on the roof of her carriage with her stick. “The traffic has cleared, John,” she shouted to her coachman. “Go faster. Spring those horses.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Guy, lurching out of the pub onto the road, never saw the carriage hurtling towards him until it was too late.
At the sound of the scream and the crash, everyone ran out of the pub.
Ailsa gathered up her scarf, gloves and reticule and walked out. A carriage was lying on its side and an autocratic lady was being helped out. Guy was lying on the road, blood pouring from his head.
“Are the horses all right, John?” called Lady Glensheil.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Thank goodness for that. I would not like to think good horseflesh had been ruined by some drunk.”
The conspirators did not hear the bad news until they read the following day’s Evening News. “Young man-about-town, Mr. Guy Delancey, was killed when he walked in front of Lady Glensheil’s carriage. Witnesses say he had been drinking heavily in the Fox and Ferret with a lady. Police are urging his companion to come forward.”
“And are you coming forward?” Harry asked Ailsa, who had told him the whole story.
“No, sir. Better just to leave it as it is.”
“Quite right. Berrow and Banks probably hired someone to get you drunk. You say you were drinking water in a gin glass and he didn’t even notice?”
“No, sir. He did not. I think he had a very weak head.” Ailsa had no intention of betraying her capacity for gin to anyone.
Berrow and Cyril stared at each other in horror in The Club over their copies of the Evening News.
“You know what?” said Cyril.
“What?”
“That Cathcart fellow’s going to kill both of us. He’s engaged to Lady Rose again. I’m telling you, he’s vicious.”
Berrow folded his newspaper. “Tell you what, I’m going north to my place in Yorkshire for Christmas. Come along. We’ll leave as soon as possible. If that maniac turns up anywhere near us, I’ll get the keepers to shoot him!”
Rose, once again serving in the soup kitchen, found the cheerful religious man she had met before standing in front of her.
“The Lord be with you,” he said, holding out his bowl.
“And with you, sir,” said Rose.
“The Lord is good,” he said, looking at her with shining eyes. “His angel come to me in prison.”
“And you will sin no more?” asked Rose.
“Bet your life I won’t, missus,” he said cheerfully. “Can I have an extra helping?”
When she and Miss Friendly had finished, they returned to the town house where the maids were beginning to pack their trunks preparatory to the move to Stacey Court.
Before she went upstairs, Miss Friendly said, “Please tell Miss Levine I have her frock ready.”
“I hope everyone is not taking advantage of you.”
“No, not at all. I enjoy the work.”
Daisy looked in awe at the dark blue taffeta gown Miss Friendly had designed and made for her. It was cut low on the bodice and trimmed with little pearls at the edge of the neckline.
“Did you do this without a pattern, Florence?” asked Daisy, who was the only one to call Miss Friendly by her first name.
“I studied such a gown when we were visiting Madame Laurent’s salon and suddenly realized I could create something like it.”
“You should speak to Lady Rose about opening your own salon.”
“That would take a great deal of money and my lady has been generous enough.”
Daisy thanked her and went off lost in thought. What if she, Becket and Miss Friendly got together to open a salon? She and Becket