Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [37]
He stood up as Harry and Rose entered the room. “May I offer you something?” asked Kerridge,
“No, we will breakfast later,” said Harry.
Kerridge waited until they had seated themselves at the table. He studied the captain. Where was the silly ass he had interviewed in Chelsea? This version of Harry Cathcart looked hard and intelligent. He was determined to go on eating. I mean, he thought bitterly, that was the upper classes for you. Drop in and interrupt a good breakfast when it suited them. Well, come the revolution, they’d be singing a different tune. Did they ever stop to think that the food that was no doubt being laid out in the breakfast room of the castle would be enough to feed the poor of this village for months? No, not them.
“You are sneering, Mr. Kerridge,” commented Rose.
Kerridge flushed a guilty red. “Bad tooth, my lady. Now, what is the reason for your visit?”
Harry told him about the disappearing lady’s maid and of Daisy’s brief conversation with her.
“Servants disappear the whole time,” said Kerridge.
Harry then told him about the items hidden under the mattress.
“The thing is,” said Kerridge after he had defiantly munched a kidney, “I do not understand your interest in this. It is not your lady’s maid, Lady Rose.”
“I think she has been murdered because of what she knew,” said Rose. “I think you should get men from the new fingerprint bureau down here to dust Colette’s room. Then you can fingerprint everyone in the castle. The captain’s fingerprints will be there, of course, as will those of my maid, but you can eliminate them.”
“My lady, I am charmed by your interest in modern police methods,” said Kerridge, pointing a sausage impaled on a fork at her, “but what will happen is this. Lord Hedley, I am sure, has phoned several people in high places. Later today, I will be told to close the case.”
“But the doctor will not sign the death certificate!” exclaimed Rose.
“No doubt, given the right pressure, the police pathologist will. Deaths from cosmetic arsenic are quite common.”
“But Colette ... ?”
“A lady’s maid? A foreign lady’s maid? A French lady’s maid?”
“I will be open with you, Superintendent,” said Harry.
“About time, if I may say so, sir. You played the fool very well when I saw you before about the bombs at Stacey Magna.”
“Oh, that,” said Harry with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Forget that. This is important. I have been summoned here by Hedley to hush this up.”
“Why you?”
“I am considered diplomatic.”
“So why didn’t you keep the maid’s disappearance to yourself?”
“I cannot condone murder, Mr. Kerridge.”
Kerridge sighed. “I will do my best in the short time I am sure I have got left. But you can forget about fingerprinting the guests, Lady Rose. Can you imagine the outcry? I wish to keep my job.”
“I would have thought a desire to right a wrong and bring a criminal to justice would be more important than your job,” snapped Rose.
“Oh, really? And then what? You lot don’t live in the real world. While you’re up there stuffing your faces, people in this village are starving.”
“You forget yourself,” admonished Harry.
“He is quite right,” said Rose. “The superintendent shall have our help. I shall find out what I can from the female guests, and you, Captain, can concentrate on the men. Daisy and Becket can find out what they can from the servants.”
“We will do what we can,” said Harry with a note of irritation in his voice, for he felt Rose was being downright unwomanly. “I would advise you to keep your radical views to yourself in future, Superintendent, particularly in the presence of ladies.”
“Oh, tish,” said Rose with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“They’re up there a long time,” said Daisy to Becket as they sat in the empty taproom.
“How do you like being a lady’s maid?” asked Becket.
“It’s all right. But so much to learn. I’ve got to wash my lady’s silk stockings and I’m frightened I’ll damage them.”
“You wash them with soap and water and simmer them gently. For a blue shade, put a drop of liquid blue in a pan of cold spring water and run