Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [39]
Rose watched her go with dismay. What had she done wrong? Surely it was only natural to want to know what had become of the girl. She suddenly felt very alone again.
She saw Harry, who had just entered the room. She waited until he had helped himself to a frugal breakfast of toast and coffee and called to him, “Captain Cathcart!”
Harry joined her and said, “You are looking distressed.”
Rose told him about her conversation with Margaret.
“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” he said. “You will find all the guests want to forget about the death of Miss Gore-Desmond. They are certainly not going to trouble their heads about one missing lady’s maid. Perhaps Miss Margaret Bryce-Cuddlestone fell from grace herself with one of the men here.”
“Surely not. Surely it is only married ladies who ...” Rose blushed. Then she recovered and said, “I am sharing Daisy with her. Daisy might find out something.”
“It’s worth asking her if she can find out anything. It would explain Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone’s attitude to her maid’s disappearance.”
“Morning, Lady Rose ... Cathcart,” said Harry Trenton, sitting down opposite them, a plate laden high with food. “Jolly fine weather. Nip in the air, what.”
“Haven’t been awake long enough to notice,” drawled Harry.
Other guests began to come into the dining-room. Rose noticed the change in Harry. He seemed to have an endless fund of vacuous remarks. Perhaps that was how he found out things, she thought. People would slip their guard if they thought they had nothing to fear.
Daisy helped Margaret change into a new outfit for lunch. She was feeling more confident because Becket had told her that any fine items which needed to be cleaned by the lady’s maid rather than given to laundresses were to be brought to him and he would help her.
“Have you been with Lady Rose for long?” asked Margaret.
“Not long,” said Daisy. She had been primed by Rose to find out about Margaret but had not expected Margaret to want to find out about her.
“And before that?”
“I am the daughter of one of the tenant farmers on the Sta-cey Court estates,” lied Daisy. “I am well-educated and it was Lady Hadshire’s kind way of giving me a start in life.”
To her relief that seemed to satisfy Margaret. “Do any of the gentlemen here please you, madam?” asked Daisy.
“Know your place, my good girl, and do not ask impertinent questions. The lace on my oyster satin dinner gown is soiled. Please have it cleaned by this evening.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hand me my gloves. You may go to your mistress now.”
Daisy held the door open for her, collected the dinner gown and took it downstairs. Rose had said she had no intention of changing for lunch and that she thought the ritual of changing at least six times a day exhausting and silly.
She went in search of Becket, who looked up his books and told her to make a lather of Castile soap, clean the lace with a fine brush after it had been unpicked from the gown, put a little alum in clean water to clear off the suds, iron it with a cool iron and then stitch it back onto the gown again.
As she worked, Daisy told him that she had been instructed to find out all about Margaret.
“If you want to find out who is sleeping with whom,” said Becket, “you have to watch the corridors at night.”
“What if I’m caught?”
“Just say your mistress can’t sleep and wants some warm milk and you lost your way. This place is a rabbit warren. They’ll believe you.”
“A murderer wouldn’t,” said Daisy with a shiver.
During afternoon tea when the men had returned from shooting and the ladies were fluttering around them, the marquess entered.
“Good news,” he said. “It has been confirmed that Miss Gore-Desmond’s death was suicide. The coroner’s inquest is tomorrow. There is no need for any of you to attend. We can put the whole matter behind us.”
Harry followed him out of the room. “So my services are not required?”
“Glad to say they’re not. But stay on. Be a guest.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I will stay for a few days.”
Harry rang for Becket and told him to bring the car