Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [41]
“You are right, Daisy. But I am shocked. How on earth can Margaret hope to find a husband when she is . ..”
“Damaged goods?”
“Quite.”
“I believe some ladies say it got broke when they were out riding.”
“Broke what?”
“You know. The thing that keeps you a virgin. Sounds like hymn books.”
Rose shifted awkwardly. “Never mind that. If Margaret has fallen from grace, then it stands to reason that Mary Gore-Desmond might also have been having an affair.”
“There’s another thing,” said Daisy eagerly, “what I heard in the servants’ hall.”
Rose was about to correct Daisy’s grammar but decided against it. The idea of escaping to London and working for a living was growing in her mind. Like herself, Daisy was now an excellent typist. They could go together. And if that happened, they would be equals. On the other hand, Daisy would need to speak properly if she were to become a businesswoman.
“Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?” asked Daisy.
“Go on.”
“Lord Hedley’s pa blew the family money building this monster of a casde. Lady Hedley’s the one with all the money. Her lawyers tied it up in the marriage settlements so he can’t get his hands on it until she’s dead. What if Lord Hedley was playing fast and loose with Miss Gore-Desmond and she threatened to tell Lady Hedley? There’s a reason for murder.”
“It’s a reason for Lord Hedley to murder his wife. Of course, had it been Lady Hedley who had been found dead, perhaps he would be suspected right away. I think we should communicate your findings to Captain Cathcart.”
“Thought you didn’t like him.”
“Whether I like him or not is beside the point. He has the experience we need. Good night, Daisy. You did well.”
“I’m sorry I forgot my place, my lady.”
“You may behave as an equal when you are with me, but not in public. I have plans for us.”
“What plans?”
“I’ll tell you when I have worked it all out.”
Harry was handed a note by Becket the following morning. It said: “Please meet us in the library at nine. We have news for you. Rose Summer.”
Harry showed it to Becket. “We? I wonder who the other person is?”
“I should think it would turn out to be her lady’s maid, Daisy.”
“But one does not say we when talking about a servant. I mean, a lady’s maid is a fashionable shadow.”
“I think Lady Rose and Daisy are more in the way of being friends.”
“What an odd girl she is, to be sure. You’d better come along as well.”
When they entered the library, it was to find both Rose and Daisy waiting for them.
“I suggested we meet here,” began Rose, “because I doubt if anyone ever uses this room.”
“Let’s sit down and you can tell me about it,” said Harry.
He sat in one chair and Rose sat in the other. Daisy stood behind Rose and Becket behind Harry.
“I think we should all sit together,” said Rose. “The detective work is all Daisy’s.”
They all grouped around the library table.
Daisy told her story while Harry listened intently. “Well done,” exclaimed Harry when Daisy had finished, and Rose felt a pang of jealousy. Not that she was romantically interested in Harry, of course. Simply that she felt she should have been the one to find out about Margaret and about the marquess’s financial position. “Colette’s disappearance may have had nothing to do with Miss Gore-Desmond’s death. Miss Bryce-Cuddlestone may have decided her maid knew too much and dismissed her. And yet it was she who started the search for her. Anyway, I’ve found out some more things.
“I was talking to Maisie Chatterton. She babbles on about everything in that silly lisp of hers. She tells me that Mary Gore-Desmond said something one evening in the drawing-room to Sir Gerald Burke. Sir Gerald glared at Mary and then muttered something vicious to her, according to Maisie. Freddy Pomfret was flirting with Mary on one occasion but Maisie said that was because Mary had a large dowry. Neddie Freemantle was heard braying with laughter at everything Mary said. Maisie asked him afterwards what he had found so funny and he said Mary had mimicked the accents and behaviour of the guests brilliantly. I’ve forgotten