Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [46]
“Perhaps it wasn’t,” said Rose, whose thumb and fingers were aching with the effort of guiding the legs of the table over the right letters. “I mean, Miss Bryce-Cuddles tone’s maid knew something and she has disappeared.”
“You mean Mary might have been murdered and Hedley’s used his influence to get the whole thing kept quiet?” asked Deborah.
“Perhaps.”
“But that’s awful,” exclaimed Harriet. “I say, I’ve read all the Sherlock Holmes books. Have you read the latest, The Hound of the Baskervilles?”
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll lend you a copy. You know something,” said Harriet, “I don’t think you’re a psychic at all. I saw the way you moved the table. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to spoil Deborah’s fan.”
“Fun!” exclaimed Deborah. “I got the fright of my life.”
“I think you suspect a murder and are trying to find out if we know anything. Come on, fess up.”
Rose gave a reluctant smile. “I’m sorry. But I am sure there was something suspicious about Mary’s death. Her lady’s maid said she never used arsenic as a cosmetic to clear the skin. But if Hedley knew of my suspicions, he would send me home. I would like to find out how she really died.”
“But how do you go about it?”
“You ask questions. I confess I have been very bad at it so far. I have been too direct with the gentlemen. I do not really know how to flirt.”
“How too horribly sad,” said Harriet. “But we do, don’t we, sis? We’re the best flirts in America. And if this lot here think we’re going to waste our dowries on them, they’re mistaken. I want a duke. It would be fun.”
“I think she might have been having an affair,” said Rose.
“What? That mousy little thing? You mean, one of the men did her in?”
“Perhaps. Or a jealous woman. Your lady’s maids might have heard something.”
The sisters’ faces were immediately marked by the same looks of hauteur. “We do not converse with our servants,” said Harriet. “Too vulgar. Anyway, we’ll flirt with the men and see what we can find out. You haven’t seen us in action because we didn’t figure there was anyone worth bothering about. But just you wait until this evening.”
Rose thought the sisters were in splendid form after the gentlemen joined them in the drawing-room after dinner. They flirted, they chatted, they flattered, until they were surrounded by a group of adoring men.
When she had all their attention, Deborah said, “We had such a fun time today. Lady Rose is a psychic.”
Rose was aware of Harry’s amused eyes on her. “She’s in contact with the spirit world,” Deborah went on. “So we got out the ouija board.”
Rose stiffened. She did not want them to talk about murder.
“And what did the spirits tell you?” asked Freddy Pomfret.
“I’m going to marry someone called Harry,” said Deborah.
“That’s either Harry Cathcart or Harry Trenton,” said Freddy.
“Or a Harry I haven’t yet met,” said Deborah.
Freddy addressed Rose, his eyes bright with malice, because he obscurely blamed her for having caused his recent disgrace. “In touch with the spirits, are you, Lady Rose?”
“It’s not good to talk about it,” said Rose repressively.
Harry Cathcart led her aside. “What have you been playing at?”
“I’m just trying to stir things up. Mary Gore-Desmond told the American sisters that she was spoken for.”
“I wonder who she was referring to.”
“Anyway, they are going to help; the Petersons, I mean.”
“If Hedley knows what you’re about, you’ll be sent home.”
“I don’t think they’ll tell anyone. What did you find out?”
“That Quinn was less than honest with us. She confided to Miss Maisie Chatteron’s lady’s maid that she was thinking of applying for a new position. When asked, she said that a mistress’s behaviour reflected on the lady’s maid and she had no intention of having her career damaged.”
“So she knew Mary Gore-Desmond was having an affair,” exclaimed Rose. “You must motor over to Derbyshire tomorrow and ask her for the identity of the lover.”
“I already planned to do that.”
“I shall come with you.”
“I would prefer to go alone.”
“Nonsense. You would