Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [49]
“How could Quinn know ...” began Rose, then blushed furiously. Of course a lady’s maid would know whether her mistress had had her monthly menstruation. The soiled towels would need to be collected for the laundry.
“Not to my knowledge, sir.”
“Had this ever happened here? Did any man visit and did you then find the same evidence?”
“No, my lord. Miss Gore-Desmond had her first season this year in London and had the opportunity to meet plenty of gentlemen. I do not know if she favoured anyone in particular, and certainly no one favoured her enough to propose.”
“At the castle, did you ever challenge her about the state of the bed linen?”
“Certainly not, sir. It was not my place to do so.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Harry as they drove off.
“Don’t you think it was Quinn’s duty to inform Mary’s parents about her affair?”
“All Mary had to do was deny it and Quinn would have been fired. Back to square one.”
EIGHT
A woman feels so tremendously at a disadvantage if her hair is untidy. She cannot even argue until it is neat again!
-MRS. C. E. HUMPHRY, MANNERS FOR WOMEN
Rose felt a surge of dislike for her host as the car drove through the poor village and up to the folly of a castle. The architect had not put much imagination into his plan, she thought. It was nothing more than a giant square box with towers at each corner. She was sure the moat kept it unhealthily damp.
As they cruised over the drawbridge and into the courtyard, Rose felt depressed and frightened and very young. Why not leave, go home to her parents and the comfortable surroundings of her family home?
But somehow the very awfulness of the castle inside with its fake armour in the hall and its overstuffed and over-draped furniture in the rooms reassured her.
By the time she went down to dinner, she had persuaded herself that it did not matter whether Mary had been having an affair with someone or not. She had either committed suicide or accidentally taken an overdose of arsenic.
She chatted about trivia to her dinner companions and listened politely to their tales of shooting and fishing.
In the drawing-room, the Peterson girls, Deborah and Harriet, were anxious to know where she had been that day. Rose said she had gone for a drive with Captain Harry, who wanted to show off his new car. She refused an invitation to try the ouija board again.
She retired to her room with relief and sat down at the dressing-table. Daisy began to remove the pins from her hair.
“Any more news?” asked Daisy.
“Nothing,” said Rose. “You know, Daisy, I’m suddenly weary of the whole business. Let Captain Cathcart deal with it.”
“That’s not like you!” exclaimed Daisy.
“Yes, it’s very much like me,” said Rose wearily. “I have come to the conclusion that I’m a coward. Yellow as custard. I was all for supporting women’s rights, but when the scandal of my photograph in the Daily Mail blew up, I caved in and never had anything to do with any of them again.”
“Surely there was not really so much you could have done,” said Daisy, “what with your parents planning your season and being so against women’s rights, like everyone else in society. If you’d gone on, they might have had you locked up.”
“I’ll finish undressing myself, Daisy. You may go. I’m tired. I was so sure Quinn would answer all questions and the mystery would be resolved.”
“Maybe things’ll look more hopeful in the morning,” said Daisy soothingly.
Daisy left and Rose wearily finished undressing and went to bed. There was a note pinned on her pillow.
She slid out the pin and opened it.
It read: “If you wish to know why Mary Gore-Desmond died, meet me on the roof of the castle tomorrow at 1 P.M. Do not tell anyone, even your maid. A friend.”
The message was printed in block capitals.
Rose held the little note with trembling fingers. She should tell the captain. But if someone else joined her on the roof, the author of the note might just fail to appear.
She stayed awake for hours, tossing and turning, and then at last fell asleep with the note clutched in her hand.
When she awoke, she found she