Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [61]
“I used to play up there when I was a child when we were brought here on visits. The place was fairly new then. As children, we thought it romantic.”
“I was not playing. Someone asked to meet me on the roof and then pushed me over.”
The marchioness laughed. “We used to invent stories like that. It does take me back.”
The dressing gong sounded.
“Run along,” said Lady Hedley. “And behave yourself.”
Rose repeated the conversation to Daisy. “She sounds mad,” said Daisy.
“No, I think she is eccentric. It must be so terrible to have a philandering husband.”
“That’s mostly what this lot do to pass the time,” said Daisy cynically. “But we should tell the captain about Mary Gore-Desmond having stayed with them in London.”
But Rose was not to be allowed any chance of speaking to Harry after dinner. Her mother drew her aside in the drawing-room and said, “It has come to our ears that you have been seen spending a certain amount of time with Captain Cathcart. Now although your pa is grateful to him for his help and although his family background is impeccable, he does not have any money other than the money he earns. So he is, in effect, a tradesman.”
“I have no interest in Captain Cathcart.”
“I will determine it stays that way.”
When the men joined them in the drawing-room, Lady Polly stayed firmly by her daughter’s side.
She need not have bothered. There was no sign of the captain.
He was in the library with Becket and Daisy, having had a note from Daisy passed to him by Becket.
She told him all about Rose’s interview with Lady Hedley.
“It’s beginning to look as if Hedley himself might be responsible for these murders, and that is going to be very hard to prove,” said Harry. “But Lady Rose is surely safe. There will be a constable on duty outside her door tonight.”
Curzon had supervised the sandwiches and drinks to be taken up to the drawing-room. Now all that was left was to see that the various bedtime requests were taken up to the rooms.
Mrs. Jerry Trumpington required a bedtime drink of hot milk and brandy; Miss Maisie Chatterton, cocoa; and so on. He ran his eyes down the list in his hand. At the bottom was tea, Indian, with milk and sugar for Constable Bickerstaff.
“Who is Constable Bickerstaff?” he shouted.
“That must be the officer outside Lady Rose’s bedroom,” said the cook.
“I think it’s a bit much when common officers start using this place as a restaurant,” grumbled Curzon.
He said to the second footman, John. “Get one of the housemaids to make a pot of tea and you carry it up. And take Mrs. Trumpington’s drink and deliver Miss Chatterton’s cocoa as well.”
John collected the three drinks on a large tray and headed for the stairs. There was a back staircase in the castle for the servants, but most used the main staircase unless they were carrying down the slops. He delivered Maisie Chatterton’s cocoa first and then hurried along to the other tower, where Lady Rose and Maisie Chatterton had their rooms.
He thought sulkily, and not for the first time, that the gas should have remained lit. It was difficult balancing the tray and a candle. He put the tray down on a small table in the passage outside Mrs. Trumpington’s room, put the glass of milk and brandy on a smaller tray and knocked at the door. He handed the tray to the lady’s maid and then turned and picked up the tray with the remaining drink from the table. He was heading up the tower stairs when he heard a voice call, “John!”
The voice was muffled and he could not tell if it came from a man or a woman. He set the tray down on the stairs and held his candle high. It was probably Mrs. Trumpington complaining again. Probably a skin had formed on her milk and brandy. She had complained before.
He ran down and knocked on her door. “Anything up?” he asked the lady’s maid.
“No,” she said, “and don’t knock again. Madam is just about to go to sleep.
John sighed and went back up the stairs and picked up the tray. He approached the constable who was sitting on a chair outside Rose’s room.
“Are you Bickerstaff?