Death at Daisy's Folly

Table of Contents

 

 

“I read it with enjoyment ... I found myself burning for the injustices of it, and caring what happened to the people.”

—Anne Perry

 

“I couldn't put it down.”

 

“An intriguing mystery ... Skillfully unraveled.”

—Jean Hager, author of
Blooming Murder

 

“Absolutely riveting ... An extremely articulate, genuine mystery, with well-drawn, compelling characters.”

—
Meritorious Mysteries

 

“An absolutely charming book ... An adventure well worth your time ... You're sure to enjoy it.”

—
Romantic Times

DEATH AT BISHOP'S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY'S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL'S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PLACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD

 

 

CHINA BAYLES' BOOK OF DAYS

 

The Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter by Susan Wittig Albert
THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE

 

Non-fiction books by Susan Wittig Albert
WRITING FROM LIFE"
WORK OF HER OWN

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously, and
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

DEATH AT DAISY'S FOLLY

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with
the authors

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime edition / February 1997

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1997 by Susan Wittig Albert and William J. Albert.

 

 

 

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-4406-7292-7

 

 

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published
by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
design are trademarks
belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

 

Our thanks once again to Ruby Hild of the village of Dedham, in Essex, whose generous loan of bed, board, and library card makes our research trips infinitely more comfortable and productive. Thanks also to Prime Crime editor Natalee Rosenstein, for believing in us, and to our agent Deborah Schneider, for her support and encouragement.

 

Susan and Bill Albert
AKA Robin Paige

Lady Frances (Daisy) Brooke,
Countess of Warwick

Lord Francis Greville Brooke,
Earl of Warwick

Sir Charles Sheridan

Miss
Kathryn Ardleigh,
aka Beryl Bardwell

Lord Bradford Marsden

Lady Verena Rochdale

Lord Malcolm Rochdale

Lady Celia Rochdale

Lord Reginald Wallace

Lady Felicia Metcalf

Lady Lillian Forsythe

Sir Friedrich Temple

Sir Thomas Cobb

Mrs. Milford Knightly

Mr. Milford Knightly

Mr. Samuel Isaacson

Mrs. Eleanor (Ellie) Marsden Farley

Lieutenant Andrew Kirk-Smythe

Harry Gordon, groom to the Prince of
Wales

Lawrence Quibbley,
valet and mechanic to Lord Bradford Marsden

Amelia,
lady's maid to Miss Kathryn Ardleigh

Richards,
valet to Lord Reginald Wallace

Winnie Wospottle,
chief laundress

Wickett,
Easton Lodge coachman

Marsh,
Easton Lodge footman

Meg,
Easton Lodge laundry maid

Death surprises us in the midst of our hopes. THOMAS FULLER

—THOMAS FULLER
Gnomologia,
1732

 

 

A
cock was crowing in the coop at the foot of the dark orchard when Harry Gordon, groom to His Highness the Prince of Wales, entered the stable. Inside, the air was warm after the early morning chill, scented with the earthy fragrance of horse and hay, and in the gloom Harry could hear the delicate music of pigeons cooing and the gentle
whuffle
of a horse. In all of his fifteen years, Harry had found no better place on a frosty morning than the inside of a grand stable.

The stables here at Easton Lodge were not as large or as modern as those at Sandringham, where His Highness's three great sires stood to stud, servicing something like a hundred mares a year in addition to the Prince's own brood stock. But the Easton Lodge stables were not inconsiderable. The Countess of Warwick, whose family home this was, kept her own horses here, together with the tall chestnut hunter left by the Prince for his frequent visits. This morning, the stable was full of horses brought in for any of the weekend guests who might choose to ride.

Harry walked down the aisle between the shoulder-high wooden stalls, admiring the handsome horses and still marveling at the amazing fortune that had brought him here, so far from home. Until a month ago, he had been one of the dozen or so Sandringham stableboys, assigned to curry and feed His Royal Highness's horses and muck out the stalls. He had never been farther from the estate than the village school two miles away, and that for only the few obligatory years required to spell his tedious way through the
Royal Reader.
Having emerged from his education nearly unlettered, he had gone to service in the Sandringham stables, and had yet to earn sufficient holiday to make the half-day walk to the nearby market town.

But all that was changed, and now the whole world lay at Harry's feet. A few weeks ago, he had saved the Princess of Wales from a nasty fall by grasping at the reins of her rearing horse, frightened by a stable cat. The Prince and Princess, known for their loyalty toward those who served them well, had thanked Harry graciously. The next day, Princess Alexandra had sent his mother, an undercook in the Sandringham kitchens, a basket of jellies and sweets, with a handwritten note of praise for her son's courage. The day after that, the chief steward of the stables had summoned the fifteen-year-old boy, bestowed on him a smart new livery, and instructed him to make himself ready to join the Royal entourage. Harry was to travel with the Prince and attend His Highness's horses, wherever they might be stabled.

Harry's remarkable elevation in rank had been the proudest moment of his young life, and that of his mother, as well. Her son's unexpected distinction gave her something to boast of over tea in the servants' hall.

“So ‘andsome in 'is livery, my ‘Arry is,” she was heard to tell her gossips in the kitchen, “that 'e's bound to catch th' eye o' th' Queen when th' Prince goes next t' Balmoral. Then ‘e'll be raised to 'is proper station as a Royal footman, ‘e will, and 'e'll powder ‘is 'air an' wear pink poplin knee breeches an' shiny silver 'paulettes th' size o' pot lids.”

With or without epaulettes, Harry was proud to be numbered among the Prince's traveling household. At Sandringham, the stableboys were at the bottom of the servants' hierarchy, “grubbin' i' the muck an' mire,” as his mother said, far below the elevation of the senior staff—the Upper Ten, or the Uppers, as they were called. Life on the lowest rung of this social ladder often entailed cold food, scanty victuals, and meager holidays. But on tour with the Prince, Harry had discovered to his delight, his life was quite different. Here at Easton, for instance, where distinctions of rank were observed belowstairs as carefully as they were above, Harry, a mere groom, outranked not only the Countess's stableboys and grooms, but her ladyship's chief groom as well—or so it seemed to Harry. At meals and between, he was awarded all the honors befitting his status, such as slices of grouse and pheasant left from the table abovestairs, and magnificent sweets, and even a glass of the estate's best home-brewed beer, served by a solicitous kitchen maid with a seductive smile. For Harry, life had suddenly become very sweet.

The Royal stall which housed Paradox, the Prince's hunter, was marked with the Prince's insignia. Harry stopped before it, set down the wooden bucket filled with oats, and cocked his head, frowning slightly. In the dimness, Paradox was moving about, stamping a nervous forefoot, flicking an anxious tail. Something had disturbed him. It was none of the Easton grooms or stableboys, Harry knew. They were a lazy lot and had arrived at the servants' breakfast late, accepting their reprimand with sleepy-eyed equanimity. It was none of the gentlemen, either, for although one or another might rise for a dawn canter across the Essex hills, last night's entertainment—parlor games, Harry had understood from the footmen's sly comments at breakfast—had been late and boisterous. Breakfast was already laid upstairs for the earliest risers, but Harry would have wagered a tanner that none were yet out and about.

He'd have lost his money. While the young groom was still pondering the horse's nervousness, a nearby door opened with a creak. A man—a gentleman wearing Norfolk tweeds and a shooting cap, a stick under his arm—was briefly silhouetted against the light, then slipped inside and closed the door. He moved furtively, and Harry's frown became a knowing grin. Surreptitious assignations were commonplace at country house parties, according to the footmen who had reported on last night's frolic. While Harry personally felt that such a rendezvous was more appropriate to a lady's chamber, behind a discreetly closed door and between scented sheets, he could also imagine that a more daring lady, or one whose husband had a jealous turn, might prefer to carry on her amorous intrigues somewhere else—in the straw, even. Harry grew warm, recalling the brazen allure of the kitchen maid who had placed her hand on his—