Death at Daisy's Folly (10 page)

 

Milford Knightly sat back, enjoying the consternation that he read in Felicity Metcalf's face. The woman was a fool, and not even a particularly attractive one, at that. Fancied Wallace in love with her, did she? That was a laugh. Wallace may have tumbled her a time or two when he had nothing better at hand, but he was still mad for Daisy. He'd do anything to have her, although he disapproved of almost everything she did. The folly of some men was quite remarkable.

Knightly looked up to the end of the table, where the Countess, her bare shoulders emerging angelically out of a cloud of creamy tulle, was carrying on a laughing conversation with Bertie. Daisy Warwick's ability to command foolish hearts was remarkable, too. That was precisely what made her such a problem—that, and her ability to hide her real purposes. Who could guess that behind that lovely face was a damned dangerous woman?

Still, he thought he might somehow be able to use her to get Reggie to forgive that annoying debt of his. To be sure, after this morning, things had become more complicated. But since Wallace himself was involved, his advantage was limited. Knightly was sure he could turn the situation to his benefit. After all, that was his special talent, his unique gift—capitalizing on others' mistakes in judgment, on the track and off. Still, one had to be careful. People could only be pushed so far.

His gaze moved across the table and he caught the chilly eye of the dignified, austere Sir Friedrich Temple, sitting opposite, and smiled. He knew exactly how far to push Freddy.

 

Sir Friedrich—a tall man with sandy hair and beard and a stern eye that passed judgment on all he witnessed—looked coldly away from Milford Knightly's self-congratulatory smile. Sir Friedrich found the man vulgar, inferior, and unworthy, and he regretted the necessity of any sort of association with him. Why Bertie so foolishly cultivated his friendship was beyond Sir Friedrich's understanding. Surely there were plenty of discreet men of good family who shared Bertie's passion for the turf, pugilism, fast women, and immoral revels. But even as a young man, HRH's most attractive personal characteristic had been his capacity for comradeship. His friends were legion. And, because he was almost completely indiscriminate, they were of all sorts, even (Sir Friedrich glanced at Samuel Isaacson) Jews. Bertie called them his “wicked boys.” The press referred to the “Marlborough banditti.” The Queen called them “The Prince's downfall.”

There was a great deal more that Sir Friedrich had never been able to understand or accept where Albert Edward was concerned. A man in his position, who might any day find himself on the throne of England, ought to be circumspect in all matters—or, if he could not restrain his baser instincts, at least be discreet. Moreover, he ought to be involved in issues of state, so he could take up the reins of government when the time came. And here even Sir Friedrich, a devoted friend and fervent supporter of Queen Victoria who had helped the Royal family out of several tight places already, had to admit that Bertie's mother was seriously at fault.

Over three decades ago, when the Prince was still in his twenties, the Queen had decided that her son's unprincely escapades—some of them less than savory, to be sure—rendered him unfit to represent the Crown. She had excluded him from every significant duty, with a sadly predictable consequence: the future King, at bottom a well-meaning if intellectually limited man, had grown into a middle-aged
bon vivant
who filled his days and nights with senseless, perilous frivolities. The Queen felt, and Sir Friedrich and others of her inner circle agreed, that Bertie's gambling, drinking, and womanizing endangered the dignity and stature of the Crown. In fact, Lord Salisbury argued that, in these days of rumored uprisings among the lower classes, fanned by the Socialists and Anarchists, Bertie's notoriously uncontrollable behavior threatened the very existence of the monarchy. Unfortunately, Crown Prince Eddy, Bertie and Alix's oldest son and heir, appeared to have been cut of the same cloth as his father, or very nearly. For over a decade, he had fallen into first one disgrace and then another. It was over now, thank God, ended with Eddy's funeral three years ago.

But the unfortunate Eddy's vices and inadequacies had been trivial in comparison to the business upon which Sir Friedrich was currently engaged. The Queen was deeply distressed over the recent Tranby Croft gambling scandal, which linked the Prince and Daisy Warwick and provoked
The Times
to pontificate upon the Heir Apparent's “distressing” fondness for wild house parties where money was won and lost on baccarat and men jumped from one woman's bed to another. Sir Friedrich had promised the distraught Queen to do what he could to persuade HRH to drop those of his friends whose influence was most dangerous. To that end, he had managed to obtain—

But no matter. One would see how it all came out. A footman stepped forward to refill his glass with champagne, and he looked up to find the American woman watching him curiously. The Americans—quite charming, they were, and much more free and natural than British women. Randy Churchill's widow, Jenny, for instance, a beautiful lady, amazingly accomplished. Randy had married better than he deserved.

Sir Friedrich smiled at Miss Ardleigh—undeniably attractive,. at least as pretty as Jenny, and fifteen or so years younger—and lifted his glass in cordial salute. During the evening's entertainment, he would make her acquaintance. A friendly American woman might be just the breath of fresh air he needed to clear out his stale head. There was certainly nothing wrong with taking a bit of pleasure with one's work, and she might prove very useful.

Did ye not hear it?—No; ‘twas but the wind
Or the carriage rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.

—LORD BYRON
Destruction of Sennacherib

 

 

T
he kitchen and scullery maids had just gotten started with the washing up, and the butler and several footmen were serving after-dinner wines and cordials in the drawing room while the evening's entertainment was under way. Lawrence had laid out Mr. Marsden's clothes and tended to his before-dinner needs (he had, after all, been a valet for some years before he added mechanicing to his bag of tricks), then made his way to the servants' hall, where he joined the general revelry. Some were playing cards on upturned boxes, others were telling tales in the chimney corner, and several had pushed the table against the wall to make room for dancing. In accompaniment, one of the gardeners was fingering a reel on a wheezy concertina, while a coachman sawed away on a fiddle and a porter kept time with a spoon on a battered kettle.

“I still say ‘twas a kick in th' 'ead,” maintained Benton, the shaggy Easton groom who had that morning discovered the body of the ill-fated lad in the Royal stall.

“Belike they'll niver find out ‘ow 't 'appened,” Winnie Wospottle said from her stool in front of the fire, a disheveled rose, her face reflecting the firelight and a gaudy red shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Too bad,” said a pretty brown-haired maid named Meg. “Th' boy were a likely lad, an' 'andsome.” She shook her head and her red ribbon fluttered. “Marsh says they doan't want t' find out ‘ow 't 'appened. ‘E says they doan't care 'bout a dead servant any more'n they cared ‘bout a livin' one wi' 'is leg shot off.” The disgruntled Marsh, Lawrence had been given to understand, was upstairs tending to his duties as a footman.

“They'll find out,” Lawrence said with assurance. He was smoking a cigarette, one elbow propped against the mantel. “Sir Charles is a great detective, ‘e is.”

Benton shrugged. “Well, yer detective's been detectin' all day an' ‘e doan't seem t've learned noffin' yit. So I doan't reckon as how 'e's so great.”

Meg got up and went to the other side of the room. Foster, a good-looking youngster who worked as a maintenance man on the estate, stretched out his hands to the fire. “If th' copper wants t' learn somfin‘, 'e ought t' talk t' Deaf John.”

“‘E's no copper,” Lawrence said defensively.

“Then why's 'e doin' a copper's work?”

“‘Cause 'e likes it.” Lawrence leaned forward. “‘Oo's Deaf John?”

“Th' farrier,” Foster said. “Meg's father.”

“Why should Sir Charles talk to th' farrier?”

“ ‘Cause 'e saw somebody comin' out o' th' barn. ‘E thinks it cud'uv bin th' one'oo killed th' Prince's groom.”

“Somebody?” Lawrence asked. “A servant?”

Foster shook his head. “No servant. Somebody wrapped in a cloak.”

“A woman, then?” Lawrence asked, sensing that he had learned something of potential importance. “I'll tell Sir Charles.”

“‘Ullo, Lawrence.”

Lawrence looked up to see Amelia standing close beside him. She was wearing the blue frock he fancied, and her hair was tied back with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes. She looked young and demure and lovely, and the sight and scent of her, delicate as lilacs in spring, caught at his throat.

“‘Ullo, Amelia,” he said, feeling his heart thump in his chest like a wounded bird.

Amelia's smile was shyly bold, and she held out her hand. “‘Ud ye like t' dance wi' me, Lawrence?”

Lawrence was about to say that it was his dearest wish, but Winnie stood up from her stool and crowded against him.

“Acquaintance o' yers, Quibbley?” She smiled generously at Amelia, flashing a bright gold tooth. “Any friend o' Quibbley's is a friend o' mine.”

Lawrence shifted his weight in the opposite direction. “Amelia,” he said, “this is Winn, ‘oo manages th' laundry. Winn, this is Amelia. Her an' me, we—” His tongue seemed to trip. The room had become fiercely hot.

Amelia held out her hand. “ ‘Ow 'bout that dance?” she asked sweetly.

As he lifted his arm, Winnie took it and clung. “Jes' what I was goin' t' suggest,” she said. She beamed up at Lawrence. “‘Member those nights on th' West Pier, Quibbley? We used t' dance 'til daybreak, we did. An' afterwards—”

Lawrence cleared his throat, beginning to feel desperate. “Amelia,” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Oh, that's alright, Lawrence,” she said, lifting her chin. “I kin see yer otherwise ‘ngaged.” She turned to Foster, who hadn't taken his eyes off her since she came in. “Ye look th' sort 'oo likes t' dance, luv,” she said gaily. “Shall we?”

And Lawrence, feeling the Saharan winds of jealousy blowing through his soul, was forced to yield to the iron grip of Winnie Wospottle, while Amelia and Foster whirled around the floor on flying feet.

 

Upstairs, dinner was over in an hour, as it always was when the Prince was a table guest. The women having adjourned to the drawing room, the men pushed back their chairs and settled down to their customary port and cigars. They had broken into two groups, those at Lord Warwick's end of the table and those around the Prince. After his glass had been filled and then filled again, the Prince caught Charles's eye and beckoned. Guessing what was wanted, Charles stepped behind the Prince's chair and quietly reported the outcome of his investigation.

His Highness grunted, obviously displeased. “What am I to tell Alix, then?” He puffed his cigar. “Come now, Charles. You're bound to have found a clue or two.”

Charles sighed. The Prince had a reputation for refusing to let go an idea he fancied. “Unfortunately, the boy's body was relocated prior to my arrival, sir. The stall from which it was taken had been so thoroughly disturbed that I could learn nothing there. As I said, the lad's injury might have been caused by a horse—but it could also have been inflicted by a fall from the loft above, or by a blow from a blunt instrument. I doubt that even a surgeon's examination would tell us more.”

The Prince puffed on his cigar. “Have you questioned all the servants?”

“I've spoken to the grooms and stableboys. No one admits to seeing anything.”

“Well, then, question them again, damnit. Someone is hiding something, I'm convinced of it. If you don't learn anything from the stable staff, question the others.”

“All eighty of them?” Charles asked, carefully showing no expression. “As well as the servants of the guests?”

“How else are you going to find out what happened?” The Prince thrust his cigar back into his mouth and spoke around it. “Daisy has given me to understand that you're going along on tomorrow morning's little expedition.”

“She has asked me to photograph the occasion, yes,” Charles said. “Of course,” he added disingenuously, “if Your Highness would prefer me to stay at Easton and question the servants—”

“Question the servants in the afternoon,” the Prince said with a wave of his hand. “By all means, come with us. The more the merrier.” He sighed ruefully. “I must say, I don't know why Daisy wants to inflict on me the ugly sight of a mass of wretched souls in a workhouse. But she has a generous heart, easily moved. One credits her with benevolent intentions.” He glanced down the table at Bradford, who was talking to Kirk-Smythe, the young Guards lieutenant. “And I am to ride in your Daimler, Marsden?”

Bradford looked up. “Oh, yes, sir,” he said eagerly.

“You know how to pilot the blasted thing, I trust. It is in good working condition?”

“Oh, right, sir. Tip-top.” Bradford cleared his throat. “Of course you know, sir, the Daimler is imported. I fear we have let France and Germany have the lead where motorcar manufacture is concerned. Unless we begin producing English automobiles in England—”