Death at Daisy's Folly (14 page)

“I suppose it is the wealth that sets them apart,” Kate replied thoughtfully. “People who have a great deal of money are inclined to behave as they wish, without regard for the feelings of others. But there is a paradox here, for the women I have met this weekend seem inordinately concerned about scandal. The rule seems to be that what they do or feel in private is their own affair, but they must do nothing that courts public censure.”

Friedrich seemed pleased by her observation. “Exactly so, Kathryn. Wealth insulates, to a great degree, and certainly leads to carelessness. But any kind of public scandal is a great deal feared.” They had come to the path that led to the Folly, and he paused. “Shall we walk this way?”

Kate nodded, so absorbed in the conversation that she would have walked in any direction. “From that point of view,” she went on thoughtfully, “I am sure there are those who feel that it would be better if the Prince were to choose less frivolous companions. I don't mean to be critical of His Highness's friends, of course,” she added, thinking that it was her turn to sound judgmental.

Friedrich's voice was hard-edged. “It might be well,” he said, “if we were all so critical. If Lady Warwick, for instance, would exercise a more careful judgment, especially in the matter of those with whom she—” He shrugged. “Ah, well. One does not castigate a lady in matters of judgment. I am merely delighted to find yours so well formed.”

Kate raised her eyebrows at the compliment, which seemed to her undeserved, and perhaps a bit odd. Friedrich Temple struck her as a cautious man, but their conversation seemed to have touched upon deep convictions, prompting him to speak freely. She rather liked that, she decided. English men, including Charles, usually responded with calculation and restraint, making them seem stiff and wary. She sighed to herself, thinking that this was more evidence of the fundamental incompatibility between Charles and herself. She was impulsive of speech and manner, and her quickness sometimes got her into difficulties. If she and Charles were constantly together, it would not be long before he became annoyed with her impetuosity.

They walked for quite some moments without speaking. Then, as they mounted the steps to the veranda of the Folly, she smiled up at him.

“And you, Friedrich?” she asked, wondering idly if she could provoke him to unbend even more. “If the Marlborough set is not to your liking, I wonder that you should devote an entire weekend to its company.”

He gave a little shrug. “It's not a question of my liking or not liking, Kathryn. I have been acquainted with the Warwicks for many years, and I enjoy my visits to their estates.” His pale eyes lingered on her face. “I feel I have found in you a kindred spirit. Perhaps that has made me speak more openly than I might have done.” He looked around. “Ah, we have come to Daisy's Folly. Did you know that this was once a monastic house?”

“Indeed,” Kate said. They were standing on the veranda where they had lunched the day before. It was empty now, except for the statuary and pots of shrubbery with which it was decorated. Directly ahead of them were the glass doors that opened into the house.

“Yes, quite a famous monastery, in fact. Built in the time of the Angevin kings, but reduced to ruin by Henry the Eighth. Daisy had it rebuilt, with certain . . . pleasures in mind.” He smiled slightly, tipping his head to one side, his eyes still on her face. “It is quite a celebrated trysting spot.”

“I . . . didn't realize,” Kate said, seeing too late the trap she had stepped into. The man's aloofness had deceived her.

His chuckle was wry and ironic, even slightly sarcastic. “Did you not?” He moved a step closer. “If you have not seen the rooms already, you must view them. Daisy has furnished them with some rare old pieces of furniture and a great deal of fine art, all quite valuable. In fact, she has spent a fortune on her Folly.” He took her hand, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smile. “You must come and see, Kathryn.”

With a small smile, Kate retrieved her hand and made a show of consulting the watch pinned to her jacket lapel. It was almost nine. “I think it is time we returned to the Lodge. I have some letters to write before the post goes.”

Friedrich took a step back and bowed at the waist. If he was disappointed, Kate thought with relief, he was too much of a gentleman to show it. “In that case,” he said, “it is quicker to return by this path.” He pointed to a walk that angled across the Friendship Garden.

“Thank you,” Kate said, and then could not think of anything else to say, until they rounded a corner and she suddenly put her hand to her mouth and cried, “Oh!”

Friedrich put a protective arm around her shoulders, saying, in a stunned whisper, “Dear God!”

They had come upon Reginald Wallace. He was lying on his back, a look of shocked surprise on his face, his wide-open eyes staring upward. There was a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

There is always more misery among the lower classes than there is humanity in the higher.

—VICTOR HUGO
Les Miserables

 

 

R
oyal pennant fluttering, the Prince's entourage made steady progress along the narrow track toward the market town of Chelmsford. The day was warm for November, the sky a brilliant blue, and Charles sat back, willing himself to enjoy the ride. The beeches had lost almost all their golden leaves and their limbs were stark against the sky, but the oaks still kept their bronze-brown foliage and the hedges and banks were bright with the warm gold of nut leaves and bracken, the red of creeper and bramble. Noisy flocks of starlings, sparrows, and finches scoured the stubble fields, and along the hedges, redwings and fieldfares foraged for seeds of cow parsnip and dock.

While the Daimler generally outpaced the other two vehicles, it was seldom out of view for long. The motorcar would disappear for a time, then they would overtake it sitting along the verge while its pilot attended to some necessary lubrication or demonstrated some point about the operation of the automobile or indicated some scenic view to his two passengers. The Prince, who had seemed at best resigned to the excursion, now appeared to take it as a holiday, waving to workers in the field and saluting those they passed, who appeared surprised and not a little frightened by the motorcar and the noise and clouds of dust that attended it. Charles thought that their parade must make an odd impression on its witnesses, and he wondered if they realized it was led by their future king. He also wondered if Bradford was making any headway in persuading the monarch-to-be to take a more liberal view of motoring.

As the entourage approached the outskirts of Chelmsford, it began to take on a carnival air. The vehicles were joined by a ragtag gang of boys rolling iron hoops and racing alongside with gleeful shouts, then by a baker's boy in knickers riding an old-fashioned high-wheeled bicycle with packets of fresh-baked bread lashed to his back. Charles heard more shouting and turned to see a brewer's dray falling into line behind the wagon, trailed by three or four barking dogs and an aproned girl with a flock of raucous white geese. It looked like a gypsy troupe had come to town.

Daisy turned to peer over her shoulder. “What we need,” she remarked wryly, “is a brass band marching in front.”

“No,” Charles replied, “what we need marching in front is a man with a red flag.”

He was right. As they approached a dusty intersection, a uniformed constable suddenly pedaled up on a safety bicycle, skidded to a stop, and raised his white-gloved hand.

“Halt!” he cried. “In the name of the C-C-Crown!”

“Oh, dear,” Daisy said.

The constable pulled a black book from his pocket, opened it, and began to read, as loudly and as rapidly as he could, given that he was afflicted by a violent stutter.

“It is my d-d-duty to advise you that you have violated the first t-t-two sections of the Locomotive Act of 1865, t-t-to wit, Section One: P-p-persons exceeding the sp-sp-speed limit of t-t-two miles p-p-per hour are in violation of this act.” He paused in his recitation, wiped his mouth with the back of his white-gloved hand, and went on. “Section T-t-two, P-p-persons failing to p-p-post a man b-b-bearing a red flag t-t-two hundred yards in front of a moving vehicle are in violation of this act.” He lowered the book. “Inasmuch as you are in violation of t-t-two sections of the aforesaid act, it is my d-d-duty to arrest you in the name of Her Majesty the Q-Q-Q—” He stopped and tried again. “In the name of Her Majesty the Q-Q-Q—”

Bradford sounded his electric bell. Startled, the constable looked up. His gaze alighted upon the Royal pennant. His mouth fell open and he gaped at the unmistakable outline of the stout passenger in the passenger seat.

“Your. . . Highness?” he asked faintly.

The Prince pulled off his goggles. “Good show, old chap!” he chortled. He leaned over and punched Kirk-Smythe's arm. “I've never been arrested before!”

Somebody shouted, “Three cheers fer ‘Is Rile 'Ighness!” and the assembled crowd, which now included a ruddy-cheeked fishmonger with a wooden tray suspended from his neck and a group of pinafore-clad schoolchildren with their slates, began to huzza. Hats flew in the air, boys whistled, girls clapped, dogs barked, geese honked. The fishmonger and the brewer's drayman broke into a chorus of “Fer 'e's a jolly good fellow.” Charles couldn't help feeling enormously relieved. One never knew these days whether the people would respond to Royalty with respect or resentment. If an Anarchist had been in the crowd, the welcome could have turned nasty.

Daisy was chewing on her lip. “I do hope Bertie does not resent the familiarity,” she said nervously.

“He seems to be enjoying himself,” Charles observed.

He did indeed. The Prince had disembarked from the Daimler and was standing beside it, ready to receive the constable. That nervous gentleman pulled off his hat and approached the Royal presence with obvious trepidation.

“Good morning, Constable,” the Prince said genially.

“G-G-Good mornin', Your Highness, sir,” the constable managed. Thrusting his hat under his arm, he came to rigid attention, his face as red as a brick, and saluted.

“At ease,” the Prince said. “Now, what was it you wanted, Constable?”

The constable could barely manage the words. “It seems, Yer Highness ...” He was suddenly seized by a fit of coughing. “B-B-By yer leave, Yer Roy'l Highness—” He cleared his throat mightily and tried again. “I fear I must p-p-point out, sir . . .” He faltered once more.

“You must point out that His Highness's motorcar is breaking the law.” The Prince tactfully finished the constable's sentence, since the constable seemed unable to do so.

The constable had gone quite pale. “Yes, sir,” he whispered wretchedly.

“And we can't have that, now, can we?” the Prince said, with great good humor. “It wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all, would it?”

“No, sir,” the constable said, biting his lip.

“Well, then,” the Prince said affably, “what we need is a red flag.” He turned and spotted the fishmonger, who was wearing a dirty red bandanna tied around his neck. “My good man, what will you take for your neckerchief?”

“A shillin', sir,” the fishmonger replied, whipping it off and handing it up through the crowd to the Prince.

“Done,” said the Prince, and tossed the fishmonger a coin, as the crowd cheered and others clamored to trade their neckwear for a Royal coin. Holding the filthy neckerchief delicately by one corner, he turned to the constable. “We shall also require a man to lead us. Would you be so kind, Constable?”

Thus presented with an ingenious resolution of the difficulty, the constable gave an audible sigh of relief. “Oh, yes, sir,” he cried. He looped the handkerchief around the handlebar of his bicycle. “And where are we g-g-goin‘, sir, 'f I may ask?”

“To the workhouse!” the Prince exclaimed, and climbed back into the Daimler.

“To the . . . w-w-workhouse?” the amazed constable stammered, as the assembly applauded and whistled.

“Let us be off!” the Prince cried and flung up his arm. In a moment, the parade was moving again, led by the dazed constable on his bicycle, flying the fishmonger's dirty neckerchief as if it were His Highness's very own pennant.

 

Afterward, Charles had occasion to ponder on the ironic contrast between the lighthearted prologue of their comedic journey and the tragic despair of the bleak place at which they arrived. The workhouse was surrounded by a neighborhood that belonged in one of the circles of Dante's Inferno, and Charles would not have been surprised to see over one of the doors a sign that read, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” A filthier or more wretched collection of buildings and alleys he had never seen.

The sun had disappeared behind a bank of dark gray clouds, and the air was heavy with fetid odors. The cobbled street—so narrow that he could almost reach out and touch the dingy buildings on either side—was lined with ragged children who gaped at the Royal parade as if it conveyed beings from a distant country. And perhaps it did, Charles reflected, contrasting the splendor of the estate they had left to the dirty doorways and foul gutters. He wondered what the Prince made of the scene. Was he moved by the misery of his poorest subjects, or was he so thoroughly cocooned in Royal cotton wool that he could neither see nor hear nor smell it?

Ahead of them, the Daimler slowed, and Kirk-Smythe jumped out and began to walk alongside, watching the by-standers warily. Charles wondered if he were carrying a pistol.

“Perhaps this expedition wasn't such a good idea,” Daisy said, glancing nervously at a pair of ill-looking fellows lounging against a rubble heap. “Bertie is often offended by unpleasant sights and smells. Perhaps you had better tell Bradford to remain with the motorcar and prepare to leave at a moment's notice.”