Death at Daisy's Folly (19 page)

The smith seemed to find this funny. Chuckling broadly, he took another piece of metal and, placing it on the forge, waited for it to glew red. Motioning to the boy to increase the rhythm of the hissing, wheezing bellows, he said, “Ye wud, eh? Well, sir, I doubt ye'll be interviewin' ‘im anytime soon.”

Charles raised his voice. “And why is that?” he asked, over the roar of the forge.

“Because ‘e's dead, that's why. 'E's th' gentl‘man 'oo was found shot this mornin'” The smith picked up his hammer and began to pound the glowing metal. “Lay t' it, boy!” he shouted over the ringing of iron on iron. “Lay t' it, m'fine lad!”

Outside the forge and down the path, it was so quiet that Charles could hear the dry leaves rustling. So Reginald Wallace had been in the stable around the time of the boy's death. Did this fact suggest that Wallace himself was the killer, and his murder an act of revenge by one of the servants ? Or was he a witness, murdered to keep him from revealing what he knew?

He was some distance away from the forge before he suddenly remembered something he should have dealt with prior to any interviews. He took out the folded paper Kate had given him, which she had pulled from Wallace's pocket as he lay on the ground. He opened it and scanned the page quickly. When he finished reading it, he had a firm grasp of the direction in which this investigation must proceed.

But it was a revelation that brought him no joy.

Love, pain, and money cannot be kept secret. They soon betray themselves.

—
Spanish proverb

To know that one has a secret is to know half the secret itself.

-HENRY WARD BEECHER

 

 

I
t was already lunchtime, and Winnie Wospottle had not yet recovered her customary good humor, so sharp had been her disappointment of the evening before. Remembering Lawrence with pleasure from the dear old days in Brighton, she had fully expected him to accept her invitation to join her in the laundry room. With that expectation, she had arranged the cozy corner behind the hot water boiler with all the care which a lady, anticipating a clandestine visit from her lover, might lavish on her boudoir.

Winnie was a resourceful woman. When she first arrived at Easton, she had made it her business to learn what was available in the kitchens, pantries, closets, cupboards, still-rooms, butteries, game larder, and wine cellar. In Winnie's considered opinion, this plenty was free for the taking, as long as she kept a vigilant eye out for Buffle, the house steward, who was reputed to glue pieces of felt on the soles of his shoes so that he might step noiselessly in the halls. Even when she had nothing special to celebrate, she regularly availed herself of the abundance, just to keep in practice.

On this occasion, Winnie had already filched a dozen sprigs of hothouse stephanotis and some stems of fern from the fragrant vases in the pantry, standing ready to be distributed to the bedrooms upstairs. While Buffle was counting the plate, she purloined two crystal goblets from the sparkling rows arrayed on the shelves, reasoning (rightly) that with so many goblets displayed, two would not be missed. And while the undercook was scolding the scullery maid for inattention to the floor, she made off with half a baked chicken, a plate of cucumber sandwiches, and a dish of crystallized fruits. A bottle of fine French wine from the cellar completed her acquisitions.

The plunder safely transported to the ironing room, Winnie hung a sheet behind the boiler to screen off the corner, draped a board with a lace tablecloth and centered it with the flowers and a pair of candles, and fluffed up the down pillows that made a soft, warm bed behind the hot water boiler. Surveying her seraglio, she was entirely pleased. Full of warm anticipation, she went off to her attic bedroom to ready herself for an evening of revel in the servants' hall.

The festive evening, however, had come to a fruitless and bitter conclusion. The fickle Lawrence danced but once with her and was then lured away by a brazen young girl named Amelia, lady's maid to the red-haired American woman, who seemed to think she had some sort of claim on his affections. And even though Winnie went alone to the ironing room and comforted herself with wine, baked chicken, cucumber sandwiches, and candied fruits, all she earned thereby was a headache and a bellyache, causing her to miss breakfast and further adding to her surliness. By lunchtime, working like fury, she had overseen the washing and hanging of a dozen baskets of towels and linens and had personally fed two dozen sheets through the mangle, which she did not trust the maids to operate. She was hot and cross, and the discovery that she was to be in the second shift at table (there being too many servants to seat all at once) destroyed what remained of her disposition. By the time she sat down to lunch and heard about Lord Wallace's death and the Prince's command to cooperate with the investigators he had appointed, she was in a fine stew.

“Wot's wrong wi' th' constable, I wants t' know,” she demanded truculently. “Why is't we got t‘ave some 'ightoned nob askin' us questions?”

“Ye won't be answerin' t' a nob, Winn,” said Wickett, the bandy-legged coachman. He grinned mischievously. “A lady nob is 'oo ye gits t' talk to.”

“Not that, neither,” said Marjorie, an iron-faced undercook whose reputation for temper was second to none, not even to that of Winnie herself. She added, in an acid tone, “‘Tis th' red-haired American 'ooman. She's already ‘ard at it, in th' mornin' room. Arter lunch, th' upstairs maids are t' line up, six at a time, as they're called. She'll call fer us later.”

“Th' American?” Winnie asked, affronted and dumbly amazed. “Why, she's not even a lady! She 'as no rank wotsomever.”

“Ooh, aye,” said Marjorie, becoming increasingly inflamed. She jerked a stained and calloused thumb in the direction of Amelia, who was seated a little way downtable, next to Lawrence. “
‘Er
miss.”

Winnie's amazement turned to disgust. She glared at Amelia. “Be careful wot ye say, then,” she said to Marjorie, and added, with the force of inspiration, “I don't doubt she's a spy.”

Wickett leaned over to look downtable. “A spy?” he asked incredulously. “Why, she's jes' a lit‘le thing, no bigger' n a mite. Pretty, too, 'f ye ask my 'pinion.”

Marjorie's fancy had been tweaked by Winnie's assertion, and she curled her lip at Wickett. “Pretty she may be, but she's cert‘n'y a spy,” she said with conviction. “A spy fer ‘er mistress, is wot she is. I read 'bout spies in a story once. They listen t' secrets, then run upstairs an' snitch t' their mistress.” She raised herself off the wooden bench in order to get a look at Lawrence. “D‘ye s'pose 'e's another one?” she asked in a shrill stage whisper.

“Now, I wudn't doubt
that
,” Wickett growled vindictively. He had lost a bob to Lawrence that morning when the Daimler had completed the round-trip run to Chelmsford in something under two hours and thirty minutes and he was still smarting. “Lookit 'is eyes. Shifty-like, wudn't ye say?”

“Foxy eyes,” Winnie agreed. She raised her voice so it could be heard the length of the table. “Watch yer tongues. There's spies among us. Don't tell no secrets.”

A sudden hush fell over the table, as all eyes turned questioningly to Winnie. Peyton, the bootblack, who was reputed to have a level head, looked up with a frown.

“Shudn't think we'd ‘ave a spy 'ere,” he said mildly. “‘ Oo d'ye mean?”

Winnie might have spoken, but Marjorie, whose excitement had been growing by the moment, jumped to her feet.

“‘Tis them!” she cried, pointing her knife at Lawrence and Amelia. “Them two. Spies!”

Amelia looked one way, then another, confused. “Spies?” she cried, her hand going to her mouth. “Oh, no!”

“Spies?” Lawrence demanded. He stood up, leaning on his hands, palms down, his head wagging like an angry bull. “‘Oo says we're spies?”

“Us sez!” Marjorie had mounted the bench, aflame with the fine fire of righteous indignation. She shook her fist. “An' we woan't ‘ave none o' it, d'ye ‘ear? Ye ain't goin' t' shop us up! We'll 'ave no spies tellin' our secrets!”

Marjorie's rallying cry was followed by a rousing cheer from the length of the table. Several, carried away by the passion of the moment, began to stamp their feet and beat with their spoons on their plates. “No spies! No spies!”

The hallway door banged open and Buffle strode into the room. “Here now!” he cried, clapping his hands sharply. “What's all this noise? Finish your meal and get back to work, the lot of you! For shame! Who do you think you are, anyway? Ruffians and rowdies?” He passed through the room, favoring those nearest him with a dark scowl, went out the other door, and slammed it behind him.

Some may have been ashamed at having been thus caught out by the steward, but neither Winnie nor Marjorie were among them. Winnie fixed her eyes vindictively on Amelia, who by now was red as a flannel petticoat and close to tears. “Spy,” she hissed under her breath.

“Spy!” echoed Marjorie.

Amelia went from red to white, put her apron to her eyes, and began to sob softly.

“That's enough,” Lawrence gritted, and took her by the arm. “Come on,” he said, getting up and clambering over the bench. “We're leavin'!”

“Happy riddance!” Marjorie exclaimed.

Winnie sat back and took a deep breath. Her good humor had been restored.

 

In an open pantry in the deserted back hallway, Amelia, still sobbing, allowed herself to be comforted by Lawrence.

“I'm sure they didn't mean nothin' by it,” he said, patting her shoulder with awkward solicitude. “They was jes' teasin' us.”

“Winnie Wospottle wasn't teasin‘,” Amelia said, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. “She was the one 'oo started it.” Amelia felt herself genuinely embarrassed and hurt by what had transpired in the servants' hall. But she was also not above exploiting the situation for all it was worth—and in her mind, it promised to be worth a good deal. She gave another sob and put her apron to her eyes again. “‘Oo cares about 'er ol' secrets, anyway? She kin keep 'em, fer all o' me.”

Lawrence, to give him due credit, looked utterly wretched. “She's jes' jealous, is all,” he muttered. “She an' me, we uster go ‘round together, back in Brighton. We—” He straightened with a look of determination. “But that was
be
fore,” he said emphatically. “A long while before. I washt my 'ands o' ‘er then an' I wash my 'ands o' 'er now.”

Amelia looked up at him through tear-wet lashes. “It's over, then?” she asked, with a pretty hesitation. “Yer sartin?”

“It's over,” Lawrence said firmly. “Ye've got nothin' t' fear.” He put his finger under Amelia's chin and tilted it, gazing earnestly into her eyes. “I'm yers, Amelia. All yers, ‘eart 'n' soul 'n' body. I wants nobody but ye.”

“Oh, Lawrence,” Amelia sighed, her own heart near bursting. She could have borne any kind of taunt or teasing from any number of Marjories and Winnies to hear Lawrence speak thus. But she longed to hear more. She pressed her advantage. “I only wish,” she began tremblingly. “I mean, dear, 'f we feel like this, why can't we—?”

Lawrence bit his lip. “Ye know ‘ow 'tis wi' me, Amelia,” he said unhappily. “I wants t' get on i' this world, an' th' young Lord Marsden promises t' help me learn t' mekkanic motorcars. It's not right to—”

“But
I
kin ‘elp ye git on!” Amelia cried, pleading. “I kin ask Lady Marsden fer a place, don't ye see? I'm sure Miss Ardleigh'll give me a good char'cter. An' we kin be married an' I'll work an' we'll save ever' penny t‘ward yer mekkanic shop.” She twined her slender arms around Lawrence's neck. “Oh, Lawrence, let's!” she whispered passionately into his chest.

Lawrence's arms came around her and he brought his lips to hers with fervent longing. Amelia might have achieved her fondest wish on the spot if it had not been for the interruption.

In the hall outside the open pantry door, there were voices. Lawrence dropped his arms and stepped back, as Amelia wiped her mouth and straightened her cap. Peering around the door frame with some fear that they might have been overheard, she recognized Meg, the housemaid whose bed she was sharing for the weekend, and the footman, Marsh, to whom Meg was promised. The pair had apparently been quarreling with some heat, for they carried their controversy down the hallway with them.

“Scupper that,” Marsh was saying in a low, furious voice. “Ye shudn‘t've bin talkin' t' 'im at all, I tell ye, Meg! ‘E was tryin' t' weasel secrets out o' ye.”

“But ‘e wa'n't no weasel,” Meg said with tearful breathlessness, taking several small, hurrying steps to keep up with the other's strides. “An' anyway, I was careful. I di'n't say nothin' about th' letter, er you, er—”

“‘Ush!” Marsh was fierce. “Nivver mention that name, d'ye ‘ear? 'F anybody finds out ‘bout 'im, our goose is cooked! Now, git on t' yer lunch, an' eat like nothin's th' matter.”

“Will I see ye tonight?” Meg whispered, imploring.

“Are ye packed t' go wi' me?”

Her voice grew desperate.
“I can't go wi'
ye, Marsh! Dad's sick. ‘E needs me. 'Ow kin I leave 'im?”

“‘Ow indeed?” asked Marsh, and stalked off.

For a moment, Amelia heard nothing but Meg's weeping. She moved to go to her, but Lawrence took her arm.