Death at Daisy's Folly (30 page)

The Prince's heavy face took on a bullish expression. “You can leave off worrying about a jury. Why, even if she were exonerated, the scandal would be titanic. It would swamp the monarchy and destroy the Warwicks. I cannot allow that to happen!” He narrowed his eyes. “Whom do you suspect?” When Charles hesitated, he added angrily, “Come, man, out with it! You must have suspects! You've been at this at least eight hours. What have you been doing? Twiddling your thumbs?”

Charles sighed. The Prince was accustomed to getting what he wanted with a snap of his fingers. He could hardly be blamed for his impatience, or for his failure to understand the tedious, time-consuming work of investigation. “I have seriously considered Lady Metcalf, Sir Thomas Cobb, and Lord Warwick. The first two appear to have a motive for killing Wallace, but for various reasons I have discounted them as improbable. I plan to interview several others, also, although they have solid alibis for the entire night, and I doubt that anything will be learned from questioning them.”

“And you think that Lord Warwick would scheme to send his wife to the dock?” the Prince asked sarcastically. “Don't be absurd, Sheridan! Brooke, as much as I, would want the entire matter hushed up.”

“If you will excuse me, sir,” Charles said evenly, “I believe that Lord Warwick could be confident that the matter
would
be hushed up. He, better than anyone, would know that Your Highness would never permit Lady Warwick to be charged with murder. He might also entertain the hope that, should you be called upon to champion his wife to that perilous extent, you might feel compelled to end your relationship with her.”

The Prince stared at him, comprehension dawning on his face. “By Jove, Sheridan,” he whispered after a moment, “I believe you've got it right! Warwick is a fine fellow, one of the best, but he's not altogether tolerant. I hate to say so about a gentleman of his exemplary breeding, but he can be damned difficult when he sets his mind to it. If you don't believe me, ask Daisy. Poor girl, she's borne the brunt of his displeasure.”

Charles did not speak the thought that came immediately to his mind: that some would consider Lord Warwick justified in being “difficult” about the Prince's cavalier appropriation of his wife.

“I am not arguing that Lord Warwick is guilty,” he said, “I am only raising the possibility. In any event, it is not my most pressing concern at the moment. It is the missing pistol that I am most worried about.”

“The pistol? The one I gave Daisy?”

“Yes. It is quite likely to be the murder weapon. As I said a moment ago, I can think of at least one objection to the theory that the murder was part of a plot to implicate her ladyship, and that is the fact that the gun was not discovered at the crime scene.”

“I see,” said the Prince thoughtfully. “If the killer had wanted it to appear that Daisy had shot Wallace, he would have used her gun and left it beside the body, as if she had carelessly dropped it. The nail in her coffin, as it were.”

“As it were,” Charles agreed dryly. “The absence of the gun suggests two possibilities. First, that someone else—not the murderer—picked up the gun before Miss Ardleigh and Sir Friedrich discovered Wallace's body. Second, that it was retained with the intention of—”

“Of using it again!” the Prince exclaimed. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace back and forth.

“Yes,” Charles said soberly.

“You think someone might try to kill me?”

“I am considering the possibility of a conspiracy, and in that theory, there are two possible targets: Your Highness and Lady Warwick.”

“Daisy?” The Prince was startled. “But why?”

“May I speak frankly, sir?” Charles asked. He did not fear the Prince's wrath, but he had to have his confidence.

“Assuredly,” the Prince said.

“Lady Warwick holds what most believe to be aberrant political views, Your Highness, and there are many among the aristocracy who have a deathly fear of Socialism. It is widely suspected that, as your intimate, this untrustworthy woman is the recipient of political secrets.”

The Prince had been frequently charged, in the press and elsewhere, with irresponsible pillow talk, to the extent that the Queen had refused him access to the Red Boxes in which she received State documents and had forbidden all of her ministers to discuss sensitive political matters with him. “What's more,” Charles added, “you did visit a workhouse this morning, at her insistence. Some might see that as a clear indication that she has already seduced you to her side of the ideological fence, so to speak.”

The Prince stopped in mid-stride. “Assassination of the Heir Apparent for showing an interest in his less privileged subjects? This is not the first time I have viewed such terrible situations, you know. A decade or so ago, I went dressed as a workingman about the East End with Charles Carrington, having a look at slum conditions.”

“As you say, sir,” Charles replied, “you went incognito, with the knowledge only of those who supported your efforts. This morning's trip is an entirely different matter, given Lady Warwick's political leanings.”

He shook his head. “Your idea still seems extreme. Entirely irrational.”

“Extreme, yes, impossible, no. And conspiracies usually spring from an irrational conception. I think we must make provision for every contingency, however improbable it might appear. Would you not agree, sir?”

“Oh, I suppose. What do you propose?”

“To arrange for your security,” Charles replied. “You are admirably proficient with the shotgun, a weapon which is highly effective for self-defense at close range. And if memory serves, the Countess shoots reasonably straight.”

The Prince stopped pacing and straightened his shoulders. “Defend myself? By Jove, I most certainly could!” He frowned at Charles. “I don't suppose you're suggesting that Daisy and I spend the night guarding each other, after all you've said about our connection.”

Charles shook his head. “What I propose is that each of you withdraw a shotgun from the gun room, retire to your individual quarters with a trusted individual, and lock the door and windows. As your guard, I suggest your personal valet. Only one of you need remain awake. If anyone attempts to force an entry, you will have sufficient time to respond.”

“And who do you propose to assign to her ladyship?” The Prince pushed out his Hanoverian lip. “If you're going to suggest Sir Friedrich, I shall have to object. After what I heard about his brash approach to Lillian last night, I hardly think he would be a good choice. And it won't be Lord Warwick, either. In my mind, he is still the prime suspect.” He pulled his brows together. “In fact, I daresay he is far more likely to have killed Wallace than some irrational Anarchist.”

“I shouldn't think, sir,” Charles said wearily, “that this is an Anarchist plot. In fact, I was about to suggest that Miss Ardleigh stay with Lady Warwick. She has uncommon courage and can be trusted implicitly, both of which are paramount conditions. She must act not only as Daisy's guard, but her wardress.”

“Of course,” the Prince said, satisfied. “Miss Ardleigh will provide Daisy with an unimpeachable alibi. But what about Kirk-Smythe? Why can't I have him? Guarding my body is his business.”

“With your permission, sir, Kirk-Smythe will work with me. We will serve as a roving patrol, a mobile police force, as it were, able to respond instantly should anything untoward occur.”

“Kirk-Smythe is a good man,” the Prince agreed, “thoroughly experienced in military maneuvers. But what of yourself, Charles? I shouldn't think this sort of thing is quite up your line. Will you be all right?”

Charles smiled. “I think so. I've been in worse situations.”

“Oh, right. So I have heard.” The Prince turned to look toward the doors that opened onto the veranda, where the guests were gathering to observe the fireworks display. “But that was quite some time ago. I had almost forgotten.”

“So had I, sir,” Charles said. “So had I.”

I like high life, I like its manners, its splendours, the beings which move in its enchanted spheres.

—CHARLOTTE BRONTË

Destiny always has a sad side to it. For instance, I who was always longing to be free, have chained my life. I shall never he alone, never. I shall be surrounded by the etiquette of court, whose principal victim I shall he.

—EMPRESS EUGÉNIA, wife
of
Louis Napoleon
of France

 

 

T
he fireworks were a splendid display, arching into the heavens in extravagant traceries of brightly colored light. For Kate, the sight awakened a deep nostalgia. She had grown up with Independence Day fireworks celebrations, and she had not seen such a presentation since she left New York almost two years before. So much had happened since then—her inheritance of Bishop's Keep, the publication of more and more of Beryl Bardwell's work, and soon her marriage to a man she deeply loved and respected. She couldn't help feeling like the char girl in the fairy tale who woke up one day to discover herself transformed into a beautiful princess, able to do and have anything she chose. As she held Charles's hand and murmured with the others at the golden showers of sparks, she felt giddy with wondering delight. But when Charles told her what he had learned during his teatime conversations and confided the plan for the evening to her, she sobered quickly enough.

“There may be some danger,” Charles said in a low voice, under the sound of the explosions that rattled the windows and shook the furniture. “But Daisy needs to be watched, and you're the only person I can trust. Kirk-Smythe and I will be nearby, in case you need us. Will you do it?”

“Of course,” Kate said, and was rewarded by a swift kiss and a lingering touch. “But
what
do I do?”

“Just use your head,” Charles said. He squeezed her hand and was gone.

When the fireworks were over, Lady Warwick proposed dancing, but the Prince replied with a massive yawn that it had been an exceedingly long day and he for one was too tired even to play bridge. His Highness having put an end to the evening, the others had perforce to agree. Although it was only a little after eleven, the company gathered their candles at the foot of the main staircase and trooped dutifully off to bed, or to whatever other pleasures they had arranged for themselves.

Kate waited a few minutes to be sure that the hallway was clear, then took her candle and went to Daisy's room, where she found her and her lady's maid in the midst of preparing for bed. A shotgun was leaning incongruously against a chest of drawers, on top of which was displayed a lavish bouquet of hothouse gladiolas and fern.

“I've never held one of those,” Kate said, glancing at the gun, “but I suppose you know how to use it.”

“Oh, quite,” Daisy said, as the maid finished brushing her hair. She dismissed her with a gesture and turned back to Kate. “There's a tea tray on that table, Kate. Do help yourself.”

“Thank you,” Kate said, poured a cup of tea, and put several small cakes on a plate. She saw that the bed had been turned down, revealing lavish lace-edged silken sheets. On a bedside table was a bowl of heavily scented roses. The yellow damask draperies were pulled shut and a bright fire burned in the grate. The only sounds were the hissing of the gas lamps on the wall, which shed a golden glow over the room, and the ticking of an elaborate gold clock on the writing table, with the curious inscription, “I have had my hour.”

Wearing a gold satin dressing gown, Daisy pulled a yellow velvet chair closer to the fire and sat down. “I'm dreadfully sorry that you must sacrifice a night's sleep just to keep a watch over me. But I must confess to wanting to talk with you in private. Charles has told me that—” She stopped, as if she weren't sure how much she should say.

If Charles hadn't already told her, he soon would, Kate thought. She sat down in the opposite chair and put her cup and plate on the small carved table beside it.

“Charles has asked me to marry him,” she said, “and I have said yes. Neither of us want an elaborate wedding, and his family is rather distracted just now with the illness of his brother. We hope to be married quickly, without fuss, in the local parish church.”

“Oh, my dear!” Daisy exclaimed, and clapped her hands. “I am delighted for both of you! Charles has always seemed to me to be a rare man, and you—” She put her head on one side, her gaze thoughtful. “Jenny Churchill is the only American woman I have known intimately. You are rather like her, you know.”

“But Lady Churchill comes from a wealthy family,” Kate protested. “I am an orphan, and Irish, and the aunt and uncle who raised me—he is a policeman in New York City—were very poor. I grew up in a family of six children, and had to make my own way in the world. I worked as a governess and ...” She stopped herself before she mentioned Beryl Bardwell. “And have done other things,” she finished lamely. “I don't see how Lady Churchill and I can be compared .”

“That may be,” Daisy said, “but you and Jenny are both beautiful. Even more, you are both extraordinarily spirited and independent. I have always admired women who assert their freedom to do as they choose, no matter who says otherwise.” Regret flickered in her eyes. “That is a sort of freedom I have never enjoyed.”

Kate, who had been about to protest the idea that she was beautiful (her face was better described, she thought, as “strong-featured”), now found herself protesting the idea that Daisy was confined by anything.

“But how can you say that you're not free?” she asked in amazement. “You, of all women—”