first.”
“Why?” Rose wanted to ask. But she got up and followed the marquess through a door in the hall and along a corridor. “I’ve put him in the estate office,” said the marquess. He ushered Rose in and closed the door.
Rose and Kerridge took stock of each other. Kerridge saw a very beautiful girl in high-boned white lace blouse and tailored skirt. Rose saw a thickset grey-haired man, with calm grey eyes and a thick grey moustache, standing behind a desk.
“Please be seated, my lady,” said Kerridge. Another detective sat a little away from Kerridge and a policeman with a large notebook was perched on a hard chair in a corner of the room. A stuffed fox glared down from the wall behind the desk, its mouth open in a snarl.
“Now, Lady Rose,” said Kerridge, “where were you on the night Miss Gore-Desmond died?” •
“I was in my room and I heard someone shouting—I think shouting, ‘Get a doctor.’ My maid and I put on our dressing-gowns and followed the sound of the voices. Lady Hedley came out of what I now know to have been Miss Gore-Desmond’s room. She said Miss Gore-Desmond had been taken ill. I had a glimpse inside the room of Lord Hedley, the butler andhousekeeper, and, I think, Mr. Trumpington. I am afraid that is all I can tell you.”
“What kind of lady was Miss Gore-Desmond?”
“I didn’t really get to know her. She seemed—well, prickly, as if she despised us all.”
“Did she favour any gentleman in particular?”
“Not that I noticed. She sewed a lot. Petit point. She did not converse much, or if she did, I did not notice. Will that be all?”
“Just one other thing. Do you know a certain Captain Harry Cathcart?”
High colour stained Rose’s cheeks. “I believe he is an acquaintance of my father.”
“The bridge and the station at Stacey Magna were blown up.”
“Yes, but what has that to do with the death of Miss Gore-Desmond?”
“Just curious. Have you any idea who was responsible?”
“The Bolsheviks, of course. Everyone knows that.”
Rose thought she heard him mutter, “Except me,” but could not be sure.
“That will be all for now. Shall I ring for a footman?”
“I can find my own way back, thank you.”
He consulted a list. “Would you be so kind as to ask the Misses Harriet and Deborah Peterson to step along?”
“Certainly.”
“Why did you ask her about that business at Stacey Magna?” asked Inspector Judd.
“Because I have a nagging feeling that it had more to do with stopping the king visiting than any plot by Bolsheviks. But we’d better stick to this business here. What’s worrying you, Judd? You’ve a face like a fiddle.”
“You say this Lord Hedley is rich.”
“Yes, very.”
“And yet you say those suits of armour are fake? Why didn’t he have real ones?”
“No feel for history. I was reading up on this place. There used to be a beautiful house here and Lord Hedley’s father tore it down and took out all the Adam furniture and burnt it all. He built this about thirty years ago, when everyone wanted everything to look like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.”
The American sisters entered the “room and Kerridge began to question them. After they had left he worked his way through all the guests, ending up with the Marchioness of Hedley.
“Are you going to be long?” she asked.
“No, my lady,” said Kerridge soothingly. “Just a few questions.”
“No. Meant are you going to be long here Tiresome. Can’t abide policemen.”
“This may be a case of murder,” said Kerridge severely.
“Tish, tosh! Silly girl used the stuff as a cosmetic. That’s all.”
“Did she have any enemies?” pursued Kerridge doggedly.
“Well, nobody liked her. I didn’t.”
“Why, my lady?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you not like her?”
“No grace. No manners. Ferrety little thing.”
“Why did you invite her?”
“Hedley’s idea. ‘We’ll have a season’s-failures party.’ That’s
“Why?” Rose wanted to ask. But she got up and followed the marquess through a door in the hall and along a corridor. “I’ve put him in the estate office,” said the marquess. He ushered Rose in and closed the door.
Rose and Kerridge took stock of each other. Kerridge saw a very beautiful girl in high-boned white lace blouse and tailored skirt. Rose saw a thickset grey-haired man, with calm grey eyes and a thick grey moustache, standing behind a desk.
“Please be seated, my lady,” said Kerridge. Another detective sat a little away from Kerridge and a policeman with a large notebook was perched on a hard chair in a corner of the room. A stuffed fox glared down from the wall behind the desk, its mouth open in a snarl.
“Now, Lady Rose,” said Kerridge, “where were you on the night Miss Gore-Desmond died?” •
“I was in my room and I heard someone shouting—I think shouting, ‘Get a doctor.’ My maid and I put on our dressing-gowns and followed the sound of the voices. Lady Hedley came out of what I now know to have been Miss Gore-Desmond’s room. She said Miss Gore-Desmond had been taken ill. I had a glimpse inside the room of Lord Hedley, the butler andhousekeeper, and, I think, Mr. Trumpington. I am afraid that is all I can tell you.”
“What kind of lady was Miss Gore-Desmond?”
“I didn’t really get to know her. She seemed—well, prickly, as if she despised us all.”
“Did she favour any gentleman in particular?”
“Not that I noticed. She sewed a lot. Petit point. She did not converse much, or if she did, I did not notice. Will that be all?”
“Just one other thing. Do you know a certain Captain Harry Cathcart?”
High colour stained Rose’s cheeks. “I believe he is an acquaintance of my father.”
“The bridge and the station at Stacey Magna were blown up.”
“Yes, but what has that to do with the death of Miss Gore-Desmond?”
“Just curious. Have you any idea who was responsible?”
“The Bolsheviks, of course. Everyone knows that.”
Rose thought she heard him mutter, “Except me,” but could not be sure.
“That will be all for now. Shall I ring for a footman?”
“I can find my own way back, thank you.”
He consulted a list. “Would you be so kind as to ask the Misses Harriet and Deborah Peterson to step along?”
“Certainly.”
“Why did you ask her about that business at Stacey Magna?” asked Inspector Judd.
“Because I have a nagging feeling that it had more to do with stopping the king visiting than any plot by Bolsheviks. But we’d better stick to this business here. What’s worrying you, Judd? You’ve a face like a fiddle.”
“You say this Lord Hedley is rich.”
“Yes, very.”
“And yet you say those suits of armour are fake? Why didn’t he have real ones?”
“No feel for history. I was reading up on this place. There used to be a beautiful house here and Lord Hedley’s father tore it down and took out all the Adam furniture and burnt it all. He built this about thirty years ago, when everyone wanted everything to look like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.”
The American sisters entered the “room and Kerridge began to question them. After they had left he worked his way through all the guests, ending up with the Marchioness of Hedley.
“Are you going to be long?” she asked.
“No, my lady,” said Kerridge soothingly. “Just a few questions.”
“No. Meant are you going to be long here Tiresome. Can’t abide policemen.”
“This may be a case of murder,” said Kerridge severely.
“Tish, tosh! Silly girl used the stuff as a cosmetic. That’s all.”
“Did she have any enemies?” pursued Kerridge doggedly.
“Well, nobody liked her. I didn’t.”
“Why, my lady?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you not like her?”
“No grace. No manners. Ferrety little thing.”
“Why did you invite her?”
“Hedley’s idea. ‘We’ll have a season’s-failures party.’ That’s
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