The Devious Duchess by Joan Smith Page B

Uncle Dudley had in the cellar and perhaps ask Mrs. Bates to roast some mutton.”
    “That will be fine, Deirdre.”
    This easy agreement was the saddest sign of all. The fight had gone out of her aunt. “Eat your porridge,” Deirdre said, and only realized after she said it that these were the exact words that were usually said to her every morning. The duchess lifted her cup and sipped her coffee instead.
    “If you’re going to the Grange, you must find out from Nevil when the inquest is to be held,” the duchess mentioned.
    The inquest! Another horrible ordeal to be got through. “Will we have to attend?” Deirdre asked fearfully.
    “I don’t believe so. Straus has got all the evidence he needs, with Belami’s help. Belami will be the star of the show, I daresay.”
    “Nevil will know all about it,” Deirdre replied. She was so eager to discuss this and other matters with Nevil that she put on her pelisse and went across the meadow as soon as she finished her breakfast.
    She remained there arranging the funeral details till noon, at which time the body arrived. It was placed in state in the saloon and ringed around with candles. Deirdre didn’t even go to see it. She went home and made her mourning toilette, to greet the guests. It was arranged that the duchess would be on hand at the Grange for the early-evening callers, and Deirdre and Nevil would be on duty all afternoon and evening. The visitors were mostly neighbors, who were there from curiosity and a sense of duty. Certainly there was nothing like a moist eye in the room.
    During a lull in the arrivals, Deirdre went upstairs to freshen her toilette. All of the Grange was in an advanced state of decay, and the mirror at which she brushed her hair was similarly afflicted. The silvering on the back of it had tarnished so that it was a grayish, ghostly vision that stared back at her. It helped to conceal the pallor of her cheeks, but she could see that her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep and worry. They glowed dully like two pieces of coal in the snow.
    Her mourning gown of black was relieved only by a silver filigree cross with an onyx inset. With her hair pulled severely back from her face, Deirdre had the strange impression that she was looking at the reflection of a nun. She was glad Dick wouldn’t be there to see her look so unattractive. Through the open door she saw Polly hurry past in the hall and went to call her.
    “Polly, about tonight. If Mrs. Haskell hasn’t returned, I think you and Anna should sleep at Fernvale. We’ll send the butler and some—”
    “Oh, she’s back, miss,” Polly replied. “She just arrived a minute ago and sent me upstairs to fetch clean linen for the table.”
    “Oh, good! I’ll go right down and speak to her,” Deirdre said.
    She found Mrs. Haskell in the kitchen, overseeing the arrangement of platters of food. Mrs. Haskell was a plain country woman with no pretension to either fashion or beauty. Middle-aged, becoming stout, with a set of intelligent green eyes and a sharp tongue, she had already pulled the girls into line and had them busy.
    “G’day, Miss Gower,” she said curtly. “I’m very sorry about your uncle. We’ll all miss him.”
    This polite lie was accepted in the same spirit as it was uttered. “What a homecoming for you. You must have been very distraught to receive my aunt’s note. I hope there is nothing serious amiss at home, Mrs. Haskell.”
    “At home? Oh, I wasn’t at home, Miss Gower. I didn’t get any note from the duchess. It was my aunt, Mrs. Sutton, who wrote me. That is . . . well, it was all some sort of a misunderstanding. I certainly had a letter signed with the name Mrs. Sutton asking me to come at once—she had fallen and was completely incapacitated. I wouldn’t have gone, but that she has always been so very kind to me, you know. Raised me like her own daughter.”
    “What was the misunderstanding?” Deirdre asked. “Had she not fallen at all?”
    “She