God Rest Ye, Royal Gentlemen by Rhys Bowen

Author:Rhys Bowen [Bowen, Rhys]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2021-10-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Christmas Evening

Wymondham Hall, Norfolk

Oh dear, why is it that when everything seems to be going swimmingly something terrible happens? I had hoped this Christmas would be one of peace and goodwill to all men and that nothing would spoil it. Now it seems I was wrong.

It was clear immediately what had happened: the collapsible staircase up to the attic had come unfolded and hit the unfortunate Mrs. Simpson on the head at the moment she was going past. Darcy was already kneeling on the floor beside her, taking her pulse.

“Is she . . . ?” Binky stammered the words but didn’t dare to finish the sentence. I found I was holding my breath.

“Knocked unconscious.” Darcy looked up. “Pulse is okay. She’ll have a bad headache when she wakes up.”

“I was in my room and I heard the noise,” the woman said. From her black maid’s uniform I guessed she was Lady Aysgarth’s personal maid. “A sort of clatter and a cry, and I came out and nearly tripped over her. It’s the American lady I helped last night.” She didn’t look too devastated and I suspected Mrs. S. had not been too gentle with her either.

“Would you go and find your mistress, please?” Darcy said sharply as she showed no signs of moving.

But there was no need. Lady Aysgarth had arrived beside us, breathing a little heavily.

“That dratted staircase again,” she said. “I thought we’d fixed it. Oh no—don’t tell me it hit somebody?”

“Not only somebody but the very person you wouldn’t want it to hit,” Darcy replied with a grim smile. “It’s Mrs. Simpson.”

“Oh God! She’s not dead, is she?”

“I think she’s coming round,” Darcy said. As he uttered the words Mrs. Simpson stirred, opened her eyes and tried to sit up.

“Where the hell am I?” she asked. “What happened?”

I knelt beside her. “The folding steps to the attic fell and hit you,” I said. “Don’t try and get up yet. You were knocked out.”

“What were you doing up here?” Lady Aysgarth demanded. “Surely you weren’t playing sardines with us?”

“ ‘Sardines’?” Mrs. Simpson frowned as if trying to think what little fish had to do with her lying on the floor. “I wasn’t playing anything. I’m not a fan of these stupid English party games you all seem to enjoy. If you want to know, I was going in search of your maid. My dress needed pressing and I wasn’t going to let that creature from yesterday anywhere near me.”

“Miss Short can’t have secured the latch properly when we came up to get the Christmas ornaments,” I said.

“That latch has a habit of coming loose at times,” Lady Aysgarth said. “I take full blame for this. Edith, go down and see if we have ice for an ice pack. Then perhaps one of these gentlemen will be kind enough to take Mrs. Simpson to the nearest hospital. I suppose that is King’s Lynn.”

Mrs. Simpson did try to sit up now. “I’m not going to any local hospital in this godforsaken corner of the planet,” she said.

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