Edwardian - 01 - Snobbery With Violence by M.C. Beaton

Author:M.C. Beaton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9781849012898
Publisher: Constable & Robinson Limited
Published: 2010-10-01T04:17:38+00:00

Harry covertly watched Rose repulse first the one and then the other. He felt impatient. If she would only try to flirt a bit, be a bit more feminine, she would get more out of them.

So after the male guests had set out for an afternoon’s shooting, he asked Rose if she would care to go for a walk.

Soon they were walking out over the drawbridge under a steel-grey sky. Daisy and Becket were walking behind.

“I could not help noticing your behaviour at luncheon,” began Harry.

“And what was wrong with it, may I ask? I was simply trying to elicit information.”

“You won’t get any information out of any of them if you hint at murder and go on like the grand inquisitor. If Hedley gets to hear of your suspicions, he’ll send you home.”

“Perhaps that would be a good idea,” said Rose. “I am weary of this fake castle, its guests, and you.”

“See what I mean? If you wish me to treat you like an equal—then go and boil your head, you rude ... thing.”

“How dare you speak to me like this.” Rose stopped and glared at him, her fists clenched.

“You deserve it. I bet you I can get more information over the tea-table than you can.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“By being my charming self.”

“I wonder what that charming self is like. You see, I have never met it.” Rose swung round. “Come along, Daisy. It is too cold. I wish to go indoors.”

“What’s upset you?” asked Daisy, trotting along to keep up with Rose’s fast pace.

“Insufferable cad!”

“The captain. What did he say?”

“He criticized my behaviour at luncheon. He said I would never get any information if I kept hinting at murder and going on like the grand inquisitor. He even bet me he could get more information at afternoon tea than I could.”

“Now, there’s a challenge,” said Daisy. “And I know just what you should do.”

“What?”

“That pretty chiffon-and-lace tea-gown, the rose-coloured one. Then a softer hairstyle—a few tendrils escaping and lying on your neck. Your pearls.”

“I don’t understand this, Daisy.”

“You’ve got to look ever so vulnerable. You twitter that you’re afraid. Why? they’ll ask. And you bend your neck and say in a whisper that Miss Gore-Desmond’s death frightened you. You say you’ve always been considered psychic and are a great follower of Madame Blavatsky, raising the dead and all that. Hint that her spirit has been in touch with you.”

“They will think me extremely silly.”

“Oh, no, start with the ladies and you’ll be amazed. Had a friend down in Whitechapel who claimed to be a medium and she charged a lot for getting in touch with the dead. She worked hard. Read all the obituaries. Had the rich coming down from the West End to consult her. ‘A few more,’ she says to me, ‘and I’m off to America.’ “

“And did she go?”

“No, the police raided her and found out all the secrets of wires under the table, gauze on wires to make it look

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