Hasty Death by M. C Beaton

Author:M. C Beaton [Beaton, M. C]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Constable & Robinson
Published: 2011-10-26T15:47:57+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

Here we are! here we are!! here we are again!!!

There’s Pat and Mac and Tommy and Jack and Joe.

When there’s trouble brewing,

When there’s something doing,

Are we downhearted?

No! let ’em all come!

Charles Knight

Farthings was a pleasant Elizabethan manor-house. A beautiful old wisteria covered most of the front, its delicate purple blossoms moving gently in the lightest of breezes.

As they went through the usual arrival ritual of being shown to their quarters, Daisy fretted about that car which had been behind them all the way. Whoever was driving it wasn’t a guest because it had driven on past the gates. The driver was wearing goggles and a muffler up round his face and he had a cap pulled low down over his forehead.

In her new status as companion, she would no longer eat with the servants and so would have no chance to tell Becket of her fears.

They had been given two bedrooms and a little sitting-room. Rose stood by the window, watching the other arrivals.

‘Good heavens, Daisy. There’s Tristram Baker-Willis, Freddy’s friend. And here comes Mrs Jerry and her husband. You know, I’ve just thought of something. With Freddy’s flat being searched when he was shot, one assumed that the murderer had taken away any incriminating papers. But what if Freddy did not keep any evidence he was using to blackmail in his flat, but had it somewhere else? I must ask the captain. Or, wait a bit, what if the murderer found the evidence, took away his own stuff along with the others and then decided to do a bit of blackmailing himself?’

‘There’s the dressing gong,’ said Daisy.

‘The arrivals are going to have to look sharp. Ring the bell for Turner.’

Daisy could never get used to the fact that she was expected to avail herself of Turner’s services as well. Not that Turner presented any difficulties. Being lady’s maid to an aristocrat was a step up for her. Her last job had been as lady’s maid to an elderly widow in Bournemouth. She was in her thirties, polite and correct and self-effacing.

But Daisy loved the luxury of having someone to do her hair and mend and clean her clothes.

When they were ready, Rose in a low-cut white silk gown and Daisy in dark grey silk which Lady Polly considered suitable to her station, they rang the bell for a footman to guide them downstairs, because it was one of those old rambling mansions with many odd staircases.

Lady Glensheil moved forward to meet them, or rather she glided, as if on castors. She was a high-nosed aristocrat with a noble bosom. She was dressed in lilac taffeta and a great rope of black pearls hung round her neck.

‘Glad you could come, Lady Rose, and this is . . . ?’

‘My companion, Miss Levine.’

‘We are a small party. May I present Lord Alfred. Lord Alfred, Lady Rose Summer and Miss Levine.’

‘Charmed,’ he said in a voice heavy with boredom.

‘And Mr Baker-Willis.’

‘We’ve met,’ said Rose curtly.

And so the introductions went on. Apart

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