Hasty Death
Edwardian Murder Mystery #2
2004, EN
Eager to join the working classes, Lady Rose Summer has abandoned the comforts of her parents’ home to become self-supporting. But life as a working woman isn’t quite what Rose had imagined – long hours as a typist and nights spent in a dreary women’s hostel are not very empowering when you’re poor, cold, and tired. Luckily for Rose, her drudgery comes to a merciful end when she learns of the untimely death of an acquaintance.
Freddy Pomfret, a silly and vacuous young man, was almost certainly up to no good before he was shot dead in his London flat. When Rose discovers incriminating evidence pointing to several members of her class, she returns to London high society in order to investigate properly. With the help of Captain Harry Cathcart and Superintendent Kerridge of Scotland Yard, Rose prepares to do the social rounds – uncovering a devious blackmail plot and an unexpected killer.
? Hasty Death ?
One
Etiquette for Women, by one of the aristocracy
Winter is very democratic. In London, its grip extended from the slums of the East End to the elegant squares of Belgravia. Tempers were made as brittle as ice by the all-encompassing cold, even in the home of the Earl and Countess of Hadshire. Their London home in Eaton Square had run out of coal and wood. The butler blamed the housekeeper and the housekeeper blamed the first footman, and as the row about who was responsible raged downstairs, upstairs, a battle royal was going on over a different matter.
Lady Rose Summer, daughter of the earl and countess, was once more demanding to be free to work as a typist. Not only that, she wanted to move to some business women’s hostel in Bloomsbury with her maid, Daisy.
The previous year, the earl had thwarted a visit from King Edward VII by employing a certain Harry Cathcart who had blown up a station and a bridge to convince the king that if he visited the Hadshire country estate, the Bolsheviks would assassinate him. Now Rose was threatening to make this public if her parents did not agree to her wishes.
Wrapped in innumerable shawls and a fur tippet where dead little animals stared accusingly at Rose, her mother, the countess, Lady Polly, once more tried to let her daughter see sense. “For one of us to sink to the level of trade would be a social disaster. No one will want to marry you.”
“I don’t think I want to get married,” said Rose.
“Then you should have told us that last year, before we wasted a fortune on your season,” roared the earl.
Rose had the grace to blush.
Lady Polly tried a softer approach. “We are going to Nice. You’ll like it there. Sunshine, palm trees, very romantic.”
“I want to work.”
“It’s the fault of that ex-chorus-girl maid of yours,” raged the earl.
Daisy Levine, Rose’s maid, was indeed an ex-chorus girl. She had come to the Hadshires to masquerade as a servant with typhoid, an initial plot by Harry Cathcart to deter the royal visit. Rose had taken her under her wing, taught her to read and write, then to type, and then made her a lady’s maid.
“It is my idea, Pa,” said Rose. “We’ve argued and argued about this. My mind is made up.”
She walked from the room and closed the double doors behind her very quietly – much more effective than if she had slammed them.
“What are we to do?” mourned the earl, huddling farther into his bearskin coat, looking like a small, round wounded animal.
They sat in gloomy silence. The doors to the drawing-room opened and two footmen entered, one carrying coal and kindling and the other a basket of logs.
“At last,” said the earl. “What took you so long?”
“There was such a shortage of fuel in the city, my lord,” said the first footman, “that we sent two fourgons out to the country to Stacey Court.” Stacey Court was the earl’s country home.
“Well, get the fire started,” grumbled the earl.
As the resultant blaze began to thaw the room, the earl felt that even his brain was beginning to thaw out. “I know,” he said. “We’ll ask that Cathcart fellow. What’s he doing now?”
“Lady Glensheil tells me he has opened a detective agency. Very American. Like Pinkertons.”
“I’ll try anything,” said the earl. “We could have left for Nice a week ago if it hadn’t been for Rose.” He rang the bell and told the butler, Brum, to find the direction of Captain Harry Cathcart’s detective agency and ask him to call.
¦
Harry Cathcart brightened when a footman brought him the earl’s request. It was not that time had been lying heavily on his hands. On the contrary, his days were taken up, just as before, with hushing up society’s scandals and finding lost dogs. But he had hoped for more dramatic assignments, and somehow, working in the past for the earl had certainly led to murder and mayhem.
He picked up his hat and coat and went through to the outer office where his sheep-faced secretary, Miss Jubbles, was labouring over accounts.
“I’m going out for a bit, Miss Jubbles,” he said. “Anything I can get you?”
“Oh, no, Captain.” Miss Jubbles gazed adoringly at the handsome captain with his thick dark hair, rangy figure and black eyes. Harry shrugged himself into his fur-lined coat and crammed a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Out in Buckingham Palace Road, where he had his office, the cold was intense. In a neighbouring building the pipes had burst, and icicles glittered against the sooty brick. Other buildings had lagged the outside pipes with old sheets and he felt he was walking past ghostly sentinels with their whitish arms stretched up to the frost-covered roofs. He walked carefully because the street-sweepers had been unable to clear the pavements of the frozen-hard mud and it was slippery underfoot.
As he made his way to Eaton Square, he felt a frisson of excitement. He would see the infuriating Lady Rose again. He remembered her as he had last seen her with her intense blue eyes and thick brown hair, her figure unfashionably slim in this new Edwardian era, where men liked their women plump.
At the earl’s house, the butler took his hat, coat and stick and informed him that Lord and Lady Hadshire would see him in the drawing-room. Harry mounted the stairs behind the butler thinking the earl must really have some major problem or he would have received him in his study.
“Come in, come in,” cried the earl. “Sit by the fire. Sherry? Yes? Fetch the decanter, Brum. You been shooting, Cathcart?” He surveyed Harry’s tweed coat, knickerbockers, thick socks and brogues.
“No, I do realize I am unfashionably dressed but my attire is suitable for the cold and I gather you want to see me on business.”
“Yes, wait until we get the sherry and I get rid of the servants.”
“Where is Lady Rose?”
