Patsy.
'A foreign gentleman, you say?' the vicar asked, knitting bushy white brows.
'Continental,' Charles replied, 'from the cut of the clothes. He was wearing a scarab ring that suggested travel in Egypt, or at the least, Egyptian interests.'
'A scarab?' Miss Ardleigh asked quickly. Her glance went to her aunts. The elder aunt, who sat on the sofa with an easy grace that was very different from the frowning abruptness of her sister, colored slightly and turned her head.
'What is a scarab?' Patsy asked.
'A dung beetle,' Bradford said. His mother made a noise in her throat.
'An Egyptian magical amulet,' the vicar said quickly.
'The beetle is associated with the transit of the sun,' Charles explained, 'and hence the resurrection.'
The fussy aunt sniffed. 'Egyptian magic,' she said in a
tone that suggested hellfire and perdition. 'No wonder he was murdered.'
The vicar shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. 'My dear Mrs. Jaggers,' he began, but was interrupted by Lord Marsden.
'Robbery, to be sure,' the baron said gruffly. 'Country's gone to the dogs. Nobody's safe since we've ceased giving riffraff the boat. Damned anarchists can plant their bombs anywhere, blast it all. That Frenchie who blew himself up at Greenwich, for instance. If the bloody bomb hadn't gone off in his hands, it would've taken out the Royal Observat'ry.' He scowled at his elder daughter. 'That's why women must not go about unescorted, Eleanor. Never know when you might be blown up.'
'Yes, Papa,' Eleanor said, meekness itself. She cast her glance sideways at Charles. 'Sir Charles has photographs of the dead man,' she added with a certain coyness.
Lady Henrietta pulled herself up. ' 'I simply do not understand,' ' she remarked acidly, ' 'the current attraction of crime, particularly murder, among younger people.' She gave Eleanor and Patsy a severe look down the length of her rather horsey nose. ' 'No lady concerns herself with such vulgar matters.' She turned the same severity upon Charles, but indulgently relaxed, as if to say that his transgression, for transgression it was, was understood and forgiven. Men were expected to interest themselves in vulgar matters, while women were expected not to notice.
Charles bowed. 'Your pardon, Lady Henrietta. I do agree. Murder is hardly a drawing room matter.'
Lord Marsden cleared his throat. 'Bought another mare from Peel today,' he announced to no one in particular. 'Aim to breed her to Farleydale.'
A look that might have been of misgiving crossed Bradford's face. 'From Peel?' he asked. In a low voice, he added, 'With respect, sir, I thought we had agreed not to-'
The baron's thick neck reddened fiercely. 'A beauty, my boy. Excellent bloodline. High spirits. Grand bargain.'
Bradford subsided, although Charles thought his friend looked uneasy, and he wondered again what was troubling
him. From horses, the baron's passion, the subject turned to hunting, and from hunting to balls, and from balls, inevitably, to weddings-specifically, to the wedding of Eleanor to Mr. Ernest Fairley, which would take place in three months' time. Precisely at nine, dinner was announced, and the company removed to the large dining hall.
Kate was pleased when she found herself seated next to Sir Charles at dinner, for she meant to ask him a question. They sat upon heavy gilt chairs with rose damask seats, under a cut glass chandelier filled with lighted candles. The light radiated over the long rosewood table, casting shadowy glimmers over the frowning likenesses of Marsden ancestors hung along the paneled wall. The candlelight also illuminated the fine china, delicate crystal, and ornate silver that gave the table an air of almost unimaginable magnificence.
Or so it seemed to Kate, who had never before sat down to such an elegant table, in such elegant company, a knight of the realm on one side of her, and a lord and lady at opposite ends of the table. But she did not feel overwhelmed by the elegance; instead, she was entertained, and intrigued. It was as if she were a spectator at a play in which the characters (some of them anyway) thought they were real, while she knew differently. Perhaps it was because she was an American, she thought, seeing the British gentry through alien eyes.
The dinner, regrettably, did not live up to the distinction of the table. The menu proceeded from a thin oyster soup to a gluey fricassee of chicken, and thence to a saddle of mutton with caper sauce and vegetables and after that a Tewkesbury ham, climaxing in a quivery blancmange that Kate thought notable only for its near total lack of taste. Throughout most of the dinner, the conversation consisted only of polite exchanges of appreciation for the food (feigned, on Kate's part), exchanges of local gossip, and various bits of fashion news from London, primarily pertaining to bridal finery. But when the blancmange was served, Kate turned to Sir Charles and asked the question she had had on her mind for most of the evening, ever since he had mentioned the dead man's scarab ring.
'If it was robbery,' she said without preamble, 'why did the thief not take the gold scarab ring?''
Sir Charles put down his spoon. His brown eyes fastened on hers. 'GoWring?' he asked. 'I do not believe I said-'
'To be sure,' Kate said, irritated at herself for jumping to an unwarranted conclusion. Just because Aunt Sabrina's scarab was gold didn't mean-'I have assumed too much. The scarab was made of a gemstone, then?'
'No,' he admitted, 'it was gold. And I do agree-robbery hardly seems consistent with the facts of this case.' He paused. 'Why do you ask?'
Kate allowed her glass to be refilled with champagne for the third time. 'I am merely curious,' she said lightly. 'One does not encounter a murder very often-outside of fiction, that is. Particularly a murder that is documented with photographs.'
' 'And do you often encounter murder in fiction as well?'' Sir Charles asked. 'Documented or otherwise?'
His words sounded like a challenge, and Kate knew what he was thinking. Women did not read stories with murders in them. Ordinarily, Kate might have answered his question with an evasion, but the champagne emboldened her. She answered his challenge with one of her own. 'It is a pity, don't you think, that women and men lead such different lives?'
Sir Charles took a sip of his champagne, put down the glass, and parried with another question. 'You do not agree that our differences make life interesting?''
'Hardly!' Kate exclaimed. 'At least, not from a woman's point of view. Women are hedged about with rules of what is right and proper. No one evidences surprise when men read-or write-a book with a violent crime in it. But a woman cannot.' She frowned and pushed her champagne glass back. She was saying too much.
But Sir Charles seemed to have taken her remark seriously. 'I fear,' he said, 'that you are right. Women's lives are far more circumscribed than men's, although that seems to be changing as women venture into the world.' He turned his stemmed glass in his fingers. 'But do you see it as useful to
them to develop an interest in crime? How have you profited from its study, Miss Ardleigh?'
Kate perceived that her impulsiveness had nearly landed her in a trap. A pace or two more, and Beryl Bardwell might find herself in peril of discovery. She flushed, wondering how to extricate herself. 'Well, I-'
She was saved by her hostess, who rose at the end of the table to signal that it was time for the ladies to withdraw.
'Perhaps crime is of general interest to you,' Sir Charles persisted. 'Or perhaps it is this crime dial fascinates you.'
'Charles,' Eleanor said, 'if you wish your port and cigar, you must allow Kathryn to leave with the ladies. We cannot abandon her here.'
Kate rose with great relief.
12
'The chief part of me organization of every living creature is due to inheritance; ana consequently, though
