The finality in Miss Ardleigh's words made it clear that she intended to conclude the interview, and a deep frustration added itself to Charles's initial irritation and discomposure. From her reaction to the picture, he judged that she knew something about the dead man. She had even appeared to recognize him, or something about him.
Charles frowned. What did Miss Ardleigh know? And how did she know it?
27
'Who can wonder mat me laws ot society should at times he forgotten hy those whom the eye or society nahitually overlooks, and whom the heart or society often appears to discard?'
As Kate rode home in the chaise through the pearly twilight, she thought over the events of her afternoon visit to Marsden Manor. She had enjoyed her tour of the manor, which she found truly impressive, with its Tudor half-timbering and its wide vistas of green lawn and colorful gardens. She had marveled at the vast display of Eleanor's wedding finery, on exhibit in one of the many second-floor bedrooms. Although the promised ghost had failed to materialize, Beryl Bardwell had garnered a fine stock of material for the next chapter in 'The Conspiracy of the Golden Scarab,' in which she now planned to feature an English country house. And a motorcar, for Tommy Milbank's machine, with its elegantly sleek finish and astounding capacity for self-propelled speed, had made a strong impression on Beryl, who was already imagining her heroine fitted out in dustcoat and goggles, her hand firm on the tiller. The afternoon had been quite pleasant.
But thought-provoking as well. As the chaise turned onto the lane toward Bishop's Keep, Kate's thoughts turned to another subject-Sir Charles Sheridan. She had been pleased to see him, more pleased than she was willing to admit to herself. Over their last several meetings, she had begun to feel a marked interest in him, not only in his knowledge of investigative procedures and methods of analysis, but in the man himself, lumpy coat, camera, and all. She had even felt- or had it been her imagination? — that he looked at her attentively, as if he were actually listening to what she said.
But she couldn't help wondering whether she had been entirely wise to suggest that he call on Mrs. Farnsworth. Her recommendation had seemed to pique his interest, although she was sure that he thought her both whimsical and overbold, intruding once more into an investigation in which she had no part.
It was, of course, the sight of the scarab ring on her finger of the dead man that had prompted her to speak. That, and the peacock feather. Sir Charles had seemed to think neither important, but Kate could only conclude that, taken together, the two items were of singular and rather troubling significance. There was, although Sir Charles did not know it, a third: Aunt Sabrina's interest in the murder. When Kate put that together with the fact that Aunt Sabrina and Mrs. Farnsworth each possessed a scarab pendant, and that most of the people at Saturday's gathering had worn the emblem of the peacock feather, she could reach only one reasonable conclusion, and its corollary: Monsieur Armand had visited Colchester with the intention of seeing some member of the Order of the Golden Dawn, and Aunt Sabrina suspected as much. Further, Aunt Sabrina did not wish anyone to know of her suspicions. Kate could not suggest to Sir Charles that he speak to her aunt on the subject, but she could suggest that he consult with Mrs. Farnsworth, who must be acquainted with all the members of the temple she had organized.
But still, Kate felt troubled. She certainly had no wish to embarrass either Aunt Sabrina or the Order. And she liked Mrs. Farnsworth, who evidently dared to be as audacious in the way she behaved as in the way she dressed. If Sir Charles did indeed take up her suggestion, she hoped he would be
discreet in his inquiry. She wished that she had thought to ask him not to mention her name.
It was approaching nightfall when the cart arrived at the stable yard of Bishop's Keep. Kate alighted and went in through the kitchen entry. She was greeted as usual with the ripe fragrance of pickles, potatoes, apples, and coffee, for the entranceway led through a storeroom crowded with jars, crocks, bins, and barrels. To furnish its tables, Bishop's Keep relied on its own gardens and pastures and on the local vendors of meat, fish, and fowl. Staple items-flour, sugar, salt, tea-were purchased infrequently at Dedham or Colchester.
The brick-floored, stone-walled kitchen was chill and dusky, lighted only by the fire in the large fireplace and a single oil lamp hanging over the worktable. Cook-Mrs. Pratt, Kate called her, thinking it demeaning to name her by her function-stood over the table, kneading bread. She was a thickset woman in a gray dress covered with a starched white apron. She had a dour mouth and piercing black eyes under heavy black brows that met in the center, giving her a suspicious look. But she had warmed to Kate and usually greeted her with the twitch of her lips that passed for a smile.
This evening, however, there was no smile. Mrs. Pratt's brows were knit together in a scowl and her frilled cap was dangerously askew. Her arms were white to the elbows with flour and she was pummeling a mound of stiff dough as if it were her bitterest enemy.
'Good evening,' Kate said, pulling off her gloves. She was surprised to see Mrs. Pratt engaged so late in the day with a task that she usually completed much earlier.
'Evenin',' Mrs. Pratt muttered, dealing the innocent dough another hard blow.
Kate sniffed. Amidst the comfortable smells of the kitchen-the lingering odor of the luncheon onion soup, the smoke of the fire, the sharp aroma of lamp oil-she caught the unmistakable perfume of Aunt Sabrina's best port. Mrs. Pratt had been at the tipple.
Kate put her gloves in her pocket. 'I trust all is well,' she remarked in an idle tone, although it was clear to her that it wasn't.
Mrs. Pratt gave the dough a quarter-turn and a smart smack. 'An' how culd anythin' be well in this house,' she said, slurring her words, 'wi? sweet Jenny dead an' that woman struttin' round proud as Herself in a temper?'
Kate was distressed by the bitterness of Mrs. Pratt's remark, but not surprised. She had known since the Friday before that the servants' resentment of Aunt Jaggers was not an ordinary hostility, derived from the accumulated aggravation of small slights. It was a sustained ferocity that brooded, like a bird of prey on its nest, over a long-held and deeply felt injury. When Kate had overheard Mrs. Pratt's threat, she had understood why. 'Jaggers'll be in bloody hell,' Cook had said savagely. 'That's where the Lord sends the murderers of pore babes and young girls!' Mudd had echoed her feeling with an almost equal violence.
Kate looked at Mrs. Pratt's dark face, troubled. A storm was brewing. Was there anything she could do to help the household weather it? It was not that she gave two beans for Aunt Jaggers's feelings. If the woman had wronged Jenny Blyly, she deserved to suffer for it. But she wanted to shield Aunt Sabrina from the worst of the blow, if she could. And she had come to feel an honest affection for the people who devoted their honest labors to make Bishop's Keep comfortable. It would be a terrible pity if the storm shipwrecked their small security, such as it was.
'I would be interested in hearing your concern if you care to tell me,' Kate said quietly. She sat down on a stool beside the fire. 'Perhaps there is something I can do.'
'Do?' Mrs. Pratt asked bitterly. 'Ain't nothin' can be done.'
'But still-' Kate said, and left the sentence hanging, hoping that Mrs. Pratt would tell her about Jenny Blyly. But that wasn't where Mrs. Pratt began.
' Tis Nettie,' Mrs. Pratt said finally, stripping shreds of dough from her hands. 'Nettie an' th' pincushion.' She pulled two fingers of lard from a tin bucket and began furiously to grease a brown earthenware bowl as large as a small washtub.
'Pincushion?' Kate asked, surprised.
'Wi' th' image of the queen on't. Tis gone missin'.' Mrs. Pratt thumped the heavy bowl on the table so hard that the crockery rattled on the sideboard. 'Jaggers whipt her fer stealin', she did.' There was deep indignation in her voice, and frustration.
'Whipped!' Kate exclaimed. 'Over a pincushion!'
